Quinlan’s Reviews
Lungs
Lungs is a quickly paced 2-hander play, which follows a couple through the lifecycle of their relationship in uninterrupted conversation, which happens over the course of several years. Co-produced by Sometimes Y Theatre and Kitbag Productions, this staging of Duncan Macmillan’s 2011 play, directed by Robert Tsonos presents a phenomenal piece of contemporary drama at the Mainline. In front of an efficient backdrop of wooden set pieces, there are no hard scene breaks, or set changes. Inherent to the play’s writing and its execution is an appreciation for sincere performance, demonstrated by two actors grounded against a barebones set, delivering intentional, heightened, and well-prepared portrayals in a welcoming and versatile black box space.
Lungs is keenly marked around the cast of actors who are sure of their mannerisms, and position themselves in their characters’ arguments with thoughtful perspective. “W” and “M” debate their positions on childbirth, and their relationship, through a text which relies on ever-occurring material changes to their situation. Rebecca Parent runs through her thinly-punctuated stream-of-consciousness text with deliberate competence, while at times demonstrating utter stillness and listening with equally compelling awareness. Rahul Gandhi holds imperfect convictions with clarity, at first as a less-abrasive orbit to their partner, before a descent into his own thoughtful second-guessing and revelation. The trust, vulnerability, and inevitable omissions between partners who learn from each other at poignantly mismatched times in their lives makes for a sincere and unpretentious love story. The play’s text balances this with the urgency of a commentary on climate change, which feels all too real in the weeks of this year’s Fringe festival.
Lungs does a remarkable job of barrelling through a full-length dramatic text into the short confines of a 75 minute time allotment. The mental resources and care of incredibly talented artists in straight-drama run full steam at this work, through a phenomenal, well-scored, and breezy reading of a dense script. Rebecca and Rahul’s remarkable characterizations ask: Who makes a baby?, why do we ask if we’re good people?, and how do we love the people who are responsible for bringing life into a dying world?
Everything Is Super Wow
The first time I witnessed cross-country biker and travel blogger Stanvic was at their Mission Santa Cruz performance, which 2022 Montreal Fringers will remember as Mr. Coffeehead. The same play, created and performed by BC based performer ira cooper of Spec Theatre, has returned to the 2023 Festival as Everything Is Super Wow.
Removed from a width of ceramic tiles, the tent of Stanvic is placed in the Free Standing Room: close, DIY-styled confines, which can’t ignore the bringing together of materials at hand. In my experience of being in FSR audiences, these materials are oftentimes incredibly well-used, and here, ira cooper is no exception. They emerge at their campsite on day #999 of their bike tour, having abandoned the legacy of their father’s family’s butcher shop, to bike the highest mountains and film what is “Wow! …Super Wow!” The acoustics compress and concentrate this opening of Stanvic’s contemporary clown work, preceding a demonstration of a singular kind of existential crisis. Over-the-top and zany, this fully choreographed, expressive, and puppet-wielding performance piece is grounded in the exact places it needs to be to never be unsafe in its intentions.
The show begins with the promise that spectators can get up, move around, and leave however they’d like; “you do uniquely you.” In their manner and approach to their show, it’s clear that you’re never not being considered in space. ira navigates the potential overwhelm of blink-and-you-miss-it trains of physical and cognitive thought with assured and practised skill. They’re an excellent person to have a conversation with about their material, if only through their stage presence. I’ll say that Stanvic’s calf-flexing, peddling their high peaks, instantaneously opens a dialogue with anyone who’s ever contemplated anything on a BIXI. The moments created via Stanvic’s vlog seem as niche to an appreciation of clowning, object work, movement and storytelling, as they are recognizable.
ira cooper employs their virtuosity to admit insecurities in the direction of their travels – it becomes a focus of the hapless vlogger plot – bringing to mind universal hesitations on how and why anyone makes performance in the larger context of their life. Cataloguing yourself for disparate audiences to witness you “grounding yourself in nature” is a standout analog for the commitment we appreciate works at the Fringe for. To sit at the site of ira’s sense-of-humour in the company of a small audience, realising their commitment to very real and equitable parameters for the demonstration of work and craft, is a gift to the Fringe that Spec Theatre keeps giving. Everything Is Super Wow is unmissable for this. It will teach you about the merits of an exact dimension of stage work through an unmatchable form of clarity in inclarity.
Muse
Muse is an experiment in storytelling and life drawing. In this hour-long session of drawing and story-sharing, Camryn Moore models for a freshly-assembled Fringe audience. This is a standout chance for festival goers to experience body-based work in a new format, while those interested in storytelling can leave with something more than a memory of the sharer in front of them, but the perspective of her own art as well.
Before starting, Camryn makes a few starting suggestions on how turn through pages, or what areas of the body might be better to capture than others (ie. avoid a moving mouth). At her first performance which I was attending, they ultimately advise to “Go for the mood, baby.” In just a few minutes of concentration from the whole audience, the typical apprehension of a public nude figure-drawing class quickly evaporates. We settle without notice into time for open discussion. Our shared concentration is on Camryn’s attention to themselves, her knowledge and history of her practice as a life-model, and their interest in the routes that have taken them here.
“Is life drawing therapeutic?”
“What pose does a model enjoy the most?”
“What’s your favourite dinosaur?”
“What part of your body is falling asleep?”
“What makes you the most vulnerable?”
For audiences engaged in fat activism, this show is a unique format to create dialogue with an artist whose work has engaged these politics. Someone asks about feeling empowered and feeling betrayed by their own body, and a few minutes later Camryn reiterates that in this work, her body is not betraying her. It’s exactly what they need it to be when working as a life-model, which is sometimes a rare experience. What’s notable is Camryn Moore’s interest being centred in a return, and in looking back. Montreal is the first stop of her Fringe tour, and we’re privileged to be at the start of a conversation on their body and practice, which will take place over the course of this festival, and in other festivals to come.
Some exercises are provided, which include not moving your eyes from the model, or switching hands half way through a pose. Everyone’s skill and perception becomes a part of the room. Both the artist and spectators move themselves in judgement-free, tactile expression, eyes and hands scribbling over pages in the round, while Camryn finds the next move. “Holding still is hard work.” Camryn clarifies early into the show. In 1 minute increments, she's available to the more dynamic poses, rooting her feet into far upward reaches or grasping an extension between either wall. “The shorter poses are harder. You can get into the twists and holding – creating a peak tension point! Of course, this is harder on the legs.” The cue over the mic from her assistants to “Change.”, from every 1 to 10 minutes, occasionally has to “put a pin in” an ongoing thought, a neat theatrical punctuation pulled directly from the practice of life-model sketching. “Don’t cheat yourself” became a maxim for my time with this audience. Leaving the space with different drawing styles and poses littering the floor of the Mainline, drawers can be sure of their efforts to capture Camryn’s reciprocal trust and agency with her.
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Tomatoes Tried To Kill Me But Banjos Saved My Life
Arriving at La Ministere for Tomatoes Tried to Kill Me But the Banjo Saved My Life – the live music venue off St. Laurent and Mont Royal which would entice me to the bar if I wasn’t passing out from a day of Fringing – my first impression is an enjoyment of Keith Alessi’s audience. An intergenerational group of people with their families and friends arrive for something like a concert to the tune of a curated folk playlist. The audience’s trust in Keith Alessi, banjo player and storyteller, is immediately apparent. Throughout the first few self-deprecating banjo player jokes, and a mindful rundown of his upbringing in 1970s Windsor, Ontario, what’s most recognizable is the storyteller’s great wealth of emotional intelligence, coming from the support of his family, loved ones, and fellow musicians.
Keith Alessi has a charming willingness to be surprised by the moment and appreciate the room he’s in, while standing in his personal history and earnestly finding its value. Kieth has banjos in the closet, each picked up, played at various moments in his life, and then often placed in waiting. A personal interest which sparked by sound overheard on “The Beverly Hillbillies” continues on a path which includes departures from a distant first-generation Italian-Canadian family, becoming a grand success in the world of accounting, and eventually settling in West Virginia. With each song or musical cue played to a careful purpose – be it the punchline of a joke or the making of a dedication – wisdom is imparted via the make of his instruments, differences between regional forms of music, and the experience of sitting in classes, touring festivals, and taking part in 100 person jams at the Floyd Country Store by Crooked Road. Keith’s ultimately gives us fascinating insight into the East Coast’s presence in the history of folk music.
A cancer diagnosis – somehow caused by the tomatoes he was raised eating – is what puts weight onto what Keith Alessi searches for in the banjo. The staging of one man’s detailed adventures in finding the right catharsis in music is rendered under lights and sincerity which are, at times, deeply theatrical and moving. Kieth's inevitable discovery of “the moment” is not one to be understated, as the story beats and tech cues support with sensitive calibration. The payoff of this one-man-show proves no one needs to be a virtuoso at their craft as long as they’re ready to practise with heart. Keith confides his regrets of not playing the banjo earlier in life, but this is the story of someone who has always been committed to the instrument in their future, finding heart which is genuine and hard-earned. In Tomatoes Tried to Kill Me But the Banjo Saved My Life, Keith Alessi maintains a legacy, community, and set of irreplaceable core values all within the language of music, which any gathering of people will leave profoundly richer for.
EVERYBODY KNOWS - Post Moderne Leonard Cohen Danse Theatre
You know that feeling you get when someone fits their entire boot into their mouth? That is what I felt walking out of Conservatoir de Musique de Montréal: confused, yet awestruck.
Rain made St. Laurent slick with the goo of various ongoing festivals. I grabbed a FringeMTL program from outside MainLine. On page 19 there it was: EVERYBODY KNOWS - Post Moderne Leonard Cohen Danse Theatre, performed by playwright, director, choreographer, and designer Rita Sheena. As a company name was written the phrase “come emote with me”. Truly fascinating.
Leonard Cohen fandom looms large over Montreal much like the giant mural of the man’s face. Being an aspiring Jewish Canadian artist, I’ve always revered his poetry, if not his music. I discovered a hardcover copy of The Book of Longing in my basement as a teenager which must have belonged to my mother. Set to selections from First Aid Kit’s cover album Who By Fire - Live Tribute to Leonard Cohen, the piece consisted of abstract movements, many costume changes, and interactions with props such as a rotary dial phone and a manikin head.
Lighting cues saturated the stage and the music was lovely when uninterrupted. Although, I felt there was a lack of cohesion among the chosen songs. While I couldn’t thread a story through all the different moments, I began to understand it as a suburban reaction to the journeyed and wizened lyrics, like if Cohen himself had homewrecked a nuclear family and then left his mistress with nothing but his music to cry to while rolling on the kitchen floor until her husband’s return. It takes an incredible amount of guts to chastise an audience for not reacting to the umpteenth costume reveal. I had to respect it. She was very playful with her audience.
Emotions, both responding to, and portraying, the feeling of the music played out across the dancer’s face. At times the piece was hypnotic, and I was startled when, out of nowhere, she shouted out a couple of lines of the lyrics. This spoken word element was repeated (at random?) throughout the entire piece. But, brave choices are what make Fringe Festivals exciting to attend; you never know what you’re going to find. Rita delivered a performance that could not be found anywhere else.
Rita’s website is filled with information. A considerable amount of information. I discerned from her bio that her work is inspired by “the dank terrifying emotions we all hide” and informed by “indie music, desert landscapes, wedding dresses, Palm Springs, and mommy issues.” Reading this, I felt I was moving toward a greater understanding of the work. In the website’s video archive, I found the context I needed to fully understand and appreciate the performance I’d witnessed. Amid pages of themed photo shoots, an embedded video of Rita Sheena, dancing in her signature interpretive style, to Love on the Brain covered by Cold War Kids. Her movements, her costume, the emotional involvement shown on her face… It all felt like watching your step-mom dance wine drunk in the kitchen after your half-siblings had been put to bed. While that may sound like the introduction to a porno the video is wholesome and endearing. Suddenly I am no longer bewildered or frustrated by the Leonard Cohen piece, instead finding inspiration.
The arts can be so self-serious, but sometimes it can be fun just to watch someone devour a cake, and then run around with cake on their face screaming about how good the cake is. At the end of the day, we all want to love something so much that we can’t help but share it with everybody, even if it’s just the leftover mess we’ve left of it, don’t we?