Performance: The Good, Bad, and Ugly

Performance: It's the seductive lure of the warm spotlight and the heady rush of thunderous applause, but it's also the thrilling experience of stepping outside of yourself to become something or someone you're not. At its best, performance is communication that imparts truth and humanity; but when people are swept up in its irresistible and threatening momentum, the results can be devastating.

Performance rears its ugly head in filmmaker Tony Kaye's riveting new documentary Lake of Fire, his epic quest to shine honest, balanced, and unapologetic light on the fraught issue of abortion.

Show Business Weekly review: Lake of Fire

As he proved in the raw American History X, Kaye isn't afraid to expose the ugly underbelly of the American experience, and this seminal work features interviews with the many of the main players in the abortion battle. Most frightening to me was witnessing the indomitable powers of mob mentality, particularly when animated through the proselytizing and chanting of members of the Far Right.

A documentary, of course, is a performance of its own, and Kaye splices together clips in subtle (and not-so-subtle) patterns, but the most horrifying performances come from the Pro-Life protestors who unblinkingly pronounce that those who don't believe what they do (in many cases, conservative Christian tenets) will land in the Biblical anti-promised land, the eponymous "lake of fire." Mugging for the camera and swaggering with pseudo-authoritative bravado, these (mostly) men seem keen to perform their roles to the very tips of their fingertips.

As terrific as the film is, Kaye gets a bit swept up in the act of performing himself, and I agreed with Entertainment Weekly critic Lisa Schwarzbaum that many of his overly dramatic and artsy cinematic flourishes threaten to take the film from dedicatedly intelligent to blatantly kitsch.

Performance also permeates the subject of Max Sparber's fantastic play Minstrel Show, or the Lynching of William Brown, currently playing at the New Jersey Repertory Company in Long Branch, NJ. In this brief, two-character study, he sets the story of two fictional black minstrel performers against the very nonfictional story of William Brown, a black man who was lynched for the alleged rape of a white woman. The murder took place on the steps of the Douglas County courthouse in Omaha, Nebraska in 1919. (Eerily, it just so happened that the night we attended the show, September 28, marked the 88th anniversary of the unspeakable tragedy.) Peter Filichia provides an insighful review in the NJ Star-Ledger.

Under the deft direction of Rob Urbinati (who also directed a recent production of the show at Omaha's Blue Barn Theatre), Spencer Scott Barros and Kelcey Watson give lively, focused performances that brim with intensity and grace. Called back to the courthouse one week after the lynching, the men tell the story about the fateful evening, when they were also being held at the jail. Of course, they (literally) dance around the story, frequently lurching into their vaudeville routines--these performances, set to jovial music with racist undertones, provide them with an escape from reality. Eventually, they stop singing, wipe off the coal-hued makeup that covers their faces (African American performers during the period performed exclusively in blackface), and quietly tell the harrowing story.

The power of performance is an obvious theme, from the song-and-dance routines behind which the men initially retreat, to the crazed lynching mob that they witness. Controversy had erupted earlier in Long Branch in protest of minstrel-themed posters that advertised the show. Despite the NAACP's threats to boycott the production, the sold-out crowd was completely attentive.

A talkback followed the performance, and one audience member commented that he was swept up in the actors' powerful telling of the story and now had a much better understanding of the terrifying momentum of mob violence. Another man commented that, in its use of blackface, the play "appropriates an image to show its ugly face."

I grew up in Nebraska but had never heard of William Brown. Clearly, given the recent spate of deplorable race-related crimes across the country, it's important to keep telling--and retelling--these stories so that these performances no longer repeat themselves.

A Chamber(s) Musical

Who ever said politics isn't theatrical? This week, Nebraska Senator Ernie Chambers announced that he is suing God--yes, that's right, he's suing GOD.

When I was in high school in Nebraska, I thought Ernie Chambers was divine inspiration itself--always controversial, and dedicatedly provocative, he would endlessly filibuster bills he didn't agree with, and give lengthy orations to stir up heated discussions. When he arrived to speak at our Close-Up Club's town hall event, I was mesmerized by his articulate arguments--and the fact that irreverently wore a T-shirt with tuxedo shirt screenprinted across it.

In the fire of adolescence, I was all for risky debate, and I had recently published an article that sharply criticized Rush Limbaugh in our local newspaper. In response, I was thrilled to receive my first "hate mail"--letters scrawled in the shaky hands of elderly Limbaugh supporters who warned me that I had severly misstepped my bounds. Far from discouraging me, the disapproving correspondence only enlivened my determination to speak my mind.

But although Chambers inspired me then, I'm not sure how I feel about his tactics now. He is suing God, he claims, in order to make a point about frivolous lawsuits and archaic legalities. I'm unconvinced--doesn't this just waste even more time? And this is the same man who, not too long ago, recommended the racial segregation of Omaha school districts. Isn't there a better way to put Nebraska on the map? In any case, I'm keeping an eye on my home state. Whither the faux tuxedo?

In Memory of a Blizzard

Last week we received word that Dr. Bill Logan, a former Norfolk dentist and a good friend of my parents', had passed away in Florida. We lived just down the street from the Logans in my first chilhood home (we moved across town when I was 14), and I have such fond memories of Bill, who loved to tinker with vintage automobiles (1937 Packards) and make everyone laugh.

I also remember Bill rescuing me during one fateful Nebraska blizzard, with an artic wind chill and terrifying drifts, that left me stranded at the grade school when I was 7 years old. My mom was home with my three younger siblings, and Bill offered to pick me up at school after classes were dismissed early. He had a son who was several years older than me, so after dropping him off at their house, he literally carried me down the street--through waist-deep drifts--to deposit me at my mother's feet.

I don't remember many details from that time, but I have a vivid memory of clinging to Bill, my face buried in his cool winter coat as he trudged through the blinding snow. People come into contact with us at many different times and for many different reasons throughout our lives; there are so many microscopic instants that are fleeting but meaningful. I will always be thankful that--for that moment, at least--there was someone there to carry me safely home again.

Filling a Need

This scene may look like something out of your worst nightmare.


It doesn't faze me, but then again, I grew up with a dentist that I could trust: my father. He always teased me mercilessly, but I also knew he would take good care of me. I never hesitated to yelp, "Dad, that hurts!"; he never hesitated to spray me and my siblings in the face with water.

Over the weekend my dad participated in Nebraska's third annual Mission of Mercy, a gathering of hundreds of people to provide free dental care for anyone in need of it. The event took place over two days; on Friday, over 700 people received treatment, including everything from basic check-ups to fillings to denture work. During the first two hours alone, the dentists performed over $40,000 worth of work. People actually camped out overnight to be first in line.

This year's event was held in Norfolk, my hometown, and my hard-working, generous, and always witty dad got to help with much of the planning and set-up. Previous locations have included North Platte and Grand Island, and next year the Mission of Mercy heads out west to Scottsbluff. It's amazing what a group of dedicated individuals can accomplish; I'm sure a lot of Nebraskans are now feeling much more comfortable--if a bit numb--in the jaw.

More photos from the event:


Dr. K. with Jan, one of his excellent dental assistants, and Cheryl, his fearless office manager (and no, I don't think she injured her arm yanking any teeth):


Hard at work:

A Moving Moo-sical

Monday I reviewed the enormously charming and occasionally frustrating Farmer Song: The Musical.

offoffonline review: "Heartland Song": Farmer Song: The Musical

As a Nebraska native, I wanted to see the show immediately when I heard that it was set in Iowa, but at the time I didn't realize that the production had actually been brought in from Iowa. Yep--there were a truck and trailer with Iowa license plates parked in front of the New School for Drama--right in the middle of the West Village.

The show explores the "farm crisis" (low interest rates=poor farmers) through the love story of Carl and Becky, who decide--against her parents' advice and all good sense--to take up farming.

I brought my friend Amy along, who moved to the city with me from Nebraska nearly three years ago (and yes, we drove our Penske truck through Iowa on the way). We both felt like we were visiting home as we watched the show. The cast and production loudly telegraphs its "community theater" roots, and not necessarily in a bad way. With a cast made up of farmers, engineers, and other people with "day jobs," their earnestness and excitement to be on stage is immediately tangible (if often slightly ill-focused). And after living, working, and reviewing shows in New York for almost three years, this sort of down-home goodness was as refreshing as the cow manure I always smell in the little towns we pass on the two-hour drive to my hometown from the airport in Omaha. Don't laugh--any scent that heralds home is welcome to me (and it's an ephemeral stretch of road miles away from the house where I grew up).

According to its website, this little show has already made a big splash in Iowa (sold out shows and ample press) and will likely continue to entertain and move hometown audiences who will not only understand its message, but fully empathize with it.

At first I was frustrated with the show. I wanted more sophisticated direction and sharper tempos--in short, the slick production values I've come to expect in New York. But after a while I became fully absorbed by this tender, touching story, and it was delightful to watch people who are happy to do theater for theater's sake and not (as many critics of the Fringe have complained this year) in order to take their show to Broadway or become tomorrow's TV sensation.

If at various moments I've become worn out and bitter about theater and its place in the universe, Farmer Song did something to restore my faith in the community, collaboration, and charm of live performance. Just for the fun of it.

A few of the melodies are still in my head, days later. A bale-ful of thanks to this hardy group of Iowans for taking me back "home" for a few hours--not only geographically, but in wholesome spirit (the sweet woman passing out programs complimented me on my skirt with genuine kindness).

But how would the show be received by other (often exacting, crabby, and sassy) critics? Honestly, I felt a bit protective of my fellow Midwesterners. But I shouldn't have worried. One reviewer so far, at least, has gotten it just right.

All images courtesy of Farmer Song: The Musical.

On the Nineteenth Century

Yesterday I received an e-mail from Bob Rook, the director I worked with on the Midwest premiere of the musical Jekyll & Hyde, in which I played Emma. He wanted me to know that they have added new photos to the company's website, so here's a quick pictorial flashback: an anguished pose with my lovely friend Steven Rich in the tragic, duplicitous title role. You may have seen Steven performing around the country in the national tours of Cats or Miss Saigon. You certainly wouldn't forget his voice!

And speaking of the 19th century, here's a link to my review of Madame Bovary: A Musical, an adaptation of Flaubert's novel about the exploits of the quintessential desperate housewife.