Bailey’s Reviews
1 Tarentule
All afternoon on Thursday, June 6th, the sky felt pregnant with rain, waiting to give birth to a downpour. And, sure enough, it delivered. While it would have been a perfect night to curl up with a cup of tea and watch a movie from my couch, the first forays of Fringe awaited! Around 9pm, I excitedly don my raincoat and make the very wet trek through the village to The Comedy Theatre of Montreal for the 10pm showing of The Tarantula.
After purposefully stomping through a puddle with glee, I walk through the front doors and shake some rain droplets off. The lobby feels well-loved, decorated with the mementos of what appear to be improv workshops, traveling shows of past, and an art project or two. I clock the content warning at the ticket booth and wonder to myself if I’m ready for whatever this show throws at me.
The stage is set with suitcases, moving boxes, and a small insect container. As the show begins, the playwright, Patricia Légaré Eddisford, walks onto the stage in a skintight blue dress that suits her well, and tan pumps that I wouldn't want to stand in for an hour. Her stage presence is compelling and confident. Patricia, the founder of her own production company, used some real life experiences to write this show. In character, she tries to sell us, the audience, the house she’s standing in. But soon realizes she’s been there before, a long time ago. She spots the small cage and begins to retell the tale of her unintentional tangle with a tarantula.
“For ten months. Ten months! I had to live with this furry thing...”
While there are no live tarantula onstage, it sure felt like it. Patricia’s descriptions of the spider made my skin crawl. Outside of a brief rant about the way people treat Africa which struck me as completely irrelevant, the script was decent and the director, Karine-Marie Delise, knew how to convey the text powerfully.
For the first third of the show, Patricia didn’t move much, with the lights focused center stage in a white-yellow rectangle. They seemed unchanging until one moment when I felt them dim… or was I just too deeply involved? Tunnel vision? As the story became more graphic and violent, the lights changed dramatically to bright purples and oranges.
The show continued to build in intensity until the very last line. As it went to blackout, I was frozen for a moment, forgetting to clap after being shaken by the strange turn of events in the last ten minutes. (I could say more, but I’ve been asked not to reveal the show’s final turn.) The lights come up and it feels surreal. No one says anything for a while.
We know some theatre pieces are intended to make us uncomfortable and inspire change. This show fits that bill. I walked out of the theater into a light rain and found myself feeling thoughtful (and a bit sad), wondering if I’ll ever cross a tarantula in my life… again.
Nuit
With a smile on my face and a spring in my step, humming a tune to myself happily, ready to walk into another show I had very little information about. Conservatoire de musique et d'art dramatique du Québec had ample signage to lead me to Studio Jean-Valcourt after hallways, lobbies, and a few staircases. I was greeted by joyful Fringe volunteers and the sound of loud music with a bumping bass. I can barely keep from dancing as I find my seat.
As the lights dim and the show begins, onto the stage walk three queer femmes in clubbing attire - tube tops, mesh, skin tight dresses. They primp and fuss with their hair. A fourth walks in and they all stand at attention. She greets her “Bad Bitch Battalion” with a reminder of the goal (“Get free drinks!”) and rallies the war cry, “No bad bitch left behind, sir!”
What follows is a series of scenes depicting nearly every experience as a queer femme going to a party or a club including (but not limited to) obnoxious DJs, bartenders at their wit's end, the undying support of strangers in the women’s washroom (AKA “an underground bunker of self worth”), gender dysphoria, the morning after being out, and getting lost. Sophie Goyette-Hamels’ direction includes expertly executed choreography, and some fantastic facial expressions from the actors, both in and out of the musical numbers. I laugh, I cheer, I grin until my face hurts.
The transitions from scene to scene are nearly seamless, with a few recurring characters creating a through-line that leads to a satisfying finish. The lights (by Seth Thompson) are as colorful as the characters and create an atmosphere of joy. The music from Lady Charles fits each scene like a glove.
Glenys Marshall brings her characters to life, hits every move, AND plays guitar. Her impressive talent reminds me of Geena Davis: lots of mouth acting and expressive cheeks. I cackled at her delivery of the line, “I don’t know why the Crazy Frog remix did it for me…”
While shaky at times, Sarah Ivanco’s confidence is infectious, and she wows with her burlesque interlude. Her smile radiates queer joy, and you can’t help but empathize with her DJ questioning their life choices.
Mirana Rambelo seems to be losing her voice and her softer tone draws you in, making her solo pieces that much more enthralling. They play your supportive friend in varying levels of drunkness.
Meghan Burns really lets loose in their authentic dancing. It is a delight to watch them dance like no one was there. Her impression of the pricks at the club who cause issues was over the top (probably on purpose), but otherwise accurate.
I left humming my new favorite shanty, “Bartender’s Life For Me,” wanting to see the show again already. It was excellent. Whether you’re really into clubbing or you’ve only been out once, Trip the Light Theatre Collective from Ottawa has made this show for you.
Late-in-Life Lesbian
After losing track of time during a volunteer shift at the Fringe Park, I find myself in a classic Fringe experience - rushing to the next show with barely enough time (and a full bladder). According to the program, the show does not accept latecomers, so I book it down Saint Dominique to avoid the meandering foot traffic on Saint Laurent. I arrive at Petit Campus, out of breath, with one minute to spare.
The bar upstairs has a small stage perfect for an open mic night. The house has a decent amount of tables, but way too many chairs to navigate safely. I finish in the washroom as the land acknowledgement announcement plays.
Late-in-Life Lesbian is the story of Shelby Thevenot’s upbringing in a small rural town, the inherited homophobia that came with it, medical emergencies that led to epiphanies about life, bad dates, a relationship with a controlling partner, saying goodbye to what you thought you knew, and finding yourself. It’s a solo storytelling/stand-up comedy show.
Sound cues are cleverly used to represent Shelby’s inner voices. A box with a display of fake fruit sits on stage, but aside from one size comparison with a grapefruit, the other references to fruits seem forced. “I’d rather slap a juicy watermelon,” is not a turn of phrase I’ve heard used before, particularly as the punchline to a joke. The lights dim with the story as it gets heavier and grow bright again once the story lightens. With a show like this, it’s hard to tell how much of the tone came from Shelby themselves, and how much is the choice of the director, Lucy Gervais, of The Lucy Show.
Thevenot’s writing is largely based on their real life. They describe their lack of sex education (outside of “sex is penis in vagina with the goal of male ejaculation”) in adolescence as “successful brainwashing” that did not allow them to even fathom lesbian sex as a possibility. This first part of the show seems more comfortable for Thevenot, maybe more rehearsed, as they hold a steady rhythm and take a few moments to connect with the audience. The latter half of the show feels rushed, and the text trips up Thevenot a few times. After telling the frustrating tale of a strained relationship and the consequential break up, Thevenot vows to stand up for themselves and no longer placate the discomfort of others. This is empowering to hear, and among the audience there is plenty of agreement.
No longer looking as lost as they must have felt, Thevenot appeared comfortable in their slightly oversized blazer at the end of the show, loving the label “butch”. Through humor and life lessons, Thevenot validates that you can come out as queer at any age.
Edgar In The Red Room
To get out of the unpredictable rain, I ducked into Theatre D’Au’jourd’hui about 35 minutes early for the show. I see what appears to be a cast and crew waiting to be let in to set up. I wondered how behind everyone was running; I felt for them. Once they have permission, they rush into the theater.
As the minutes tick by, the lobby becomes crowded, with every sitting place occupied. I ponder how many people came because they knew the works of Poe. Between the goths, the older women, and the other Fringe artists, it's hard to tell. It is opening night and the audience is abuzz.
At 14 minutes until showtime, we are let into the house. On stage right there is a small band nestled in between the wings, a standing projection screen upstage center, and a large door on wheels downstage left, making the space feel entirely different from when seeing 666!, with no major set pieces.
As the lights dim, Patrick Burke walks on as ‘The Writer” and his opening lines are repeatedly interrupted by the keyboardist. Hmmm. Then we start seeing double as Carly Nicolai also comes on as “The Writer.” A Marx brothers-esque chase scene ensues in the flavor of Poe’s prose to the tune of… wait. And they are singing it? I was expecting a ‘macabre cabaret’ to have some music, but I had not predicted it would be a musical. Doing a Fringe show is already chaotic enough - the cast and crew of Edgar in the Red Room won mad respect from me by being able to pull off acting, singing, choreography, and moving scenery on a small stage all at once. And I haven’t even mentioned the shadow puppetry yet!
Our Writer, mourning the death of his beloved, is invited to the House of Usher by a desperately lonely Roderick Usher (played by Aidan McKenna) where the two (three?) are haunted by Woman in Black (Maya June Dwyer) and Woman in White (Kylee Galarneau). The two latter are the driving force behind the dizzying last 10 minutes, where all hell breaks loose and the audience is asked to question “does creating something really make us ‘someone’?”
Matt Chiorini and Greg Giovanini dream big in writing this show, and it paid off. Under Chiorini’s stage direction and Giovanini’s music direction, the cast/crew were a well-oiled machine, hitting every emotional note and every technical cue. Delightfully detailed shadow puppets, designed by Lindsey Voorhees, add texture and richness, keeping me entranced.
Burke delivers crazed genius going through withdrawal while Nicolai embodies confused tortured soul with a heartfelt singing voice. McKenna’s “Indubitably, Indisputably, Irrefutably” feels lackluster, but his comedic timing is on point. Dwyer’s greatest feat is making their raven wings seem to actually flutter, while Galarneau gave a great ethereal Anabel Lee.
Overall, this show was flippin’ impressive - as a comprehensive compilation of Poe’s work and as a testament to what’s possible on the small stage with dedication, dreams, and a dash of madness.
666!
Have you ever wondered what it was like to live through the Satanic Panic of the 80’s?
Or did you live through the terror and increasingly insane news coverage?
Either way, this show is for you.
I am looking forward to seeing a show at Théâtre d'Aujourd'hui for the first time, and once I enter the black box performance space, the comfortable-looking blue chairs and red mood lighting tell me I am in for a treat. With the first row taped off, the very thin barrier between audience and performer is exciting to me. The pre-show announcement gives a content warning and detailed list of the possibly triggering stimuli.
From the opening on a satanic ritual gone hilariously wrong, the tone is set. Newcasts tie the scenes together as we follow Alice, a Christian woman slowly descending into a panic over seeing the devil and having sinful urges. She is visited by Satan themselves, in a chase scene, a drag number, and a late night talk show broadcast. ‘Funny drag horror theatre’ covers all the bases here.
Without any set to speak of, the lighting gives the suggestion of changing scenes, along with three uncooperative chairs, which the three actors move from place to place (intentionally, or by tripping on them). It is clear that this creative team works well together as the writing is cohesive, the jokes are timed delightfully, and they all have palpable chemistry.
Seth Thompson plays the newscaster/police officer/ritual participant with excellent comedic timing, even in the smallest moment, like waiting for a really long sound cue to intro their line. They ask us to consider: “Are there satanists in your schools? Your communities? Maybe even in your home?” I find myself laughing at things that aren’t supposed to be funny because Seth is THAT good.
Corrine Viau, who also wrote/produced/designed/ASM’d/translated another show at Ottawa Fringe this year, played the role of Alice. Her piercing screams are A+ horror movie quality and her ability to play the nuances of the religious trauma her character had experienced really showcase her acting skills.
Caligula, a drag and theatre artist, plays the role of Satan as a queer drag performer who alternates between being flamboyant or furious. Although their dance sequence is hindered by breaking a shoe and losing a horn, she brings the sexy to power through and keeps a clear head through the rest of the show.
[To Satan]: “You can only offer me temptation and sin.”
Satan: “No shit, that’s literally my job.”
At the end of the show, the cast takes the time to ask the Fringe artists in the audience to promote their own pieces and offer everyone free buttons.
We’ve lived through enough real-life witch hunts, so it was nice to see a show that laughs at the ridiculousness. I can only imagine that the show will get even better once they sort out the problematic shoes. Hilarious, I highly recommend you see this show.