Review: FRINGE FESTIVAL: WEEKEND ROUNDUP at Toronto Fringe

FRANKENSTEIN(ESQUE)

If you’re a person who enjoys theatre about theatre and creation, crisp, stylized acting, and fun with giant puppets, FRANKENSTEIN(ESQUE) is a must-see. This thoughtful show, extremely loosely based on the main plot points of Mary Shelley’s gothic novel (the names of the plot points are written on acting blocks scattered around the stage), winds together three threads about creation in strange and unique ways. First, there’s the story itself, in which Victor Frankenstein displays hubris by playing god and raises life from death. Then, there’s the story of being an artist, and trying to create something valuable for your own life and the lives of others, even if that art is as ephemeral as theatre. Finally, there’s a third story about being a parent, especially as an artist, and balancing the creation of that life with the life of your child, or what you may feel if you can’t create that life naturally and you have to use artificial means. This story also dips into the age-old theme of disappointments between fathers and sons.

There’s a scattered, portentous start to the proceedings, but things pick up as soon as we realize it’s not going to all be weighty, self-important pronouncements, and that the show is actually acutely, even painfully, self-aware. The five-person troupe play themselves as actors, with all the self-questioning, eager support, and artistic infighting that entails. Through scripted scenes and short structured improv sections, they describe, assemble, animate, and dissemble “Frankenstein,” imbuing and depriving him of life. Warning: even though it’s centred around a large puppet, this isn’t a kid’s show: though very entertaining and even hilarious at times, it’s cerebral and heady, and contains some sexual content (yes, including the puppet). Describing our ability to suspend disbelief, fluidly moving the puppet and even its parts; moments where Frankenstein “deflates,” or his leg strikes out on its own like a muppet from Henson’s Creature Workshop (Henson himself gets a shoutout or two).

Ultimately, the show asks, in our acts of creation, is what we do as artists worthwhile? It’s worth an hour of your time to think about.

PAZ

“Do you have her? Do you have Kim?” a worried mother shouts at her Filipina former nanny, as they encounter each other in Paz’s favourite park. Alicia Payne’s 50-minute PAZ, which received third prize in the Fringe’s New Play Contest, is a taut drama about the way wealthy white families treat the immigrants who work for them. Entrusted with the children, but not trusted near the valuables, nannies often live a second-class existence in the family home while becoming closer to their charges than their too-busy parents. This dynamic is skillfully explored by the play, in which Kim goes missing on her birthday. Her mother consistently alludes to Paz’s firing as a breach of trust or financial decision, but the real reason seems to be her jealousy over Paz’s closeness with Kim – or, possibly, to avoid embarrassment after impropriety from the husband of the household, who calls his wife every other minute, looking for news.

Under Joy Castro’s direction, Stephanie Belding does an extremely effective job of playing the rich wife who spends all of her time volunteering to get out of the house and spend time with her friends, monstrous in her banal recognizability. High-strung and manic, she says the quiet part out loud as she threatens and cajoles Paz in equal measure, revealing her racism, classism, and general cluelessness about the lives of people not in her social circle. Sometimes she becomes aware she’s gone too far, but often the shocking lines fly out of her mouth without any hint of shame, even when they’re brutal enough to make the audience gasp. She looms over Christine Cortes as Paz, who stands her ground with an incredulous calm that contrasts her former employer’s hysteria. While PAZ goes through the same cycle of tactics a few too many times, it’s full of trenchant lines and incisive observations about what it means to sacrifice everything to be treated as a lesser person in a new country.

FEATHERHEAD

FEATHERHEAD is a charming, quirky play about a young woman, Rooney (Keren Edelist), who grew up in the forest and can talk to birds. In fact, she finds speaking to her avian friends a lot easier than talking to humans, something that makes her life difficult once she moves to the city. She finally makes a good friend, and then “the blight” hits, turning communication static and putting all humans in their own version of a birdcage, able to sing but not interact. To make matters even worse, the only bird visitors to her rooftop are those rude urban creatures: pigeons. When a pigeon in a similar “fish out of water” (bird out of sky?) situation crashes into her window, Rooney and the pigeons slowly begin to communicate with each other, while fundamentally being unable to fully understand each other’s experience.

Sydnie Phillips’ script is appealingly offbeat, drawing its characters fully and providing dialogue that’s both down to earth and poetic, somewhere just to the side of reality. This gives the play a fairytale quality while retaining its humanity (and avianity). The cast of pigeons, led by broken-winged Pidgey (Liam Peter Donovan), under the direction of Darcy Gerhart, does an excellent job of seeming birdlike via assured physical movements; a moment where they all listen to an announcement with wonder is hilarious. The effect is helped by Gabriel Woo’s wonderful costumes, which stitch together thrift store finds that evoke pigeons in colour and style. A particular highlight is Jenn Tan’s birdbrained pigeon with a particularly lackluster short-term memory, clad in a repurposed Canadian Tire hockey jersey that manages to suggest feathers.

Rooney is heartbreakingly earnest in her loneliness and need for a friend, a timely subject in a COVID-blighted world. More than that, though, we get an exploration of the sometimes transactional nature of human kindness, and what we abandon when we no longer recognize its use. Plus, there’s a rundown of pigeon history. Flock to see it.

OUR LITTLE SECRET: THE 23&ME MUSICAL

Our Little Secret’s run quickly sold out: a surprising achievement for a one-person musical from an only child. Except Noam Tomaschoff turns out not to be an only child at all; when he tells his parents he’s ordered an ancestry kit from 23&Me, he prompts a confession that he’s not his father’s biological child at all, conceived through donor sperm. Oh, and he has a ton of half-siblings. Tomaschoff is an energetic, entertaining performer, and composer Ryan Peters knows how to pen a catchy tune in various pastiche styles, such as a Fosse-esque number about Noam’s high-flying pilot sperm donor, and a particularly memorable Irish drinking song about the pleasure of spending time with a brother.

Thankfully, he quickly dispenses with the wide-eyed, self-conscious, “oh gee, I’m doing a musical” persona, as the show always works better when he leans in to his premise rather than apologizing for it. His exploration of his ancestry and stories of finding siblings are fascinating. Throughout, we get a running battle between nature vs. nurture, with the question of how much importance furthering one’s lineage has in determining one’s manhood. That question applies both to Noam himself and to his father, who has kept a secret shame inside for years; while Noam does a credible job of exploring the topic, he could do more to differentiate his father’s voice from his own in the songs, both in performance and content. Fast-paced and heartfelt, this one is already a Fringe winner.

ALL OF OUR PARENTS ARE ASIAN

Shaun Hunter and Alfred Chow’s “disappointing our Asian parents”-themed improv show has three distinct segments. First, the guys interview another Asian performer (in Sunday’s show, the interviewee was an actress who had moved from India to Canada to further her career), asking questions about her childhood and high school shenanigans, the differences she’s observed between Indian and “Canadian” (white) behaviour, and her relationship with her parents. Then, they create improv sketches loosely based on themes in the answers. In the last segment, the duo read out secrets submitted by the audience—we’re invited to submit things we’ve never told our parents before the show—and create some further improv scenarios by remixing these secrets.

Chow and Hunter have a lot of fun in the improvised sections, and they’re unafraid to explore the complex push and pull of withheld affection between parents and children in multiple ways, such as a father being brought to the hospital for being “too supportive,” or a mother dismayed that her son has hired a housekeeper instead of doing the work himself. The improv also branches out into exploring cultural differences in general; a scene set in an Indian school where students learn about Canada made hay over Chow’s inability to think of a suitable Indian name for his character, and another where a new neighbour introduced himself with effusive offers of care also worked well, despite slight confusion over its premise. They’re at their best when they make things slightly absurd, such as in a scene where they play second graders trying to be tough by stealing a Bruno Mars CD. It’s also interesting to hear all of the secrets, which range from silly to sad to heartwarming.

They’re more skilled at improv than they are at interviewing, and it would be nice if they gave their guest more to do. I’m not sure if all the ideas together amount to something fully cohesive, but the freewheeling, entertaining 75 minutes pass by quickly, with a lot of laughs.

CONSTELLATION PRIZE

I feel obligated to mention in this review that I’m a Sagittarius. Not that astrology plays any real part in my life, mind you, but it gave me a stake in Alessandra Ferreri and Steven Suepal entertaining, snappy musical, as it features a thirteenth constellation named Ophiuchus (Suepal) making a bid for a spot in the zodiac pantheon.

All the signs have been called to defend their worth in front of a mysterious board of review. The stars have drifted over millennia, and the constellation featuring the “snake-bearer” is now in the path of the sun, making him a potential candidate for an existence with more excitement than simply carrying Schrödinger’s snake, forever frozen in the moment before discovering whether its venom cures or kills him. The entire insular bunch is represented, from Capricorn the uptight spreadsheet-loving businessman (Dave Miller) to codependent, weepy Cancer (Lou Currie). The spot Ophiuchus is angling for is ringleader Sagittarius’ (Merritt Crews), a party girl who throws zodiac-only exclusive bashes and refuses to remember his name.

The musical’s clever double-casting (and including the band as four largely silent signs) gives us all the important players without making the proceedings feel overcrowded, focusing on Sag, Cap, and Ophi; all three are excellent, particularly Miller, who has a standout singing voice and tense presence. Ferreri’s dialogue is fun and fresh, playing with astrological stereotypes and moving between myth and astronomy with some ending philosophical heft. Costumes clearly and simply embody each character’s personality, though Leo’s double-barreled attire seems more suited to Gemini. The dialogue is lively enough that some of Kevin Lemieux and Caitlin Currie’s musical numbers feel a little superfluous (and it’s easier to hear some performers than others); they’re still well-made, but stand out less and slow the pace. Overall, though, CONSTELLATION PRIZE is a twinkling, starry show that never goes into retrograde.

Photo of FEATHERHEAD, featuring Keren Edelist, Jonnie Lombard, and Jen Tann, by Hannah Fleish

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