Review: “Nocturnes”

An immersive piece combines dance and spoken word in a Jung-esque meditation on dreams.

A good immersive theatre piece begins long before the audience enters the space. A day before my visit to Nocturnes in early April I received an invitation from "The Doctor" via email to attend a party celebrating the conclusion of his study of dreams. Already intrigued, audience members arrive to the secret location in Williamsburg and, along with a couple dozen other guests, are let into the spacious studio, sunken in haze and purple light. Both clad in whimsical white dresses, Miss B (Sydney Tucker) and Mister X (Fernando Moya Delgado), the Doctor’s agitated assistants (or patients?) distribute vials filled with clear bubbly liquid; however, we must wait for the Doctor to arrive before toasting and drinking.

The cast of Nocturnes. Photo by Arnaldo Vargas

The Doctor never comes. The vials are emptied. And although they contain just seltzer, they might as well contain a dash of LSD because the best word to describe Nocturnes is “hallucinatory.” Co-creators Lisa Cohen, Kseniya Ovchinnikova, and Matt Miazgowicz drew their inspiration from mystical and psychoanalytical approaches to dreams. Poetic monologues by Matt Miazgowicz combine with site-specific choreography developed in collaboration with six performers, for an experience stylistically similar to Then She Fell by Third Rail Projects.     

The entire audience shares an opening dance scene and the finale, but is split into three parts during the show to witness three simultaneously unfolding scenes in smaller groups. Before each scene, Miss B and Mister X busy themselves with labeling audience members with sticker dots in neon orange, pink or green before sending them off to the next “dream.” Their mood swings from joyous to morbid as the show progresses. Interacting with them (however fleetingly) is always enjoyable, but the process of regrouping the audience each time seems unnecessary and runs the risk of taking you out of the show.

The three scenes unfolding in the various nooks of the space are connected by association more than by a story. Kelsey Rondeau blows bubbles while seated on an inflated swan, and then dances amongst the audience while delivering an obscure monologue about dreams. Julia Bengtsson and Zachary Denison dance on every inch of a claustrophobic loft (including the walls and even the ceiling) with the audience peering through plexiglass. Tessa Allen tells a tale about a mother whose beautiful daughter was replaced one night with an evil doppelganger, with one audience member tucked into a little bed and a huge glowing sphere ominously hanging above the scene.           

The minimalism of the scenery by Kseniya Ovchinnikova was likely due to the piece's short run (a single weekend), but worked for the most part, though a single unnecessary and confusing installation on one of the walls hinted that there might have been more artifacts planned but not executed. The sound design by Armand Bernardi was spot on: not too intrusive yet persistently pushing the energy towards the agonizing resolution.       

Nocturnes was full of interesting ideas and talented performers. The collaborative authorship was evident, yet the different “handwriting” still came together beautifully. The blend of dance and monologue was realized successfully. But if it plans to stand out in the saturated immersive scene, there's room for improvement. The concept seems somewhat vague, especially in regard to the role of the audience. Are we all subjects in the study? Are we observers of the subjects? Are we dreaming or are we watching somebody else’s dream? And what happened to The Doctor, does he even exist? It’s easy to say that everybody decides for themselves, but it would be helpful to be given more “tools” with which to toy around in this intriguing and hazy (both physically and conceptually) production.

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Nocturnes played at a secret location in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, on April 4-7, 2019 . The running time was 90 minutes with no intermission. Tickets were $100. For more information visit experiencenocturnes.com.

Nocturnes is conceived and directed by Lisa Cohen, Kseniya Ovchinnikova, and Matt Miazgowicz. Text by Matt Miazgowicz. Art Direction and Production Design by Kseniya Ovchinnikova. Costume Design by Kseniya Ovchinnikova and Sarah Esmoingt. Sound Design by Armand Bernardi. Lighting Design by Jacob Vorperian. Produced by Nuage Productions, Lisa Cohen, Hanna Zakouri, Jacob Vorperian, and Kimberly Flynn.

The cast is Tessa Allen, Julia Bengtsson, Fernando Moya Delgado, Zachary Denison, Kelsey Rondeau, and Sydney Tucker.

(This review was published on theasy.com on 4.21.19)

Review: “Fade”

This emotionally loaded LARP operates on the open hearts of the participants.

The small ground floor studio apartment in Harlem gets crowded quickly as twelve participants arrive for Fade, Sinking Ship Creations' newest immersive experience. The cozy space, with vintage posters on the walls and a bed dominating the room, is about to become an emotional meat grinder. They call it “The Chamber,” a surreal no-space where you never get sick, never die; there is a bathroom and always enough food. And there is little-to-no privacy and nowhere to go unless you choose to disappear forever by stepping into the Void (the door to exit the apartment).

Photo courtesy of Sinking Ship Creations.

Lovely facilitator Rita McCann gives out the name tags and notebooks filled with the descriptions of The Chamber's denizens. Characters had been assigned based on a casting survey sent out a few days earlier. But even if you don’t complete the questionnaire, a character will still be assigned to you. But why miss the chance to voice your desires and concerns? Especially if you have strong thoughts about playing a character dealing with suicidal thoughts, death of a child, or infidelity. And maybe you would prefer either to be part of a same- or different-gender couple. Then again, Fade might be just the occasion to explore some of the dusty corners of your own soul. After all, if a live-action role playing experience is well-designed and executed with care for the participants (as is the case with Fade), it provides an opportunity to step out of one's comfort zone, but in a safe space.

I played Ali, who one day appeared in The Chamber with their spouse Noor, soon after the death of their infant son. The growing estrangement, grief, slipping sense of my own identity, and possibility of feeling alive and desired again are just some of the emotional paths that I got to travel. Many characters are entangled in relationships with siblings, spouses, lovers, and friends. Love triangles grow into elaborately shaped polyhedrons as the play progresses, and fall back to pieces, unable to sustain the tension of thirteen people at each other’s throats and in each other’s pants (figuratively speaking).

According to the rules of this world, the memories of The Chamber inhabitants fade away with time. This is where the notebooks with information about every person come in handy. Not only do they give a brief dossier on everybody’s personality and relationship status, they also contain descriptions personalized to the notebook owner. Those in The Chamber can use the notebooks as a journal, a great tool to connect to one's character. In the world of this LARP, it also helps preserve memories.

The reliability of memory becomes a recurring theme in Fade. The experience begins with us waking up on Remembrance Day, an annual holiday on which we honor the departed, their Polaroid pictures displayed on the door to the Void. The memory failure, notebooks, and memos on the walls are generous world design elements, which take off the pressure of remembering who everybody is. The pages are color-coded so it’s easy to find a name in case you encounter someone and don’t quite remember what their deal is.

Each character description ends with a question to help us bond, resolve a personal issue, or move the conflict forward. These prompts jumpstart interactions and are a staple of the experience. Although some characters are more preoccupied than others with existential questions—what is the nature of The Chamber, what awaits in the Void—this is secondary to the main event. There is nothing to solve, no need to escape; Fade is all about the emotional journey. With the outlines of each relationship in place, the participants are free to color inside and outside the lines in whichever way they like.

Thanks to clever world design by author Kathaleen Amende, the flow of the experience feels organic. Rita McCann is an incredible facilitator, with her gut feeling for the right moment to escalate the drama or to step aside and let the events unfold. She leads the Chamber inhabitants into playing Never Have I Ever, getting Polaroids taken, and reading the notes about those who left us. There are snacks (hummus, chips, carrots, and apples), and the radio plays songs that go from cheerful to somber as the evening progresses. Some participants initiate group activities—a dance lesson around the bed or Margarita Mondays in the kitchen. But we don’t linger on any of these for long—the activities serve more as background to the soap opera on steroids that is constantly on the brink of implosion.

There is quite a bit of physical contact, but consent is required. If it ever gets overwhelming, participants are equipped with a sign to signal their scene partner to tone it down; there's another gesture in case one needs to step out of character. Intimate interactions are interlaced with group scenes and almost inevitably culminate in a moment when somebody gets too close to the ominous door. And because you are so intimately connected with everybody else in the room and share the circumstance of being stuck in The Chamber, you relate closely, no matter who is making the decision to leave.

I was fortunate to be in a group both fully dedicated to their characters and brave about diving deep into the emotional abyss. I wept, I laughed hysterically, I don’t think I have ever hugged and touched so many strangers in just a few hours. Even though I was emotionally sore for days after, Fade felt incredibly rewarding. The seeming simplicity of the sandbox model with minimal structuring is incredibly effective in turning your heart inside out. Fade might even be a life-altering experience.

As well thought out as the gentle (and nearly hour-long) onboarding is, I wish the “bleeding”—the reflection after—were smoother. As the ritual at The Chamber goes, we fall asleep listening to “One More Kiss, Dear,” some of us content, some still wrestling with inner dragons. When the song ends, the clapping of hands shakes away the sweet dreams and nightmares of the day we just lived together. Many burst into chatter, but I couldn’t bear another minute in the loud, stuffed room—the intensity pushed me into the Void, post-game. At this point, it was just a city street. But ever since this experience, I’m unable to look at the people around me without a strong sense of being in the same boat. Fade underscores how, on some cosmic level, we are all connected.

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Fade plays at 125 West 126th Street on March 22 and 23, and 877 Empire Boulevard in Brooklyn on March 29 and 30, 2019. The running time is approximately 3 hours with no intermission. Performances are Fridays and Saturdays at 7. Tickets are $65 and are available at sinkingshipcreations.com.

Fade is by Kathaleen Amende. Produced by Betsy Isaacson and Sinking Ship Creations. Executive Producers are Ryan Hart, Jason Knox, Robin A. Rothman. Art Direction by Taran Lopez.

The facilitator is Rita McCann.

(This review was published on theasy.com)

Review: "Better"

A new play about a substance abuse clinic straddles traditional and interactive theatre but lacks energy

What is something you are good at?

What is the behavior you would like to change?

Who do you turn to for help?

These are some of the items on the questionnaire the audience members of Better need to fill out before they enter the premises of the New Beginnings Clinic. The interactive play by Daniel Irving Rattner transforms The Studio Theater at Columbia University into a substance abuse rehab facility, with between fourteen and twenty audience members being either patients or volunteers.

Cast and participants of Better.

We are welcomed to the rehab center by one of the staff members, Jane (Lina Sarrello), and offered to take a seat in a circle. We’re in a spacious basement studio with a grey linoleum floor and a low ceiling. After randomly assigning the roles in the discussion (leader, rule enforcer, time keeper, and a bunch of participants), Jane offers a quote to reflect upon: “To progress means to always start again.” As the exercise continues, the latecomer Amanda (Bri Ellison) arrives. She grabs a chair and drags it into the circle, deliberately and loudly. Another guy from the group, Carver (Bryan Kelly) immediately gets into a quarrel with her.

This is not the first time that those two have clashed in the clinic. They seem to know each other well. Carver hides his insecurity behind a cynical façade. He isn’t afraid to contradict but seems to be doing so only out of the desire to strike a conversation in order to connect with someone. Amanda is irritated and seems to be hanging onto a last strand of hope, this dream of a paradise-like environment which can cure her addiction. Citing the infamous Rat Park study from the 70s, she aggressively inquires about the efficiency of the methods in the center. The younger staffer Marielle (Savannah Hankinson) gets emotionally invested in her despite the cautionary advice from Jane to not get too close. (Jane is a senior staff member who wants to do everything by the book, but as with other characters, we don’t know much about her.)           

The audience members get caught up in between patients/staff conflict, mostly as silent witnesses. There is some agency assigned to the audience members but Better is not a LARP, so role-playing is not intended, yet we are assigned to be a “patient” or a “volunteer” from the beginning. An abstract outline of my “role” didn’t bother me when the spotlight was on Amanda. But occasionally I found myself trapped in a limbo of half-defined roleplaying, particularly during interactions where audience members are paired off: one patient and one volunteer each. In one of these scenes, each duo is given a task revolving around cozying up the space. Somebody unpacks the mugs stored away after the recent flood. Somebody else marks the calendar with everybody’s birthdays. Max, my partner, and I are copying a day schedule onto a poster. “So who do you know here?”  asks Max and it takes me a few seconds to assess if he is asking from “within” the world of the play or if he’s asking if I know the creative team behind Better. After an awkward clarification, we decide that since we were instructed to share our real personal information on the questionnaire, we are probably just playing ourselves in this scenario.

Our conversation then ventures into a discussion about plays and immersive theatre, which I love doing anywhere except during an immersive show; it kind of takes you out of that world. I found the people around me struggling with the same problem. Some of them were trying to make small talk around the assigned activity, but there is only so much you can say to each other when arranging Polaroids of the clinic inhabitants on the wall.

The staff had carefully ensured that all participants were engaged in decorating the room at the beginning of the show, and setting the room up for playing games later. Engaging audience members into any sort of physical activity is a great theatrical device for making them a part of the world. Besides, since we invested effort into “decorating,” we are likely to feel more connected to the surroundings. Being forced gently into doing a seemingly unnecessary activity reminded me of my place as an inferior within the system in Better. It felt like being back in kindergarten: where the teachers make sure that kids are busy with activities and nobody wanders off or daydreams too much. I imagine this what some patients of rehabs might feel like.   Coffee and Girl Scout cookies also appeared at some point, contributing to the atmosphere of a group therapy facility even more.

Despite a little uncertainty in the beginning, I enjoyed the mutual activities and getting to know the patient who was assigned to me. Later, during our stay in the facility, I got to interview Max about his strengths and areas that he is trying to perfect, looping us back to the original questionnaire. One-on-one heartfelt conversations never fail to engage most people, and, frankly, Max’s real-life story was far more appealing to me than Amanda’s fictionalized drama. Unfortunately, for better or worse, Better steered us away from any personal connections established between the audience members and towards the overarching conflict between Amanda and the center’s staff.          

These conversations and shared activities were useful in bringing the audience members together; a bond that was solidified during what came next: a physical group game. One person sat on a chair blindfolded. There were keys placed underneath the chair. A volunteer from the audience needed to snatch the keys away from the chair before the person sitting on the chair could hear him and point in the direction of the thief. During the game as well as during most of the show, the audience members can set a bar of participation low, which is good news for the introverts. Except communicating in our patient/volunteer pairs one can choose to be quiet the entire time and will only be moved but a few times.

Better found a fine balance between audience participation and silent observation, but despite the initial confusion about the nature of my persona within the context of the show, I enjoyed the interactive parts more. I felt the plotline centered around Amanda was superficial, and lacking memorable details. The sensitive and potent topic of substance abuse, healing, and relapse could have been explored further. The stakes are just too low in the current iteration of Better. And in the current production, the performances ranged between over-performing (Hankinson) and playing it too casual (Ellison). A deeper exploration of the topic would also help the actors to find firmer ground in the interactive format.

Better is more contemplative than it is emotional and it seems to be preoccupied with form more than with content. The form is in good shape, now it is a matter of building up the emotional substance. The elegant circular narrative structure of the show was elevated by the ending, which tied together the experience in an intellectually satisfying way. By pure chance, Better ended on a perfect story interrupted at the perfectly right moment.  

We were offered to voice an opinion as a part of the group therapy for the last time and one of the audience members shared his recent experience as an English teacher. When he had ten minutes left of class after discussing students’ essays, he offered to put their pieces aside and to start writing them completely from scratch. But the timer in the hands of the timekeeper went off, so we never found out what the teacher took from his experiment. It might be an interesting exercise for the creators of Better to try this approach in order to see what’s important and what’s lacking, in a new light. To begin again doesn’t mean starting from scratch, but to evaluate your past with a critical eye, in order to progress in the future.   

(This review was published on NoProscenium.com on 3.14.19)

Review: “Rocco, Chelsea, Adriana, Sean, Claudia, Gianna, Alex”

A tapestry of stories attempts to look deep into the modern American soul.

HERE's main theatre is stripped to the bones, and folding tables covered with crumbled pages of the New York Times are aligned along the perimeter. We are invited to take one of the numbered seats at the tables, facing inwards like at a college seminar. The actors of Rocco, Chelsea, Adriana, Sean, Claudia, Gianna, Alex are seated amongst us but, due to modern-day costumes (by Liz Toonkel), it’s not evident until they start their scene.

Chuck Montgomery and Emily Jackson in Rocco, Chelsea, Adriana, Sean, Claudia, Gianna, Alex. Photo by Hunter Canning.

Newspapers rumble and fly up in the air filling the room with a thick smell of ink as introductory scenes follow each other in the first act. First we are at a Thanksgiving dinner where Sean (Adrian Baidoo) gives a passionate speech about his struggle to be thankful for the stigma of HIV. We meet shock-jock Rocco (Chuk Obasi), faced with the necessity of commenting on his on-air partner’s sexual assault allegations. Young professional Chelsea (Kaelyn Ambert-Gonzalez) stalks her romantic interest online. Gianna (Emily Jackson) relives the nightmare of losing her brother in 9/11 while working as a tour guide on the memorial to the tragedy. Claudia’s (Tayla Mar) play about the reunion of a mother and a daughter given up for adoption is in rehearsals when her own biological daughter enters her life. And Adriana (Adriana Rossetto), a young immigrant from Italy, chases her dreams of becoming both an actress in New York, and an American.

For the most part, the events take place in New York. While some stories are connected, the creators don’t try to tie everybody together with superficial plot twists. Rocco, Chelsea, Adriana… could be seven separate plays, but the piece is drawn together through the magnetic force of the tension that charges each of the characters. They are all faced with a choice, or they feel like they are obligated to justify the choices of their past, in order to earn self-respect and love.

Conceived by Vieve Radha Price and John Gould Rubin, Rocco, Chelsea, Adriana… was developed over a four-year period. Working with Bernard Lonergan's ideas of the “consciousness of conflict,” the group of interdisciplinary artists conducted a series of one-on-one conversations with people across the country in order to better understand the struggles of modern Americans. Or according to the program, “We set for ourselves the theatrical challenge of exploring the drama of polarizing mindsets.” The result is a multi-voiced tapestry of human experiences, woven together by Dan Hasse.

At times it is difficult to follow Rocco, Chelsea, Adriana… This monumental, elaborately composed play seems ever expending as it unfolds. Each of the cast of nine plays multiple roles, including supporting characters to the seven title ones. It takes a lot of mental energy to track and separate each narrative strand, and when I finally thought I figured it all out midway through the second act, the finale nearly made my brain overheat. In an extensive scene that provides resolution to all stories at once, the actors switch roles mid-sentence, conducting two dialogues at the same time across the room from each other. For a play aiming to connect to human experiences, Rocco, Chelsea, Adriana… requires a computer-like mental capacity from its audience.

Aside from being a cognitive challenge, Rocco, Chelsea, Adriana… moves audience members around, making them a part of the ever-shifting set. Chairs get stacked and reassembled. Tables get turned over, folded, and unfolded with a loud bang, which contributes to Drew Weinstein's dense sound design that is populated with ringtones and soothing female answering machine voices. A sign of the times, nearly each performer has a cell phone sticking out of the back pocket of their pants. Nearly every third scene is a phone conversation.

Keeping up with technology-heavy modern life, the show employs two projection screens (by Elizabeth Mak) but not very successfully. One scene—an audition for porn—happens entirely in a video, leaving those seated with their backs to the screen out of luck. In other instances the projections are mostly decorative, and often distracting. I connected more with a short pantomime scene performed by Adriana during the intermission, in which the petite Rossetto struggles to climb a tall stack of chairs and read an enormous newspaper while a voiceover reads a list of one hundred questions and answers to the test for becoming a U.S. citizen. It is a charming, surreal vignette of somebody’s life that is a refreshing break before descending into the swirling second act.

For some of act two, the audience is prompted to move freely and find whatever fascinates them. Amongst the now scattered tables and chairs, multiple dialogue unfold at the same time. I found myself drawn to the mother and son duo, who are quietly reconciling in the corner. The intimacy of this scene is so magical that I wish the creators further explored the difference in scale by breaking us up into smaller groups.

Rocco, Chelsea, Adriana… gets even more personal when audience members are called by name to take a seat near the end. A customs officer reads from the list, vividly evoking the nerve-racking situation of crossing a border when you are an alien. Destroying our anonymity miraculously accomplishes two goals. First, it makes us share Adriana’s anxiety, an empathy-making moment that is especially precious at a time that is so hostile to immigrants. Second, as if continuing the list of the show's title, it makes each and every person in the room a part of Rocco, Chelsea, Adriana, Sean, Claudia, Gianna, Alex...

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Rocco, Chelsea, Adriana, Sean, Claudia, Gianna, Alex plays at HERE Arts Center 145 Sixth Avenue, through March 9, 2019. The running time is 2 hours 30 minutes with an intermission. Performances are Tuesday through Saturday at 8:30; and Sundays at 4. There is also a matinee on Sat 3/9 at 4. Tickets are $30 and are available at here.org or by calling 212-352-3101. For more information visit teacreativeinc.com.

Rocco, Chelsea, Adriana, Sean, Claudia, Gianna, Alex is created by Vieve Radha Price and John Gould Rubin. Written by Dan Hasse based on original writing by Chuk Obasi, Chelsea Frei, Karen Eilbacher, Sarah Wharton, Jason Gray, Adriana Rossetto, Salomé Krell, and Bronwen Carson. Directed by John Gould Rubin. Set and Costume Design by Liz Toonkel. Lighting Design by Erin Fleming. Sound Design by Drew Weinstein. Production and Video Design by Elizabeth Mak. Stage Manager is Rachel Switlick.

The cast is Adrian Baidoo, Emily Jackson, Scott McCord, Chuk Obasi, Chuck Montgomery, Melissa Mickens, Adriana Rossetto, Kaelyn Ambert-Gonzalez, and Tayla Mar.

(This review was published on theasy.com)