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Fringe unhingedBoss burlesque, spiritual satire, pirate
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by NEIL BOYCE “We’re here for the first time in Eng-o-lish,” a pirate exclaims as he leaps on stage to begin Shavirez, Gypsy of the Sea. “The best part is, I don’t understand a word I’m saying!” This action-adventure from troupe Belzébrute had puppets, actors, an accordionist and a ton of props for a fun show that felt like kids’ TV. Although the swashbuckling tale of hidden treasure and revenge had promise, this pirate ship got sunk by an unsympathetic, noisy venue and a thin crowd. The translation never quite fit its actors, who often struggled with dialogue. Still, the mimed sword fight with live clashing cutlery sound effects was nice. (Studio Juste pour rire, 2109 St-Laurent) 2-Man No-Show nearly was a no-show, with barely 10 people scattered around the Petit Campus. A good crowd is the essential lifeblood of comedy, so like the pirate piece, this one suffered. Improv-y sketch comics Ken Hall and Isaac Kessler made the best of a bad situation with blockbuster movie parodies and songs about Jews and midgets. Kessler’s reenactment of Jurassic Park was a blast; his diminutive partner’s scene about courtship and marriage to a chair—including the wedding night—was also funny. Crickets chirped audibly throughout much of the rest. (Petit Campus, 57 Prince-Arthur E) When Holly Gauthier-Frankel strolled on stage in torchy attire and began to croon “That Old Devil Moon,” it was clear that a new side to an old persona was emerging. Co-written by Gauthier-Frankel and Paul Van Dyck, Miss Sugarpuss Must Die! is a Funny Girl-esque bio on the rise and fall of the burlesque diva, “baptized in a pool of greasepaint and spirit gum.” Altered and amplified from real life, it’s the story of a kid born into showbiz. As a child, she’d have dolly tea parties, swigging and serving from a giant Crown Royal bottle. Later, we’re led in the uncomfortable sing-along, “Don’t Punch Me, Mommy.” And when, at last, Miss Sugarpuss performed her burlesque, it was an undies-flying-to-the-ceiling showstopper that had her twirling and disrobing like a wonderful erotic centrifuge at maximum velocity. Among the evening’s surprises were Gauthier-Frankel’s chops as a jazz singer. Whether or not she really intends to retire her alter ego, as the musical drama alludes, she’s the highlight of the Fringe so far, and hers is the first show this year I’d say was unqualifiably great. (MAI, 3680 Jeanne-Mance) A packed house ate up Joanne Sarazen’s Jesus Jello: The Miraculous Confection at the Freestanding Room. The meandering story starts with an uptight religious family whose son faints in church, following an aerobics-level amount of sitting, standing and kneeling during the service. When he revives in the hospital and lunch arrives, he sees the face of Jesus in his gelatinous dessert. A gay couple who wish to save the misguided boy and an elderly church lady converge in the finale—or rather finales—as God intervenes (in the form of Tristan Lalla) to show us several possible endings. Sarazen tightens up the story in the end with good satirical writing and pointed observations on dysfunction. Note: bring water and a fan. The venue’s 1000% humidity rivals the Association Portugaise for most sauna-like Fringe environment. (Freestanding Room, 4324 St-Laurent, 3rd floor)
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Aussie funnyman Jon Bennett has a deeply rooted fascination with dicks. Yet it’s not actual male genitalia that gets him going. Three years ago, Bennett realized he much preferred taking pictures at angles where objects, landmarks and even people seem to sprout out of his trousers like erect schlongs. Using a slideshow of his greatest shots—prickly cactus cock, Olympic Stadium cock and asthma-inhaler cock among the standouts—he narrates his penile journey from infancy to adulthood. Thankfully, the schtick doesn’t wear thin—Bennett is a natural storyteller and will have you completely engrossed by the end of his tale about a lost flip-flop in Machu Picchu. (Mission Santa-Cruz, 60 Rachel W)
This ambitious dance/rock/opera re-telling of an Inuit folk tale has been garnering a lot of buzz for good reason. Though Ted Strauss and Justin Maxwell’s lyrics were hard to make out in the Tangente space, there’s no denying the artistry involved, and I cared where the story would take me. 
If you ever reached Chapter 18 of James Joyce’s Ulysses, you might recall its shocking filthiness. Adapted by Peter McGarry, Molly Bloom’s soliloquy is delivered with charm and gusto by Manchester’s Carly Tarett, who stood out in last year’s almost equally dirty Lysistrata, as well as The Importance of Being Earnest. This time she masterfully carries a one-woman show, breathing life, giddy lust and nostalgia into a classic character. (Mission Santa Cruz, 60 Rachel W.) |
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