Dawn’s Reviews
A MYSTICS JOURNEY
The concept of coincidence doesn't sit right with me. I'm not sure things can be completely random in a universe so connected that the moon moves our water, and we can palpably feel energy shifts in a room. I say this because I was lucky enough to catch the exact right show for me last weekend. My mind wandered as I sat smiling, and I realized I was only there because he had submitted to our Review Lottery, and then we picked him out of a bucket, and then when we all sat down to divide shows, I was lucky enough to get this one. Wow. But I'm stumbling ahead of myself.
Saturday afternoon, Mont Royal is pedestrian only and loving itself. Smiles, skin, sunglasses, we are in our glory. I'm taking the very short walk to O Patro Vys (a venue I've been wanting to check out), to see Tony Molesworth's A MYSTICS JOURNEY. I'm eager to see it. I'm trying to approach Fringe Shows with a blank slate, no expectations, but I have a strong feeling about this, and I endeavour to trust my gut. The promo material had all sorts of keywords that spoke to me, including "Enligten-Tainment for the Magically Inclined".
In through a door I almost missed despite knowing it was there (this is a personal problem, but it is a very casual little door just plugged between two places), up a staircase where I can see the dude at the venue’s ticket desk from almost the bottom. (At what point do we acknowledge each other? Should I make eye contact? This is weird.)
The space is bigger than I expected, long and modern with a bar at the back, sound panels on the wall, masquerading as decor, covered in printed textile. The stage is set with a stool in spotlight, a banjo on it, ready for its closeup, and that's all Tony needs. As he makes his way to the stage, I’m pretty proud of my instincts: his long grey hair flows down from his toque, his smile is earnest and open. He is graceful and content, and I trust him to share his wisdom.
I can't give away any of the great and well-crafted banter. What I can tell you, is that it takes a certain kind of joyful heart to make a good joke about prayer beads, and I was transcendentally tickled, to be sure. The show is an intentional and intricate piece, every moment filled with laughter, wonder, and poetry.
I'll admit that I set my notebook aside immediately. When someone is talking about the Eternal Now, it seems ridiculous to take notes. I gave myself over to the experience, gratefully, happily. And while it hit me in all the right spots, it was accessible to most people not familiar with spiritual paths. (Although, some of the poor souls in attendance were thoroughly confused. Bless their hearts.) While he told stories of his journey and ashram adventures, he did so in a catchy, fun way that can move masses. He reminded us of the things we inherently know, about our hearts, the passage of time, the dangers of letting our egos drive. This is a show to be experienced, not explained.
I could go on. I want to go on. But I've hit my word limit, and even if I hadn’t--
Sultry Sounds with Samara
It's a fab night, the sun is setting, the streets are filling up, and music is everywhere. I'm on my way to catch some R&B vibes with Sultry Sounds of Samara at Petit Campus, navigating the flow of people on St. Laurent like an improvised dance.
Stepping from the bright corridor into her stage space, the mood is immediately set. Oud incense smoke billows from a burner, the smell is evocative, enveloping, travelling in elaborate patterns to the room back, transporting me to the time of smoky bars. The lighting plays a pivotal part in setting the mood. Reds and purples wash over the stage, intimating sunsets and late nights, romance and lingering touch. The stage is carpeted, roses laid out across, prominently placed plants, and I'm transported to somewhere at some indistinct time that I've only seen in movies and paintings.
Samara is statuesque, self possessed, all eyes in the room fixate on her immediately. She's barefoot in a form fitting full length dress, conjuring torch singers and arcane power all at once. Her voice fills the room, amber honey with the power of the tides behind it. Within minutes, the crowd is cheering, swaying in time. She keeps us in the palm of her hand throughout her performance. With one note, one roll of her hips, she elicits shouts and whistles. The crowd (and it is a crowd) gives back every bit of what she's giving. The lights splay over the room, yellow, blue, and we're in some faraway club, at once nostalgic and timeless as Samara croons and scats, drawing us into her soundscape. She owns the stage, she rules the room, and she knows it. She holds us there, on the edge of our seats. Couples lean in closer together over the artificial candlelight, the cheers get louder. When she announces her final song, the audience is vocally disappointed. It's as though we've been waiting to see her live for years, and now that she's here, we're reluctant to let her go.
After the resounding response to her finale, I pause, expecting an encore, forgetting that this isn't your average concert, and Fringe schedules are rigid for everyone's benefit. As soon as I get outside I find Samara on Spotify and follow her, grateful to find such a gem of a performer. I've been telling everyone about this show, and I'm hoping to see it again if scheduling allows. Don't miss this.
Who, Me?
It's Friday night, there are theatre tickets in my purse, and I'm feeling artsy with a side of class. The street fair is on, Fringe Park is partying, and I'm on my way to the epicentre of FringeMTL, Mainline Theatre, to see Valérie Boisvert's Who, Me?. I'm not sure what to expect, but the show is billed as the journey of a woman trying to find herself while romanticizing life through fan fiction, and that's a great start.
The stage is littered with items from sunglasses to a stethoscope, and baby Yodas. As we take our seats, I realize how intimate the space is, perfect for a one woman show. I'm trying to decipher the context of the items when the lights go down. Lighting plays an important role in this piece, including marking character changes. Sometimes nearly imperceptible, sometimes drastic, the lighting enhances the depth of the piece. The play itself is an insightful exploration of aspirations versus reality in which Valérie's notebook comes to life, and she's confronted by the characters she's created. The disembodied voice of Notebook provides the vital perspective outside of the main character's own. Knowing her arguably better than she knows herself, Notebook challenges the star's own narrative. It's a wonderfully creative way to provide the opposition needed for the character's personal growth.
Written by Valérie, directed by Corbeau Sandoval and Martin Verrette, Who, Me? uses pop culture and humour as vehicles to discuss the things we rarely say out loud. Valérie embodied each character skillfully, but more importantly I felt the vulnerable honesty of her performance. It's a rare offering of personal truth that we can all relate to. She uses the space fully, and performs to all sides of the room. While occasionally speaking to us directly, for the most part we're observing the private thoughts of a woman questioning her direction and identity. It feels voyeuristic. As an audience, we're fully on board for the ride. We laugh hard, and there are waves of small, understanding noises as different moments hit different people right where they need it.
There are takeaway lessons, the ones we always mean to hang onto but forget all too quickly, and I was glad for the gift of the reminder. Don't let perfect get in the way of good. The grass isn't greener "over there", it's just a different shade of also-green.
Last year Valérie Boisvert was nominated for Most Promising Emerging Artist at the Frankies, and while I didn't see that piece, she most certainly deserves some nominations for this one. Don't miss out. I have a hunch we'll be hearing her name more in the future.
La Ballerine Maladroite
The sun's in its glory, the sky is clear, and I'm up early, getting ready to Fringe all day!
I'm en route to catch Kristin Govers' La Ballerine Maladroite, which was a festival darling (both Fringe and otherwise) in its original English, An Awkward Ballerina. Govers painstakingly translated the piece to French, along with Suzanne Lalonde. La Ballerine Maladroite once again stars Kristin, with the original director, TJ Dawe, also returning.
Excited as I am, self doubt starts to creep in. This will be the first French play I've ever seen, and I'm confident I'll understand it all, as long it doesn't get too poetic and metaphorical.
It's also my first time watching a performance at The Conservatory, which strikes me as wild considering how close it is to my place. So close in fact, that I've voted here before, but never gotten past the lobby. The modern concrete hallway leads somewhere (certainly), but the arrows point me up a narrow nondescript staircase, and I'm worried I've taken a wrong turn and am about to end up in a bathroom (best case) or an unsuspecting person's office.
At the top of the stairs I'm met with Fringe posters, and I know I'm definitely in the right place. It should be noted that this is an accessible venue, so I know there's an elevator somewhere.
The stage setting is minimal, but intentional. An empty wheelchair sits centre stage between hand drawn numbers. These will be used as age markers, allowing Kristin to move through time, telling her stories from a specific age, before returning to centre to offer her perspective of those memories distilled through maturity. Music helps to set the tone, era specific songs playing along with her anecdotes, allowing us to quickly be immersed in the scene she's describing. Lighting accentuates the most pivotal moments, turning off briefly, changing colours as she moves through time.
While the piece was created as a very personal narrative to bring awareness to cerebral palsy, there are universal themes here too: the tension between encouragement and setting false hopes, the fact that no one can be good at everything, and that that's ok. I came away with the message that while our lives might not take the paths we'd wished for, they can still be full of love, joy, and satisfaction.
The language is accessible, and I encourage unsure Anglos to give it a whirl.
Alright: Solving The Problem of Living
Not only have I never been to The Comedy Theatre before, I've never heard of The Comedy Theatre before. Inside there are red walls, one mostly covered with black drapes, the top third of that wall is painted with a dreamy cloudy sky, either Dusk or Dawn, who's to say. Dining chairs (or conference hall chairs?) are set up in neat rows. There's enough space between them that no one has to shuffle awkwardly to pass others, and still there are more seats here than any other venue I've visited during the festival. It also houses the most expansive raised stage I've seen in Fringe. As people are filing in, mingling, grabbing drinks, the stage is stark, a simple wooden chair sits at centre stage, empty. The soft wash of purple light is a cold shade, verging on blue.
Nisha Coleman comes on stage and takes the seat. She's wearing a t-shirt with jeans cuffed over her 8-hole Docs. She opens by saying that she is "a true life storyteller", so if we see her out in the real world, the only question we don't have to ask is "how much of the show was true?", because all of it is.
And then, she launched into her story. As with any good story that can keep you enthralled for an hour, it's actually a bunch of stories, carefully crafted into a beautiful whole. She is a natural on stage, not playing a character, simply sharing her life, Nisha sounds unscripted in the best way. It's as though she is really sitting with us, as friends, and telling her tale. She is unpretentious, and hilarious. The move from tears to laughter happened so quickly that at one point I blew a snot bubble caught between the two. I don't say this lightly, it was not flattering. But my heart was happy. And touched. And also sad on spots, but hopeful in the end.
I don't want to spoil it: I want you to see it so you can also feel this feeling. It's this thing we know and keep forgetting: this life is a bit of a shit show. There are no straight lines, no cake walks, but God, there's so much joy. There are stars in the night sky piercing through the black velvet night, and if we focus on them rather than the darkness, we might yet be alright.
Treat yourself. It's cheaper than therapy.
