The Rake Magazine

Category: Article

  • Don't Go West! There's Gold Right Here with "Little House"

    photo courtesy Associated Press

    Feeling like a half-pint, seeing Guthrie’s Little House on the Prairie with my Pa, nostalgia was sure to abound. "Don’t be such a Nellie," he’d chastise me as a young girl whenever I took on the role of brazen tattle-teller. Tonight, though, a comparison to Nellie would be no disparagement. Sara Jean Ford is bursting from her petticoat’s seams with snotty delight at every turn. A master of the very-thinly-veiled backhanded compliment, Nellie wins the audience with her perky, self-serving ways.

    In a Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants-kind of way, Little House is a female force. The musical’s creative crew is comprised entirely of women. And among the cast, the Ingalls ladies prove a close bunch, if often due to necessity of keeping warm on the bitter plain. That’s not to say Little House doesn’t offer up something for those men in the audience. Scenes showcasing pioneers’ hardships will resonate with any man balancing the lure of adventure with responsibilities of family and home life. Charles "Pa" Ingalls is a proud man seeking not fortune, but sustenance. Steve Blanchard, as Charles, raises his fist and curses the sky more than once. But he is the foundation upon which the family can rest it’s weary, frontier blues; with a pluck of his fiddle, the group is enlivened and ready to face yet another disaster. The true backbone of the family, what Pa says, goes.

    Laura, though, has itchy feet and can’t figure out just where they should take her. At one point she sums up her distaste for "urban" life, as opposed to the wide-open yonder, by lamenting, "Town feels like sore on the prairie." (Similar to sentiments expressed by many concerning the new Twins’ stadium?) Depicting this "sore" of a town, set designers used minimal, suggestive pieces, rather than full-blown, cumbersome ones. This evoked a simple feel that rang true to the Little House book series, and therefore the times themselves. The use of sound often made-up for what couldn’t be shown on stage: wind storms, snow storms, ravaging crop fires, and any number of climatic maladies.

    "She can do a cartwheel," Dad leans over and points out during one of Laura’s giddy, grateful-for-just-being-alive outbursts. The frequent reminders of my childhood deficit of coordination never cease. Kara Lindsay plays Laura as the sassy, but earnest, and always likeable character we grew to love in both the novels and television series. We get to watch Laura transform from a tomboyish young girl to a tomboyish young woman in the course of the two acts. Her dialogue and delivery are at times hokey, but all in keeping with the spirit of the lore. This is hardly an issue being that actual spoken lines are few, what with a total of thirty songs performed throughout the play. Several of these songs feature Lindsay soloing; a polished, mature voice of obvious experience.

    Melissa Gilbert, television’s Laura, plays Ma in the humble way we always remember her character. Gilbert’s mainstream stardom never once overshadows scenes in which she isn’t meant to be the star. However, when the script calls for her to step into the focus, it appears comfortably easy. Her singing voice doesn’t come through quite as easily as it does for some of the others, but is certainly pleasant. Gilbert seems truly appreciative of the audience, her cast mates, the whole thing. It must feel a true "coming full circle"; playing TV’s half-pint for nine years, then watching a new half-pint cartwheel across the stage while looking on as matriarch.

    The other Ingalls girls are represented by local Maeve Moynihan (Carrie) and Jenn Gambatese (Mary). With Carrie, we don’t see much, if any, of a character arc. We note the passage of time as she goes from pig-tailed and pigeon-toed to, not. Mary plays a more prominent role as Laura’s big sister who is unexpectedly struck blind by Scarlet fever. Mary is always so good, as we are reminded in Laura’s song, "Good," performed once in each act. We don’t dislike her for a second, though. Her goodness is different than Nellie’s in that it is sincere. She’d rather tell a white lie than get a sister in trouble needlessly. She worries it’s selfish to pray for good crops so the family will earn enough money to send her to college. To this, Laura smartly replies that there would be no harm in praying for good weather over at the neighbors’, as it’ll surely provide the Ingalls’ land with good weather, too. We see Laura’s keen interest in richly describing her surroundings flourish, at first to help her blind sister picture the landscape, and further as her love for reading and writing blooms.

    This literary inclination, though, is not inherent in Laura. She takes on a teaching job, which she apparently does quite poorly. A quick pep talk from Ma refocuses our stubborn Laura, and her pupils are now angelic geniuses. As a former teacher, I found this a bit silly, or maybe I was coveting her skill set. Nonetheless, some time lapsing is necessary. If we had to witness just how many times Clarence had to be alternately praised/ ignored/ coddled/ tough-loved — we’d lose interest in the reality of it all. Little House isn’t meant to depict the actual, historical reality of pioneering families, but succeeds at encapsulating it, making it accessible, relatable, even laughable. When they square-dance, it actually seems enjoyable, unlike when you did it in gym class. Little House makes you want to saddle up to the hearth with your kin, even in this summer heat.

  • The Happy DMV

    When Sarah Jones opened her eyes, the very first thing she noticed about the local Department of Motor Vehicles was the pervasive, defiant perfection. The immaculate office immediately struck her, the climate controlled setting blotting out the stifling memories of the trek from the asphalt parking lot. Her headache receded as she admired the emptiness which was the antithesis of her prior visits to the DMV. Long velvet ropes cordoned off empty space, like markers wound around a pristine excavation site. Sarah wound through the cordoned line with deliberate glee, directing herself towards the closest counter. The dearth of customers and abundance of central air soothed Sarah’s mind and allotted her a newfound patience. She appreciated the accommodating precinct; soft, natural light glittered upon the freshly waxed floor. Contributing to the exotic environment were the employees, who lined the oblong counter with the perfect posture of sentries.

    As Sarah reached the bureaucratic delta, a male teller waved her over.

    “May I help you, Miss?” he asked, moving his gold spectacles down from the crown of his bald head.

    “I was hoping you could change the title on my car over to my name.” After declaring her single need, Sarah commenced a cold sweat. She clasped the technicolor title in sick anticipation for the drudgery to come.

    “Phil, do you think you’ll need any help with this one?” his neighboring coworker asked. Her cheery expression and thick makeup clashed with the apparent rudeness of her interruption.

    “Excuse me?” Sarah asked, believing with a cynic’s joy that her benign first impression had been the result of a mere façade.

    “Oh, I’m sorry miss, I just thought I could give Phil a hand and get you out of here a lot quicker. We feel it’s best to get the customer the fast service necessary to get he or she back on his or her way.”

    “Oh,” Sarah responded.

    “And where exactly are you headed today, Miss…”

    “Jones.”

    “Miss Jones. Ready for a date?”

    Sarah looked herself over, redirecting the question to herself. She studied her street clothes.

    “No, Ma’am,” Sarah responded, “I’m not going anywhere special.”

    “Well, you look like you’re ready for anything.”

    “Sharon,” Phil interjected, “I think I can handle this one myself. Why don’t you and the others go ahead to lunch?”

    Sharon nodded. She turned and exited the lobby through a back door marked ‘Employees Only,’ with each subsequent teller following in suite. Only Phil and Sarah remained.

    “Crap,” Sarah said, glancing at her watch. “I forgot it was twelve-thirty. Don’t you all take the same lunch hour?” Her determination to experience frustration overrode her desire for speedy service.

    “We do,” Phil responded. “I thought I could stay and help you out, if that’s all right with you.”

    “Yes, it’s fine. That’s so sweet,” Sarah replied, each word growing upon the next with a slow, uncertain pace. “Are you sure this is the DMV? I mean, I just moved here this year, and I’ve never actually been inside-”

    “Miss, you’ve found the right place.”

    “Are you sure this DMV stands for ‘Department of Motor Vehicles’? Is this a different DMV?”

    “Yes it does, and no, it isn’t. This is exactly where you need to be, Miss.”

    “Alright,” Sarah said, a trace of uncertainty still floating in her voice. Phil removed a pen from his pocket and clicked it on.

    “Then let’s get cracking on that title, shall we?”

    After a short while, Phil had sorted out the nuts and bolts of the paperwork and only the incidentals remained. He rubbed his blond beard as he examined and re-examined the necessary forms.

    “How many miles does your car have on it?”

    “I don’t know,” Sarah said. “I’ll have to go check.” Her eyes wandered back to the entrance and out over the baking-hot asphalt lot. Waves of heat danced up towards the molten sun.

    “You can just give me a rough estimate,” Phil said, his eyes still glued to the necessary documents.

    “Are you sure?” Sarah asked, surreptitiously reaching her arms beneath the counter and pinching herself. Phil looked up and met Sarah’s incredulous gaze.

    “Positive.”

    Relief and relish pulsed through Sarah as she estimated her overall mileage.

    “About one hundred and thirty thousand,” she said.

    “Don’t worry about it,” Phil continued as he made a swift notation, “it doesn’t have to be exact.” His lips had formed a smile to follow his comforting words. He wrapped up the remainder of the document and proffered his pen to Sarah. “All the odds and ends are covered. Now all I need is your signature, and we’ll be done.”

    “But it only took five minutes,” Sarah said, expecting an arcane annex of red tape to rear up at the moment of closure.

    “I’m sorry I couldn’t get you through any quicker, but my hands and mind aren’t what they used to be.”

    “That’s not what I meant. I thought maybe there’d be something more.”

    “Nope, only your John Hancock.”

    Sarah signed where Phil indicated. He collected his pen and the paperwork, stowing each in its respective receptacle. Then he reached behind the counter and produced a plain brown bag.

    “If there’s nothing else I can help you with today, Ms. Jones, then I hope you don’t mind if I have lunch.”

    “I don’t mind, as long as, well,” Sarah paused, searching not only for words, but also for motives.

    “As long as?” Phil asked.

    “As long as I can stay and talk with you for a minute.”

    “Sure,” Phil said with a friendly smile.

    “Are you sure it’s okay if I stay?” Sarah asked. “Now that I think about it, maybe you want to go have lunch in back with your coworkers.” Sarah already feared the answers she might gain, as if any errant truth could rip apart the framework of reality and reveal The Twilight Zone.

    “No, I usually stay out here anyway, in case someone shows up.” Phil removed a sandwich and a can of soda, and set each neatly in front of him. “We’re allotted an hour for lunch, but it only takes me about ten minutes. Might as well be out here and ready for the next customer.”

    Sarah’s confusion only grew.

    “Do you mind if I ask you a couple of questions?”

    “Go right ahead, Miss. Shoot.”

    Sarah closed her eyes and concentrated on the strain of her interrogation. She wanted to ensure she received the answers she needed. A few moments passed, and she aligned her thoughts. Her questions formed, she opened her eyes and sized Phil up, taking in everything from his ironed dress shirt to his gleaming, gold glasses.

    “Why did you get this job? No, scratch that,” Sarah closed her eyes again, a brief flash of pain eclipsing her thoughts.

    “Are you feeling well, Ms. Jones?”

    “Yes, I was merely correcting my thoughts,” Sarah said, her wincing subsiding. She opened her eyes and cleared her mind. “How did you get this job?”

    “I applied for it.”

    “I figured that. But how did you get to be so desperate?” Sarah caught herself, but Phil had already started laughing. Her apologies perforated his dwindling chuckles, and after a few moments, Phil’s laughter retreated to a mere smile.

    “I guess I took this job,” Phil said, pausing to look around the empty, flawless DMV, “because I wanted to help people. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do, and with my eyesight and looks, I thought this might be the only place I could make a serious dent. Here, perhaps I can do the best I can to serve with honor and commitment, and he
    lp out a few harried citizens in need. Plus,” he added, “I really love forms.” It was Sarah’s turn to laugh, and soon the two were sharing a protracted giggle.

    “I don’t know why I find this all so difficult to believe,” Sarah said, as much to herself as to Phil.

    “Maybe it’s because it isn’t real, Ms. Jones.”

    “Maybe,” Sarah said, renewing her giggling.

    “Wake up,” Phil said through a grin of his own.

    “Wake up,” he repeated, and Sarah laughed even harder.

    “Wake up,” he said for the third time, only now the smile had disappeared.

    “Phil?”

    “Wake up,” Phil chanted for the fourth time. Sarah’s smile flickered.

    “What-”

    “Wake up!” Phil commanded, punctuating his order with a firm slap. Phil’s blow knocked the smile off Sarah’s face, and Sarah off her chair. She looked up from the floor in amazement.

    “Phil, what the hell are you doing?”

    Phil stood up and leaned down over her.

    “Wake up,” Phil screamed, and after his second slap, Sarah closed her eyes and did just that.

    A series of painful moans escaped Sarah’s lips and coalesced into an inarticulate cry. Her senses united; the copper filled her mouth, whining bombarded her ears, darkness assaulted her eyes, dirt touched her hands, and the smell of urine wafted into her nostrils. She sensed a presence standing over her.

    “You need to wake up, lady,” the unseen man said. His voice was drained of all humanity.

    Sarah opened her eyes and took in the figure leaning over her. After a few moments, a middle-aged bald man came into focus. Familiar eyes danced behind a pair of gold rims, only jovial cooperation had been replaced by sheer malice.

    “Phil?” Sarah asked, her voice as bruised as her head.

    “I ain’t fillin’ shit for you, lady. You took a real cute spill and screwed up my line nice and fine. Now I’ve got to use up my one sanctioned break mopping up your filthy blood.”

    Sarah touched her face and head. Her fingers found a pool of dried blood and traced it back to her dripping ears, and then up and over into her gore-drenched scalp. She fought her aching head and turned over to inspect the floor. A dingy wasteland of chewed gum and scuffmarks isolated a half-dozen singular slick spots. In her pain, Sarah noted that her blood had mixed with a thick mud stain. She looked past a section of sweaty, seated patrons and saw a book rack replete with roadmaps, driving guides, and licensing textbooks. Bumper stickers held up drooping tatters of wallpaper. “Don’t Drink and Drive,” and “I Lost My Patience at the Centraldale DMV” stitched the walls like lurid tattoos. A “Have a Nice Day!” poster peered over the DMV, presiding over the municipal circus like a demented dictator. Razorblade slashes desecrated the familiar yellow smiley face.

    Sarah moved her lips, but sound was reluctant to follow.

    “Hospital,” she finally managed.

    “If you think I’m wasting my time and gas to haul your ass, you got another thing comin’. Like I’m gonna drive you to the meat factory, then come all the way back to this hellhole just so I can punch in for another three hours? You must be dreamin’, lady.”

    “Help,” Sarah moaned.

    “Ambulance is on the way. Don’t worry your little head. Although, it’s not like we’re liable.”

    “Can you help me up?”

    “Sorry, Princess, I’m on lunch break.”

    “I just-”

    “Do you think I care?”

    Before Sarah could answer his rhetorical question, he stood up and strode out the door.

    Sarah abandoned her goal of sitting up. Instead, she fanned her face with a bloodstained hand. Even on the floor, where cold air was physically bound to sink, heat stifled every surface. In lieu of the ambulance, Sarah tried to calm herself. Minutes dragged like the shadows of the other bureaucratic prisoners shuffling past, momentarily blocking the sharp, fluorescent light. Coughs and complaints peppered the atmosphere, and Sarah groaned inwardly. In the distance, a baby began shrieking.

    Sarah closed her eyes and pined for the happy, fictional place spawned by her imagination. The fleeting memories of her ideal errand-run filled the dark space behind her lids, and in the black void she attempted to conjure what was already gone. The buzzing and aching of her brain fueled the hope that maybe it had been real, and would materialize again the next time she opened her eyes.

    Sarah kept her eyes closed and kept hoping.

     

  • An Actor Speaks

    It wouldn’t be too surprising for a first-time Fringe performer to feel a little overwhelmed with the whole experience. Ten minutes to load in, an exact amount of time to perform your show, then ten minutes to load out. If you run longer than the time allotted, you get the lights turned off on you. This stress, on top of my day job and internship, could be enough to overwhelm me, but I just don’t have the time.

    I am a performer in Dying in Public Places: a darkly comic new musical, one of the 156 shows premiering this year at the Minnesota Fringe Festival. It concerns five total strangers who find themselves bound together by fate. That fate is an invisible box trapping all five inside, refusing to release them until they’ve discovered what they have in common. Hilarity ensues as they try everything (except what’s really needed) to escape: seduction, coercion and even… cannibalism? And, as the title suggests, it’s a musical!

    Far be it for me to say it’s going to be the best show of the whole festival, but it’s…ahh… the best I’ve seen so far. (Pause to let the audience digest the joke.) This is my first time performing in a Fringe show. The whole ordeal really kicked into high gear when a small group of people (many of who are still involved with the show) previewed three songs at a Bedlam Theater cabaret last November. The response from the audience was overwhelmingly positive and with the ingredients of a surefire crowd-pleaser in hand, our trusty writer Keith set about crafting the other 51 minutes to surround the songs.

    Rehearsals started in mid-June, and our mission was clear from the start; we’ve got to be able to finish the show in time. Our initial read-through clocked in at 59 minutes. Rather alarming when we’ve only got 60 minutes to perform, so we made cuts and additions. More of the former than the latter, but it was all for the good of the show. We found what bits worked and which ones fell flat (we hope). We sang to within an inch of our life and were given sips of water before we did it all again. But we are artists, and so we must suffer for our art. We didn’t want to make that process too easy, after all.

    When we previewed a few minutes of the show at the July 7th Fringe for All, we were all struck with conflicting emotions. It took a while for the audience to get the song, which can best be described as "touchy." But once they did, the laughs abounded. We were faced with the irritating rigors of time; each show having exactly three minutes to present their material. If they exceeded the time limit, all the lights turned to red, a trap door opened up and everyone on stage fell to a fiery pit below. That last part isn’t exactly true, but turning all the lights red did seem to be a rather menacing way of telling troupes they’d run out of time.

    It was here I got my first sense of how important the other Fringe performers are to what we do. A great deal of the audience was comprised of other performers, and they ate up every preview as if it were the greatest thing they’d ever seen. The level of support was unbelievably high – the lobby afterward crowded with people, trading their postcards and plugging their own shows while going on and on about what others they’d enjoyed. We’re all here for each other–to spread our love of theater to Twin Citizens everywhere. And as I watched the 29 other shows perform, I wondered to myself, "How is any person with any kind of job going to have any chance to see all the shows worth seeing?"

    The time restriction once again resurfaced as a threat when we arrived at our performance space for our tech rehearsal. We are one of 11 shows performing at the Minneapolis Theater Garage, and our two tech members told us that staying on time is key. If we run overtime, they WILL turn the lights off on us. They seemed pretty cool, so I avoided the urge to go all "who do you think you’re dealing with here?" on them. But things became clearer as we made our way around the space. Finally we knew where the seats would be and which staging positions would hopelessly block half the audience. The lights shouldn’t be turning off at unexpected times, so that was one problem taken care of.

    Now I wait for our first performance on Friday, August 1st. A hundred emotions swirl around my stomach as I think about it; excitement and anxiety and everything in between. Will people think the show is funny? (They should.) Will they be able to hear our un-miced voices over the musicians? (Sing out, Andrew!) When this is over, will I finally be able to do what I always want to do in the summer? (Nothing.) The clock is ticking to the first performance and my first exposure to a Fringe audience. I think the show has come together amazingly well and I know people with a slightly off-kilter sense of humor will love it. I guess the only thing I have to worry about now is squeezing in the time to see others’ shows, you know, to share the love.

     

    To read Inside the Fringe: Installment One by John Ervin, click here.

    To read Inside the Fringe: Installment Two by Jill Yablonski, click here.

  • Transgendered Germans and Hair Metal

    From now until August 31st, Hedwig and the Angry Inch will be playing at the Jungle Theater. Featuring a cast of local talent, including Jairus Abts as Hedwig and Ann Michels as her husband Yitzhak, the production is most comfortable during the music numbers and flounders some during monologues. Though shrill and sluggish at times, it builds toward an emotionally fulfilling conclusion.

    The Obie-winning musical is a 4th-wall breaking fusion of rock songs and monologues featuring the heartbreaking story of Hedwig, an "internationally ignored" rock goddess and victim of a botched sex change operation in East Berlin. Left with an "angry inch," the story chronicles her rise and fall in a thought-provoking search for acceptance and individuality.

    For the most part, the show’s worst gaffes are made up for by the great music. Abts plays Hedwig more pathetically washed up than resigned, delivering one-liners often not for comedy, but to underline the character’s disdain for himself and the audience. This "walling-in" of Hedwig is made worse by an ill-executed "German" accent, which careens around the world from Europe to Minnesota. The result makes Hedwig more of a caricature than someone to be identified with. I was hoping for ’80s hair-metal Scorpions, but the result is more Max Mosley and the BDSM porn dungeon, which is to the detriment of the show. Thankfully, the dopey accent is dropped almost entirely during the musical numbers and Abts is noticeably more comfortable. His forceful baritone is able to shine, though his limited range feels a bit constricting at times. Michels also shines during the musical sections, her effortless soprano emphasized by great sound design. Like Abts, Michels is weakest when the music isn’t playing and her monotone portrayal of Yitzhak is, at times, really painful.

    Visually, the production is masterful. The light design is clever without overshadowing the performances and builds the intensity of the climax until its breaking point. Near the end, Yitzhak flings a stack of paper at the audience, the harsh strobe light making tangible the simmering, tumultuous anger of the show before its satisfying conclusion. When the lights return, the paper turns out to be bingo cards. Points for attention to detail.

    The production isn’t perfect, but by the end you’ll find yourself tapping your foot along with the band and thrusting your arms skyward like the rest of the audience. The silly, 4th-wall-breaking energy is thrilling, and the Jungle is intimate enough to make it work. If you have any interest in the sweet harmony musicals and hair metal can create, this one is well worth your time.

  • Fozzie Bear Giving it to Miss Piggy

    Local celebs in attendance tonight include Brenda Langton and some guy who’s supposed to be the funniest in the cities, whom I did see open at Acme for a genuinely funny (but non-local) guy. We three, and several others, were taking in the Fringe Festival Preview: Out-of-Towners’ Showcase at the West Bank’s Bedlam Theater. While I can’t speak for funny guy or Brenda, I offer up my synopsized reviews of the synopses we took in. Each troupe was allotted roughly five minutes to convince those in attendance they should cough up $10 to see their particular show in its entirety. Nineteen troupes in all, most from out-of-town, and a very Minnesota-nice welcome had by all.

    Reviews are short, in keeping with the spirit of abridgment in the air tonight.

    (1) "Systems: A Literal Interpretation of the Fourth Wall" –Billed as an ‘existential comedy,’ the two identically-clad Wisconsin actresses confirm this misnomer with the back-and-forth, "You’re tedious…No, you’re tedious." I’d have to say they tied.

    (2) "Karaoke Knights-A One Man Rock Opera"–This guy looks startlingly like House, MD with his same penchant (and talent) for soulful music.

    (3) "Red Tide"–Eh. Heralded as one of Miami New Times ‘Best of–,’ you know it’s sure to be alternative and original. A theater noir mystery that doesn’t leave me caring who’d committed the crime.

    (4) "Get it Off Your Chest"–Not a punny boob play, nor a women’s empowerment plea, rather the first great actress I’ve seen all night. Mary Helena plays a homeless Jamaican woman, possesses amazing stage presence, and implores the audience to share God’s love, all without sounding preachy. To the rich playground moms who clutch their children tightly as they pass by, Helena cries out, "Don’t pretend you no can see me! I’m too big; I’m too black fo’ you no to see me. I no goin’ ta eat you! I no goin’ ta eat yo’ babies!"

    (5) "How Does a Drug Deal Become a Decent 3rd Date?"–This one makes me laugh out loud, as they say in the industry. The actors are from Toronto, a city I quite like, so I admit this gives them an unfair advantage over the others from, say, Racine. The girl re-enacts a date with a sleazy blowhard who attributes his sleazy blowhardiness to not having a TV while growing up.

    (6) "Beowulf or Gilgamesh? You Decide!"–A ‘perennial Fringe favorite,’ this Charlie Bethel whom I guess I’m supposed to know, is welcomed by jolly boo’s and hisses. He eats it up, does his Gilgamesh thing, all the while reminding me a little of David Cross’ Arrested Development Tobias, though unintentionally I’m sure.

    (7) "Oens"–Holy (or wholly) creepy. The fellow’s face looks to be mime make-up that has been sweated off. He tells us of ships sailing with sturdy masts, aromatic incenses, and camphor. He wears a matador-type jacket, bike shorts, and white high tops. To be fair, his handout states the play ‘enacts the eternal wish for a better world.’ Nothing funny about that.

    (8) "Fool for a Client"–A stand-up act proclaimimg ‘Lewis Black meets Mark Twain.’ Mark Whitney works the audience, not a few times channeling Rodney Dangerfield. He tells a funny story of his privileged community and its attempt at implementing a Walking School Bus to combine fun with safety, a feat he claims "fucking impossible."

    (9) "The Attack of the Big Angry Booty" (if you click on any, click on this one)–The account of one Fringe actor’s ensuing diet rollercoaster following the tour. Delivered with the enthusiam of Jim Carrey’s Juice Man role. Upon a second look after the show, I found Juicer-Man to be quite small, in fact, lending even less validity to the lament over his Pizza Lucé addiction.

    (10) "The Cody Rivers Show: Stick to Glue"–Two talented singer/dancers performing a comedic animal number that will bring to mind summers spent at Vacation Bible School. There wasn’t actually any religious context, much like the animal songs you really did sing at VBS. These guys made you want to hold your laughs so you wouldn’t miss the next clever verse.

    (11) "The Pumpkin Pie Show"–The crowd loved this tale of a 5th-grade vagina lesson. I wish we could have seen more of the female lead (her acting, not flesh), because the resemblance to Tina Fey leads me to believe she’s darn funny.

    INTERMISSION: Audience called upon to drink more Summit (Fringe sponsor) and hob-knob with who’s who in the crowd. No more famous sightings, but several who fancy themselves so. One particularly doting mother, an honest-to-god Mel Brooks look-alike, wringing her hands in sheer joy listening to her beloved son go on and on about something surely unfunny. A lot of puffed-up chests. But what better place to try out your material? And what better audience than Mom?

    (12) "Ophelia"–Everybody likes to cuddle, but nobody likes watching other people do it. I don’t want to say this was awful, but the thesaurus keeps telling me that’s what I’m trying to say.

    (13) "Roofies in the Mochaccino"–An entry from a poetry slam, but not the ANGRY kind. This particular poem tells the age-old classic of ‘The Night Fozzy Bear Got Jiggy with Miss Piggy.’ With lines like, "This fine ass swine is mine all mine," and "Nipples tasting like bacon and sweat," you won’t be disappointed by this dirty Muppet porn. A poem whose author claims earned him both the highest- and lowest-ever recorded marks at its slam debut.

    (14) "Homecoming"–Man, it’s like this thesaurus is broken or something. My only thoughts throughout, "I should work my back muscles more. Hers look nice."

    (15) "Gone, Gone, Gone"–Great dancers. Hands clasped and masking-taped together. Set to Barry Louis Polisar’s opening credit song in über-smash- sensation Juno.

    (16) "The Thinnest Woman Wins"–Sigh. More about being fat (see #9). This time, though, with baton twirling. And awkward tumbling on the floor. I wanted to think the awkwardness
    was part of the act, I really did. But then she lost her baton behind the curtain. And I told myself, "That was written in, too." But then she says something like, "Well, my time’s probably up. Come see my show if you even want to." Looks stage left for shepard’s hook.

    (17) "Leaving Normal"–Another Torontonian. Girl grabs two "random" folks from audience to help with her McFlurry order scene. A semi-funny account of a match that almost was (because they both, uncannily, enjoy Oreo flavor).

    (18) "Boom"–One of the same funny guys as was in #10. But for something even funnier with boom in the title, click here.

    (19) "Sex Love & Vomit"–Two female storytellers. The stage lights went out prematurely and they got kind of shafted, just when it seemed they were getting rolling. I think the two would prove to be funny ladies, given more stage time (and light).

    The 15th Anniversary Minnesota Fringe Festival runs July 31st through August 10th. Read the officially submitted synopses of all 156 plays here.

    Read "Inside the Fringe: Installment One" by John Ervin here.

  • Ten Ways to ______ Your Congresswoman

    flickr/lloydletta

    **While there are scores of bloggers out there committed solely to Fringe Festival reviews, The Rake is striving to offer you a unique, insiders’ perspective. We won’t tell you, "Be sure not to miss…!" What we will provide is a behind the scenes glimpse of life as a local actor, director, everyday- theater-goer. The Rake will be featuring interviews, personal accounts, reviews by wholly unqualified theater reviewers (aka Spazz Dad) and maybe even a guest appearance or two on Dude Weather.**

     

    In the aftermath of the 2004 Presidential election, I determined to write and produce a political satire entitled "Ten Ways to ________ George W. Bush." I did not, in the end, pursue production on or even write this live musical comedy, in which various members of Bush’s cabinet hatch competing plots to do in the old man (full disclosure: I did not vote for George W. Bush). This was partly because friends and family warned that the title alone might earn me a one-way ticket to one of Dick Cheney’s waterboarding chambers. The other reason was that I figured, by the time this work saw the light of stage, it would be too stale for satire since many members of the Administration would be out of office due to scandal, litigation or sweet book deals like Scott McLellan’s. It turns out I was right about most of the main characters, except for Bush, Cheney, and Bush’s homicidal ex-lover, Condeleezza Rice.

    As luck would have it, during the 2006 mid-term election, I discovered a far more spoof-worthy public figure. Though not a member of the Administration, she is such a panting admirer of the Chief Executive that she surely must regret never having served with him. Or, as the most famous news clip of her and the President shows, under him. As people who’ve read my columns for The Rake know, I have been endlessly entertained by 6th District Congresswoman Michele Bachmann, ever since first learning about her during her run for U.S. House in ‘06. Though she is an attractive woman who looks far younger than her 52 years, this obsession is not sexual (I think Jason Lewis, KTLK ‘s pathetic answer to Rush Limbaugh, has the hog’s share of those feelings). It, instead, derives from how shamelessly Mrs. Bachmann embodies every stereotype of the culturally illiterate, socially paranoid, antigay Christian conservative – the type who has been the bane of this country’s existence since Ronald Reagan and Jerry Falwell joined hands to ________ America.

    Which leads to the political musical comedy that I will be launching after all these years. That production, "Catfight!", part of this year’s edition of the Minnesota Fringe Festival, does not, in the end, involve most of the story elements I had originally envisioned. In fact, it doesn’t even concern any actual figures from real political life, including the object of Jason Lewis’ darkest fantasies. However, one of the main characters happens to be an evangelical Republican who’s devoted her adult life to all the favorite hobbyhorses of the God squad: most importantly, the fictitious gay menace that threatens to destroy marriage and turn our children into leather-clad, pool-cue wielding Cruising extras.

    This woman, Mindy Bishop, played Vagina Monologues veteran Kristen Strissel, also happens to be making her first run for Congress in the same part of the Minnesota tundra Michele currently melts or freezes hearts in. In another nod to real life – though it would be that of another prominent Republican now thankfully put to pasture – she is followed at every campaign stop by a pair of documentary filmmakers who work for her very liberal opponent, Stephanie Leary. Hoping to catch her in the type of "macaca" moment that made George Allen history, these brave young souls still manage to post embarrassing clips of Mindy on Leary’s website.

    Which leads to the main reason I chose to make the conservative in my cat fight a fictional character. Mindy Bishop, unlike Michele Bachmann, actually allows the public and the media, friend and foe alike, to videotape her public appearances. Michele, as I found out from two of her goons at the 6th District nominating convention this spring, has somehow managed to prevent anyone – either freelance schlubs like myself or major media outlets like Minnesota Public Radio – to bring a camera into any public gathering where she plans to open her mouth. The reason for this is that the Congresswoman, like the fallen Virginia senator, has been the unwilling star of many classic YouTube clips – a particular favorite being one in which she gushes like a schoolgirl to the faithful at the Living Word Church that she is "hot for God!"

    As the red, or rather, blue, hot Stephanie Leary, Marmy Nelson brings good, left-wing outrage to the proceedings – even if Marmy, herself, is a Christian conservative and lifelong Republican (don’t ask me whether or not she supports Michele)! In another nod to casting against type, I will portray right-wing radio blowhard Bill "Kill" Sargent. Not only will this acting turn offer me a chance to plunder the bilious depths of these losers’ souls, but to also utilize the "voice of God" I have been blessed and cursed with all my life. I will hasten to add that the bloviater I portray more closely resembles Limbaugh than Jason Lewis – while Rush has some finesse with the English language, Lewis possesses the oratorical skill (not to mention physique) of a ballpark drunk.

    Similarly, "Catfight!" would not be complete without a representative of the televangelists and other stumpers for God who are an important part of the fundamentalist universe. A local influence on this character is the man who vies with Jason for Michele’s affections: Living Word Church Pastor Mac Hammond who, though he nearly lost his church’s tax exempt status – and his private jet – due to his endorsement of her during sermons, couldn’t vote for his star devotee because he didn’t live in her district!

    Big Mac’s doppelganger, Dr. Augustus Fairchild (Dan Fuller, who possesses his own Godlike voice that could shake church walls) is not only a pastor of the Gift of Devotion church but a licensed therapist, as well. In this latter calling, he shares much with the religious right’s biggest icon, Dr. James Dobson, as well as Michele’s own husband, Dr. Marcus Bachmann, a counselor whose chief practice is making gay men and women as straight as John Wayne (or, at least, Rock Hudson). Hardhearted atheist that I am, I do tip my hat to true believers in one respect, in that all of "Catfight!" is overseen by one of God’s most beloved, cherished and swinging angels, played by the eminently swinging Michael Cooperman.

    Unlike many of the characters who gave rise to my first production, most of the real-life folk who inspired "Catfight!" are still in office or otherwise on the radar screen. Unfortunately, one of them, former pastor Ted Haggard, has been conspicuously silent, ever since he pronounced himself "cured" of his addiction to hunky masseurs like his longtime male escort, Mike Jones. Luckily, one of Jones’ other clients, Idaho senator Larry Craig, is still sitting in Congress, if not in a certain rest room, and will soon be treating us to a book told from his side of the stall.

    So, if you want to know what makes people like Larry and Ted and Michele tick – and need a break from watching Barack become the 44th President of the United States – come on down and check out "Catf
    ight!" at the Ritz Theater (times and ticket info listed below). And if you think "Ten Ways to ________ George W. Bush" should, indeed, be displayed for the masses, I’m certainly open to any offers of financial backing. Just make sure you also have enough dough for legal protection against Dick Cheney’s waterboard.

    "Catfight" will be presented at:
    Ritz Theater
    345 13th Avenue, NE
    Minneapolis, MN 55413

    Performances:
    Friday, August 1 – 7:00 pm
    Monday, August 4 – 10:00 pm
    Wednesday, August 6 – 5:30 pm
    Thursday, August 7 – 7:00 pm
    Saturday, August 9 – 8:30 pm

    Tickets: $12.00 – Adult
    $10.00 – Students (with ID)
    $5.00 – Seniors (with ID)
    Tickets available only at Uptown Tix
    www.uptowntix.com
    651-209-6799

  • A Book for Locals who Love Being Local

    With a few novels under his belt, Minneapolis literatus Bart Schneider tackles a type of local mystery fiction that swings somewhere between the present and the future…the very, very near future. Set during the National Republican Convention (coming to the Twin Cities in September), Schneider’s novel The Man in the Blizzard follows the character of Augie Boyer, an almost-to-seed private investigator dealing with a handful of personal issues alongside his fight against the right-wing hyper-conservative forces of evil. A liberal writer’s cliché? Maybe, but the story is just complex enough that there may be something for other ideologies, if one looks hard enough.

    At the outset, the reader finds out about Augie’s gluttony, his sinking testosterone, his impending divorce, and his pot addiction. Add to this a mysterious blonde violinist, some poetry-quoting cops, and a complicated neo-Nazi plot, and the narrative becomes almost laughable in its unreality. On the other hand, that might just be what Schneider intends; the tone of the narrative consistently swings somewhere between irreverence, melodrama, and emotional realism. The characters themselves seem to be extraordinarily witty, not unlike jesters and servants in Shakespearean plays that can spin double entendres with the best of them. At times, Augie invokes the spirit of a middle-aged male Juno. Incidentally, the novel references that movie anyway.

    The book is loaded with unashamedly proud references to Twin Cities perks, figures, and pop culture. A reader living in Minneapolis or St. Paul will most likely feel a warm smugness as they recognize the hip locations frequented by the characters: the Walker Sculpture Garden’s bridge, shops on Eat Street, Micawber’s, and many others. Barring the fact that not one of the characters ever visits the Mall of America, the novel could actually double as a rather excellent tourist guidebook. The fact that the characters know this much about their two cities-and all the related history and current events besides-borders on the unrealistic, and probably channels Schneider’s own educated background. Unfortunately, it might distance readers who are not used to such hyper-drive intellect shooting at them from fictional personalities.

    Then again, the characters together have good synergy. They form a sort of colorful Breakfast Club-type collective, which seems to be universally appealing to commercial audiences. Along with that, there are some moments of rather sweet emotion (e.g. a conversation between Augie and his estranged wife Nina at the Minneapolis Institute of Arts). The few conversations that actually seem natural and unpracticed are the bright spots of the novel, the places where the reader can actually relate to the characters. The Man in the Blizzard is also overtly political in nature; opinions voiced in the dialogue have very thin veils. In writing a novel that takes place in a hugely political situation, Schneider could have chosen to make the political conflict more complex in nature. Instead, he seems to perpetuate the tired stereotypes of the Christian fundamentalist right-wings and the loose, hippy liberalists, presumably to create more of the us-versus-them mentality that pervades crime fiction. Closer inspection does reveal moments of cognitive dissonance (Augie’s punk-liberal assistant regrets her past abortion), but the novel could have done much more with all the gray areas that make up true-to-life politics and true-to-life…well…life.

    This novel and genre is a venture into uncharted territory compared to Schneider’s past novels (largely historical fiction). To take that risk is commendable. The story is entertaining and full of vivid details, and the marketing tactic of releasing it slightly before its time setting is clever. Schneider does an admirable job of guessing at the near future, wrapping his hypotheses neatly into the narrative. Add these positives to the purer scenes of ordinary life, and The Man in the Blizzard could certainly be worth a read.

    The Man in the Blizzard will be released August 5.

  • Calling For Mr. Franken

    Located on a hellish strip of University Avenue in St. Paul, the utilitarian structure sports the name of the candidate – a name which sparks equal amounts of love, hatred and a lot of stuff in between. The drab walls within, like those for any campaign headquarters, are sprinkled here and there with images of the contender, whose mug, for over thirty years, has graced TV screens, movie screens, book covers, placards, post cards, and, yes, perhaps, even mugs. This was as close as I would come to meeting Al Franken, during the several weeks I spent phoning Minnesota residents and raising support for his bid for the U.S. Senate. Thanks to the hours he spends each day traversing the state and meeting the people who really count – the undecided voters – he is seldom in the office that bears his name. I was, however, able to grill two key members of the corps known as TeamFranken, and Press Secretary Jess Macintosh forwarded some questions to Al that he answered via e-mail.

    Aware that his time was limited, I refrained from asking the former comedian and pundit about his show business past. This is a shame in one small way, because I always wished to have him elaborate on a memorably hilarious anecdote he related to Fresh Air host Terry Gross, about a brawl he once had with KISS bassist and vocalist Gene Simmons. Instead, I focused on more relevant issues, particularly the battle he is now waging to unseat incumbent Senator Norm Coleman. I figured that Coleman’s years as a shameless opportunist in the Republican party (after many years as a shameless opportunist in the Democratic party), and an eager licker of the boots of Bush and Cheney, was the impetus for Franken’s run.

    “No.” Al writes back, ”My impetus for running is my desire to change the disastrous direction we’ve been going in the last seven and a half years. It’s nice that Bush is going, but for us to make real progress, we’ve got to get rid of his enablers too. And Norm Coleman is either at or near the top of that list. But every day I have a new impetus, with every conversation I have around the state.”

    The conversations I, myself, had over the phone with the same independent voters he is courting varied from enthusiastically supportive to disturbingly hostile. One woman, who initially sounded interested in the pitch for Al that I read from a script TeamFranken provided, waited for me to get to the part where I discussed Coleman’s record of voting 90% alongside the Bush Administration, before snarling, “Well, Franken’s got his problems, too!” She then hung up.

    “Look, Al was a comedian for thirty-five years,” says Andy Barr, Communications Director for the campaign, “He wrote a lot of jokes, not all of them were funny, not all of them were appropriate, some of them were downright offensive and people can legitimately be offended. But this campaign’s going to really be about the issues that are affecting people’s lives.”

    This certainly applied to the delegates I rang up the first few weeks I wielded the cell phones the Team provided. All of the persons on my call lists were slated to attend the nominating convention on June 8, where Al eventually received the Democratic party’s endorsement. Though none of these folks exhibited the vitriol expressed by some of the indies, many did say they were thinking of supporting the contender’s then-remaining rival, Jack Nelson-Palmeyer. Nelson-Palmeyer, an Assistant Professor of Justice and Peace Studies at the University of St. Thomas, and author of numerous books on politics and theology, may one day be a strong candidate for the Senate. But, as the convention approached, his name recognition was still far too small to compete effectively against Norm Coleman, and his fundraising was no match for that orchestrated by TeamFranken, which exceeded levels predicted by even their most optimistic supporters.

    This is thanks to the large and diverse group of volunteers I often saw in that sun-baked building near I-94, who were led for eight months by former volunteer coordinator (now coordinator for the second district), Elizabeth Newman: “We’ve had people as young as four – not on the phones, of course – helping us, in addition to phone banking by people in high school, people who are unemployed, people who have left their jobs or who are retired.” Though direct mail and door knocking are pursued, phone canvassing is the key to the voter-outreach kingdom. “Door-knocking is persuasive,” continues Elizabeth, “But, especially in the Minnesota winters, it can take a long time for people to go from house to house, while you can immediately dial one number after another. We try to reach voters on a variety of levels, but on the phone is when we can really talk to people about why Al is such a great candidate.”

    One house I’m glad I did not knock on the door of – not because of chilliness but because I’d probably still be standing on the front stoop listening to its owner – belonged to one delegate I called who was actually leaning towards our man. His support, though, did not allay his concerns about the upcoming nominating convention. Y’see, at the last one he went to, the food was lousy, the service was bad, he couldn’t find a decent place to park, nobody told him that wives could attend, and when Hillary and Barack were in town there were too darn many people, and then there was the time when Hubert Humphrey stopped by in ‘72 and …

    Many of the delegates, though, even if they were considering pledging for Jack, recognized Al’s desire to continue the liberal tradition of the late Senator Paul Wellstone. “To tell you the truth, I think Paul was right on some things I’ve been wrong on, ” Franken writes in response to another e-query, “I thought NAFTA would help Mexican workers so they wouldn’t have to come to the United States, and that a North American trade agreement would be good for everybody. Paul was against it and he was right. In the lead-up to the war in Iraq, I was torn. I didn’t have to vote on it, Paul did. I thought then that his vote (against the war) was courageous – and now I know it wasn’t just courageous, it was right.“

    While Franken did not cut his teeth in the callings Wellstone and most other politicians traditionally pursue, he has been an invaluable public servant as an author of several classic books (with overly long titles) of political observation and satire, and commentator for radio and television. His biggest success has been the awareness he’s raised about the myth of the so-called “liberal media”, and other disinformation spread by right-wing talk radio, network and cable TV news and, most of all, that monstrosity known as Fox News.

    Andy Barr, who worked as producer on The Al Franken Show for part of the three years it was on Air America, explains, “Anytime you bring someone to the Senate who is not a creature of Washington, you bring a whole new perspective – unlike Norm Coleman, who’s been a politician his whole professional life.” When I ask him if Al will be observing the Republican National Convention at the Xcel Energy Center in September, much as he did the 2004 RNC in New York City, where he had duels of wits (at his end, at least) with right-wing belchers Sean Hannity and Michael Medved, Andy admits, “We’ll probably just let Norm Coleman hang out with the Republicans, and let him stand up and take credit for his part in that.”

    Franken will probably be too busy anyway, continuing to make his case to the people of Minnesota that he shares ma
    ny of the same values as his political heroes: “My political heroes are FDR, who inherited a horrible situation and saved the country (there are actually some parallels to today); Hubert Humphrey, who was a champion on so many fronts – civil rights, social justice, poverty, crime-fighting in Minneapolis, labor. As long as we’re talking Minnesotans, we’ve had such a legacy of progressive heroes, people like Gene McCarthy, Walter Mondale, Paul Wellstone.”

    Words like these might have softened the hearts of the continually grouchy independents I rang up. Admittedly, one consistent problem was that I was calling when folks were either driving home, slipping into bed, or settling down to other important functions of daily life. “I’m in the middle of dinner!” snapped one woman before slamming down her end of the line. Noting my wince in reaction to this rejection, another volunteer, a bearded, academic gentleman in his sixties, said, “Well, you know, Casanova, one of the world’s great lovers, got a lot of ‘no’s’ before he got a ‘yes.’” This historical aside reminded me of that brawl the candidate had with another self-styled Casanova, which I had wanted to ask him about in my e-mail but refrained out of deference to his busy schedule. Besides, I have a pretty strong memory of what he related to Terry Gross, who had recently survived her most infamous interview, with one of my favorite rock-and-roll artists.

    In 1982, during a five-year break between stints on Saturday Night Live, but still residing in New York, Al Franken was waiting for another player at a racquetball court. In walked Gene Simmons, looking for trouble, whom the comedian didn’t recognize because Simmons was naturally not sporting the Kabuki-monster makeup that made him and KISS household names. Simmons – who claims to have bedded as many women as soldiers have been killed in the Iraq war he is an avid supporter of – challenged Al to a game. When Franken politely explained he was waiting for somebody else, the man who was the voice behind “Calling Dr. Love," “I Was Made For Lovin’ You” and many other Top 40 hits, growled, “I’ll kick your ass!”

    Annoyed, but ready for a challenge, the comic agreed to a match. He then proceeded to beat the egomaniacal, and, in one respect, impotent rocker, in a matter of minutes. Furious, Simmons demanded another opportunity to “kick (Al Franken’s) ass!” By then, Franken’s racquetball partner had arrived and the SNL veteran said he would have to do without his adversary’s pleasant company. The heavy metal fire-breather then used his historically long tongue – which, in addition to being an important part of his stage act also has what he describes as a “spin-and-dry cycle” for interested ladies – to make chicken noises. Not believing his ears, Al grudgingly agreed to another round, but only for a $500 stake. This caused the multi-millionaire headbanger, whose appetite for female flesh is exceeded only by his lust for making and keeping money in as many ways as possible, to finally fly the coop.

    The lesson of this incident is that where most mortals would either take a swing at this one-time grade school teacher (!) or be intimidated to the point of being beaten by him in a game he has no evident skill in, Al Franken found a way to disarm his opponent with humor and the ability to quickly spot his weak points. And this was before he found out who his opponent was, whom he thought was just some creep who liked to pick fights at racquetball courts, until his partner blurted out, “That was Gene Simmons!”

    Brushes with greatness (?) like that aside, there is no doubt that Al Franken will withstand the Republican attack machine – not to mention a certain persistent local blogger – and lead his historic race for the Senate to a victorious finish. More importantly, he will be a responsible and dedicated member of that body, and is enthusiastic about working with everyone in it, Republicans and Democrats alike. “There are some great leaders in the chamber right now,” he writes in conclusion to our e-interview, “I think so many people on both sides of the aisle are pulling for Ted Kennedy, who’s been a real lion. Senator Durbin, Senator Clinton – I’ll have the honor of calling some of my role models colleagues. And although I disagree with him on many issues, I’m really looking forward to working with Senator McCain.” He then hastens to add about the presumptive Republican nominee for President, “As a colleague. In the Senate.”

  • All Hopped Up on Russian Rye

    I could tell jokes about Tsarist Russians all day long, so I’ll just leave it to the folks at the Guthrie’s Wurtele Thrust Stage, where a new adaptation of Nikolai Gogol’s 19th century comedy The Government Inspector runs through August 24. Local playwright Jeffrey Hatcher (The Falls and the screenplays for Stage Beauty and Casanova) lends his trademark humor to the madcap proceedings where, unfortunately, the parts do not add up to a whole.

    The heads of a small Russian village are horrified to learn that a government inspector is coming to make a thorough visit to the town. Even worse, he may be in disguise. Mayor Anton Antonovich (Peter Michael Goetz) knows his town isn’t an exemplary place – the hospital was built the same size as its model, the school principal is frightened of his teachers and geese are being raised in the courtroom jury box – so he proclaims that the government inspector must be found and dealt with. A case of mistaken identity leads them to Ivan Alexandreyevich Hlestakov (Broadway vet Hunter Foster), a down-on-his-luck-and-finances card player on his way to visit his father. He unexpectedly finds himself the object of everyone’s affections, getting bribes thrown at him from the men of the town and much, much more from the women.

    The sardonic examinations of greed and corruption are balanced with as many sex jokes and innuendos as you would imagine in a Russian play. No doubt taking many liberties with the source material, Hatcher and director Joe Dowling have crafted several moments of uproarious hilarity. It really is a pity that the comedy isn’t consistent; when the jokes fall, they fall hard and the play creeps to a crawling pace. The cast is a worthy ensemble, but they cannot help when audiences are thrown yet another joke about what Russian alcohol is made of or a talk about seduction shortly before the most repulsive woman walks in. As a result, the play is only truly captivating when certain performers are on stage. When they’re gone, you’re in for the long haul.

    In the central role, Foster gives an admirable performance. Another unfortunate mistake is making Foster’s character one of the least interesting in the play. Ivan is a typical, likable doofus in way over his head, but when Foster gets the chance to reach beyond that, he is truly hilarious. Whether it be showcasing his physical abilities when drunk or composing an impromptu poem/love song to his supposed sweetheart Marya (think "aria" or… "operaria"), he shows a wide array of comic talents that are suppressed more often than not. In having Ivan attempting to make himself seem like a gentleman, we get a character that is too typically bumbling, especially when the audience knows the performer is capable of so much more.

    As the mayor’s wife, veteran performer Sally Wingert easily walks away with the show. Decked out in a set of increasingly ridiculous dresses, Wingert completely inhabits the role of lusty, jaded and ignored woman and runs. She manages to take every line, no matter how cliché, and turn it into comedic gold; while butchering French for comic effect is hardly a new joke, Wingert’s crass and brash destruction of the language has audiences splitting their sides. Kris L. Nelson and Lee Mark Nelson do a twisted, lispy riff on Tweedledee and Tweedledum to great effect. And in a brief but memorable role, Jim Lichtscheidl is hilarious as a laidback, honest and gossipy postman.

    The other members of the cast are more or less successful in their shtick: Raye Birk, Wayne A. Evenson and Stephen Yoakam are funnier in their neurotic town head roles; Maggie Chestovich less so as the mayor’s daughter, playing her as the stereotypical whiny teenager without any real innovation. But they play off each other well. Sparks fly in some cases; Foster’s secret trysts with Wingert and Chestovich are among the high points of the play, even if the circumstances surrounding their meetings are no more than afterthoughts.

    Set in what may be the brightest and most colorful version of Russia ever, Dowling directs the production with the intent to make everything fast and snappy. From the plywood cutout set by John Arnone, to the cartoonish costumes by Ann Hould-Ward, everyone involved seems determined to make audiences forget ever thinking that Russians are dark and depressing. With transitions offset by a raucous ensemble of villagers and a turntable on the stage (why not?), everything flows quickly. Until, of course, the jokes fall flat and the pace drops dead.

    The Government Inspector is far from tedious in the end. It is always entertaining and frequently laugh-inducing. Just not as consistently riotous as it should be. A likable cast with more than a few comic gems is enough to pull the production out of any rut and make even the lamest of jokes admirable. And in a show where making a good, lasting impression is the most important thing, the folks at the Guthrie have certainly accomplished their mission.

  • Asher’s Land

    I just got back with a shitload of red lights. You know, Christmas lights, my wife calls them twinkie lights. At the junk store they were 20 cents a box, dirt cheap, so I bought 170 boxes. 100 lights to a box, that’s a shitload of lights.

    I come in the house with as many as I can carry in one load and the wife says, “What the hell you got there? Cupcakes? Let me see what you got there.” She’s got sweets on the mind so I sour her mood and show her the lights. “What we need these for? You old fool.” She walks to the kitchen to cough up phlegm. After 51 years of marriage she’s still private about some things.

    I go to the kitchen; the wife’s sitting down at the table with a flame under the teakettle that looks like it could get out of hand. I think of the Holsteins across the road and how the summer of ’76 they fried to a crisp after lightening hit Asher’s land. “Sure hope you’re watching the stove.” My wife looks at me through cloudy glasses and says, “What do we need all those lights for?” I don’t want to answer this question.  It will just lead to another.

    I look at her as the kettle takes to screeching and hear those Holsteins plain as day, belting to break free. Red lights flashed that night through these kitchen walls and we lost power for five days. I think about the boxes of red lights I’ve stacked in the other room, wondering what I might do to warn the weather that its comeuppance is due. I take to the road, arms full of lights, and hike over to Asher’s land, dirt cheap now that Clint Asher’s gone and not a one of his kids left to farm. I’ll stake out the land and run the lights along the border so God can look down and weep all the same. Off in the distance I see one cow chewing her cud. One cow silhouetted in the back, mirroring the outline of the wife in the window.

    My son’s hiding behind the wife’s dress sucking his thumb. Dirty feet on the both of them. The wife’s stirring ingredients for a devil’s food cake, spatula heavy with candied cherries. Cats flying through the yard. Crows cackling. Within minutes the sky’s tumbling and daylight is only a memory. “Come on in,” I hear the wife say. “You old fool,” she says as she tosses the tea leaves out the back door on top the bed of jonquils.

    That’s a shitload of lights I found today. I head closer to what remains of Asher’s barn and leave the lights I’m carrying. The cow has jumped the fence and a flash of red rises from the ground. Those lights, 20 cents a box, someone’s junk times one hundred, have found their new resting place under God’s stirring sky that may soon leave us powerless.