The Word Begins: Rogue Machine Theatre, 7/16/11

Broadway in Israel 2011. Friday, June 17: After lunch, we loaded the bus and headed to Sahne (or Gan Hashlosha), a warm spring ranked as one of the 20 most beautiful sites in the world in Time magazine. I was less impressed than I had been with Ein Gedi, but perhaps this was because of all the trash in the water; I chose not to swim, but to wander the park and chat instead. Manny pulled me aside a couple of times: to show me a young Arab man praying beside a bus, and to point out the Jews and Arabs swimming together here. The Arab women wore their full, black burkas in the water. The place was at peace. And that was perhaps the most beautiful part of it.

The day before, F16 fighter pilots charged over the Dead Sea. But at Sahne, Arabs and Jews swam together. And in the kibbutz earlier that day, our guide Sarah told us how their kibbutz shared farming developments with their neighbors in Jordan – the use of barn animals to control rodents. These acts of negotiation and cooperation on local levels are oftentimes overlooked – and rarely, if ever, shown in the media.

Violence cuts across the walls in The Word Begins; sirens blare as iconic images of bloodshed and warfare, political figures and propaganda are projected larger than life onto the graffiti-covered set. The media continually broadcasts this reminder: we are at war.

But onstage at Rogue Machine Theatre, writer/performers Steve Connell and Sekou Andrews – in the flesh – are negotiating towards peace. If we are at war, they say, then we are at war with ourselves — because the barriers among nations, races, genders, and religions are our own constructions. Through a uniquely theatrical blend of spoken word, hip-hop, and stand-up comedy, Connell and Andrews reclaim “the word” to proclaim an invigorating and empowering humanist message.

The show’s push for social justice can verge on the didactic, but Connell and Andrews’ vignettes cut across an impressive array of issues, from racism to sexism to religion – usually with equal parts entertainment and instruction. Connell and Andrews teach the men in the audience how to woo their women with poetry: attentive, meaningful words rather than the pre-printed language on a Hallmark card. Connell parodies a white, hyper-sexualized rapper while Andrews plays a tough hip-hop star loaded with bling; these exaggerated but all-too-familiar characters are made to account for their sexist and violent rhetoric. Corwin Evans’ vibrant video design offers crisp and provocative breaks between vignettes and elevate Connell and Andrews’ poetry to a global scale.

Connell and Andrews feed off one another in a dynamic performance that continually expands and contracts in energy, sometimes holding the audience rapt in fits of laughter before moving them to awestruck thought. Under Robert Egan’s clean direction, the performers explore the expanse of the stage and the audience, keeping the crowd constantly engaged and interactive. And at the show’s heights, the feeling of “instruction” falls away, leaving pure poetry in its wake. The syncing of time in some of Connell and Andrews’ joint spoken word – requiring listening alongside speaking, miniscule negotiations of one voice against another – is an inspiring message unto itself.

“Until you imagine a better world, you cannot have it.” In The Word Begins, Steve Connell and Sekou Andrews not only imagine a better world, but create a theatrical space where that utopian imaginary can actually come into being — even if only for the span of a 90 minute show. I was inspired as much by the onstage performance as by the packed house at Rogue Machine last Saturday night: a young, diverse, artistically and politically charged community that “braved Carmageddon” to gather. In fact, the only thing lacking for me was a post-show talkback. I wanted to listen to the array of audience responses. I wanted to speak, to carry the conversation beyond the span of the show.

But that is why I had to write this review. And that is why I will likely be returning another weekend soon. Join me.

A Tale Told By An Idiot: Psittacus Productions, 8/14/10

Streamlining Macbeth and interweaving Shakespeare’s Scottish play with the Gunpowder Plot of 1605, Psittacus Productions shines a light on the exciting, experimental potential of the Los Angeles theater scene. Adapted by Robert Richmond and Louis Butelli, A Tale Told By An Idiot probes these contemporaneous acts of treason in a fascinating postmodern form.

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day

To the last syllable of recorded time,

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!

Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage

And then is heard no more: it is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing.

A Tale Told By An Idiot is a play of lights and shadows, fiction and reality, past and present. Enshrouded in darkness behind a scrim, the black-clad ensemble executes tight choreography of flashlights to illuminate each moment of the production. Designed by Dan Weingarten, the lights sometimes throw monumental shadows across the scrim, the position of the king (whether the fictional King Duncan or historical King James I) always exceeding the individual human inhabiting the role. Flashlights held tightly let the blood shine through murderous hands, and haunting daggers float through the air. The effect is incredibly filmic – and unbeknownst to the live audience, a ghostly cameraman hides inside the action every night. After catching the 8pm show on Saturday, I streamed the 10pm production online. No longer was A Tale Told By An Idiot a stage production; it was an equally (although differently) entrancing film.

A Tale Told By An Idiot thrives on fragmentation and isolation. While the camera guides one’s perspective online, lighting flashes the live audience’s attention from one part of the stage to another – from the hands of rulers engaged in deep discussion, to the witches’ spidery fingers creeping up the wall, to bare feet tottering across the floor. Rarely does a body stand before the audience as a full, complete being: instead, characters are incomplete – dependent upon one another for their illumination, haunting one another or supporting one another, taking one another’s lines. Amidst this ensemble effort, the isolated faces reveal stunning individual performances drawn out by director Robert Richmond. Of particular note are Lisa Carter’s compelling Lady Macbeth and Louis Butelli’s trembling Guy Fawkes. Even in masks, the twitching three witches cohere the tale with their familiar chants: I even heard a few audience members chanting along to the most memorable lines of this tale, which has become our own.

A Tale Told By An Idiot stylistically floats among graphic novel exaggerations, homespun horrors like The Blair Witch Project, and epic kung fu films with stirring (if rather unexpectedly amusing) underscoring. I look forward to Psittacus’ next innovative, multimedia collaboration. Their premiere production has already made a notable impact in LA theater, and I hope their company can sustain this refreshing ensemble experimentation.