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Theater:Gonzo: A Brutal Chrysalis and More
Posted by Perry Tannenbaum

Thu, Sep 1, 2011

Creative Loafing CLOG

Among local performers, Simon Donoghue and James Cartee are as different as it gets. So it wasn’t surprising that, in their recent one-man shows, the two actors took on wildly different historical figures. Last week at Belmont Abbey, the urbane and understated Donoghue portrayed Renaissance philosopher and politician Sir Thomas More. A week earlier, the frenetic and over-the-top Cartee completed a weeklong stint as the gin guzzling, pill popping, firearm-hoarding firebrand of gonzo journalism, Hunter S. Thompson — against the back wall of The Mill, that lovable NoDa dive.

What a perfect spot for Gonzo: A Brutal Chrysalis, Paul Addis’s sputtering, splenetic tribute to an obviously kindred spirit. I’d seen Cartee’s shtick in its previous 2009 incarnation at The Graduate. Then as now, the production in Plaza-Midwood was directed by that grizzled master of subtlety, Tom Ollis, an old hand at trashing typewriters since his True West days. This time around, people besides Ollis and me were in attendance as Cartee popped pills, swilled various simulations of ethanol, brandished firearms, and trashed his little stage, including a hapless Selectric.

Instead of the somewhat forced laughter I encountered in 2009, from Ollis and other Citizens of the Universe partisans who were manning the crude electronics — rudimentary electronics are a COTU badge of honor — there was plenty of lusty spontaneous laughter at The Mill, spurring Cartee on to funnier, more outrageous excesses. The approval also had a gradual mellowing effect on Cartee, so that more of Hunter’s fantastical ramblings were actually intelligible during Act 2, slowed down from blinding roadrunner speed to that of a creature less hunted.

In Thompson’s signature self-absorbed style, Gonzo takes us through the misadventures of his early career, dropping us off before his famed takedowns of the war on drugs in Las Vegas and the ’72 presidential campaign. So we hear about his sojourn with the Hell’s Angels, his beating at the hands of the jackboots at the ’68 Democratic Convention in Chicago, his quixotic run for sheriff in Aspen, Colorado, and the improbable triumph of his scribblings on the 1970 Kentucky Derby. That’s about halfway through a hard-drinking, loud-revving life that ended in 2005 with a self-inflicted gunshot to the head.

If the COTU guerillas revive it, The Mill will remain the ideal place for the booze, the bluster, the cigarette holder, and the whole Hunter mishegoss. Reconnoitering the area near the N. Davidson-36th Street intersection during the intermission, I discovered posters on walls and in nearby shop windows ballyhooing Gonzo in an apt Bohemian style. Eureka! Somewhere in Charlotte, of all places, theater was happening like a grassroots community event. So the city isn’t running entirely on barcodes, plastic, and ATMs.

Cut to the Tower of London in 1535, where Donoghue as Sir Thomas addresses us with full monastic solemnity on the final morning of his life prior to his beheading. It’s just 400 years before Pope Pius XI will confer sainthood on the martyred champion of the Roman Catholic Church, so the man could use a stiff drink. But the “man for all seasons” didn’t cope with the vicissitudes of life — or literary composition — by turning to chemicals as Thompson would.

Or at least he doesn’t in Donoghue’s account, for Donoghue wrote More with the blessing of the Thomas More Scholars of Belmont Abbey College. While there are plenty of signs of More’s intelligence and wit, including some of his more familiar bon mots, the language is cold sober, devoid of expletives or startling expostulations, with frequent denunciations of heretics and expressions of piety — as there should be, since he is on the verge of dying for them.

The non-gonzo aspects of More’s style make for some dreary sledding in Act 1 as we hear about his study and practice of law, his first forays into politics and diplomacy, the acclaim bestowed upon him as author of Utopia, his disputations with Martin Luther, and his rise to the exalted — and dangerous — position of Lord Chancellor during the reign of Henry VIII. Intermission leaves us on the precipice of the “Great Matter,” Henry’s desire to annul his marriage to Queen Catherine and marry Anne Boleyn, so he can sire a male heir to his throne. One huge obstacle lies in the king’s path: the Roman Catholic Church must approve.

So Act 2 perks up considerably as More’s loyalty to his king and loyalty to his church and conscience become more and more contradictory. Sir Thomas attempted to walk a tightrope after resigning the chancellorship, refusing to sign the Act of Succession endorsing Queen Anne’s children as Henry’s heirs yet never denouncing the king’s divorce or his formation of the Anglican Church. But how many queens would Henry go on to imprison and decapitate? You knew things weren’t going to go well for Thomas if he stuck to his guns.

Donoghue won a Creative Loafing Charlotte Theater Award for his contribution to A Man for All Season when Charlotte Rep presented Robert Bolt’s drama as the first show ever at Booth Playhouse in 1992, but that was merely a cameo. Under some deft direction by Jill Bloede, Donoghue was more fully in the spotlight revisiting More’s tragic demise, and once again he shone.

I’m betting that Donoghue and his one-man show will surface again in the near future, outside the Abbey. With its minimal set and lighting by Gary Sivak, More should travel light. Just not to The Mill.

GONZO: A BRUTAL CHRYSALIS
Written by Paul Addis
Directed by Tom Ollis
Citizens of the Universe at The Mill
August 10 - 12, 14, 15 - 17, 2011

Many of us are nostalgic for the Sixties era, whether we lived then or not. James Cartee's one-man show, portraying gonzo journalist and novelist Hunter S. Thompson, presents various comparative points between our time and that era, beating the drum of history for 90 passionate minutes.

An American flag forms the backdrop for the small set, with a desk onstage, typewriter, phone, newspapers, pill bottles, carafe, shot glass, and pistols, much of which goes to the floor during the show. Cartee is a whirlwind of energy, often changing moods, shirts, and hats, though perhaps peaking too early with his outrage at society and challenges to his audience. And yet, he portrays many poignant points in his character's story, while tearing up the stage and interacting with his imagined readers beyond it.

The play covers the years 1968-70, and also represents Thompson's suicide in 2005 at the age of 67. The character explains his gonzo attitude for getting at the heart of a story by throwing himself into it, blurring the lines between non-fiction, fiction, and political activism. Likewise, Cartee throws himself into the role, showing Thompson's personal and professional battles.

Thompson tells about the birth of his son, but also how he and his wife lost several other pregnancies. He reenacts his private interview with Richard Nixon in the back of a limousine, showing both sympathy and hatred for this political nemesis. Thompson evokes Mayor Daly's brutal "army of cops" at the 1968 Democratic National Convention in Chicago, where he was beaten along with others in the crowd. He describes the seductive edges of insanity, alienation, intoxication, and political provocation—recounting his wife's miscarriages, his articles being banned, his drug use (with speed as a safer "pick me up" than acid), and his leadership of the "Freak Power" party in his run for Sheriff of a Colorado county.

Thompson criticizes liberals as being too comfortable to fight for "fundamental and necessary change." In a similar way, Cartee offers a disturbing portrayal of this famous character from the Sixties. His Hunter S. Thompson is funny and scary, creative and destructive, while representing the truth-seeking, revolutionary idealism of the Sixties and its bad-trip dangers. Review by Mark Pizzato

Mark Pizzato is Professor of Theatre at UNC-Charlotte and author of Ghosts of Theatre and Cinema in the Brain, Theatres of Human Sacrifice, and Inner Theatres of Good and Evil. His plays have been published by Aran Press and his screenplays, produced as short films, have won New York Film Festival and Minnesota Community Television awards.

A grungy royal wedding: The Princess Bride
By Perry Tannenbaum

Since its humble beginnings in a backroom at The Graduate with Gonzo: A Brutal Chrysalis just over two years ago, James Cartee's Citizens of the Universe has prowled around the Plaza Midwood area, spreading the company's deliciously conflicted dogma. They've presented quixotically ambitious projects in the grungiest locales — Reservoir Dogs in a Bohemian studio off 10th Street and Fight Club in a parking lot off Central Avenue. Up the road at Story Slam, where they found shelter until the whole shebang was disgorged back in January, they veered from the streetwise grittiness of Trainspotting to the pastoral elegance of Uncle Vanya.

To the questions are you brutal or pretentious, punk or poetic, crass or crusading, Cartee and his COTU guerrillas have always answered yes.

Now in the wake of the Story Slam blowup, COTU is staging an amazing resurrection — in the shadow of the Time Warner Cable Arena. Yes, the two-year-old guerilla group has ventured out of its Plaza Midwood cradle, presenting William Goldman's The Princess Bride at The Breakfast Club in a stage adaptation by Johnathan Fourniadis of the screenplay.

Breakfast Club isn't the shabbiest joint in the Uptown, but surrounded last Thursday by nearly vacant parking lots sporting absurd $15 and $20 signs in anticipation of the NCAA regionals the following night, the three-story nightclub boasted formidable eyesore credentials. We steeled ourselves with medieval courage and parked as close as we could to the front entrance, which faces away from N. Caldwell Street. Go ahead and fearlessly do the same, for we gratefully learned that Breakfast Club covers the parking tab — even when some stooge leaves a citation on your windshield.

More pleasant is the surprise when you climb the clanging outdoor staircase to Breakfast Club's second level. OK, you may still think it's a dive once you're inside, but it's marvelously apt for the rough magic Cartee and his co-director Mimi Harkness seek to create. There's an overhanging balcony that serves beautifully for the evil Prince Humperdinck's wedding to our darling Buttercup and for assorted royal proclamations.

There is vast interior space, minimizing set changes when we trek from Buttercup's homely homestead to the Cliffs of Insanity and from there to the Fire Swamp — or when Buttercup's true love Westley is finally imprisoned and tortured on The Machine. Even our storyteller and his pesky audience, Grand Dad and Grand Kid, have their own little nook where they can camp out and occasionally interact with the fairy tale protagonists — particularly when Buttercup and Westley presume to smooch.

Suzi Hartness contributes a marvelous set of costumes, from the dwarf brigand Vizzini up to the Turkish giant Fezzik, with plenty of royals, lackeys, tramps and swashbucklers in between. But the real reason this is such a technical apotheosis for COTU is that we see Cartee ensconced in a soundbooth running light and sound cues with electrical equipment actually designed for that purpose, instead of his customary car headlights and kitchen utensils.

Cartee always overachieves in attracting artistic and acting talent, so the cast will likely blow you away most of the time. A Tarradiddle mainstay at Children's Theatre, Lesley Anne Giles knows exactly how to tilt the title character toward an adult audience, but Thorin Thompson is still a work-in-progress as Buttercup's beleaguered lover Westley, acting with dashing credibility but needing to pump up the volume to full theater level.

They're supported alarmingly well, with impressive debuts from Errol Sulleyman as the priggish barbarian Humperdinck and Dominick Weaver as the six-fingered Count Rugan. One unexpected chink in the solid armor is Berry Newkirk as fencing master Inigo, his Spanish accent often an impenetrable thicket. Comically upstaging everyone, David G. Holland and Poppy Prittchit wear tons of makeup and costume, doubling as Humperdinck's doddering royal parents and their lowliest subjects, Miracle Max and spouse.

Princely fun.

THE PRINCESS BRIDE
By William Goldman
Adapted for the stage by Johnathan Fourniadis
Directed by James Cartee & Mimi Harkness
Citizens of the Universe
The Breakfast Club
March 16 – 27, 2011

How can you not like The Princess Bride? And how can you not appreciate Citizens of the Universe for taking chances, and coming up with unexpected venues. In this case it is The Breakfast Club, a bar/dance club in uptown Charlotte. As COTU has proven before, you can do theatre anywhere as long as you have actors, directors, and audience. Oh yes, and a first-rate script. William Goldman’s satirical fairy tale is a favorite of many and with good reason.

Buttercup orders around Farm Boy until she realizes that she loves him as much as he loves her. He sets off to make his fortune so they can marry, but when she learns he’s been killed, she begrudgingly agrees to marry Prince Humperdinck. There are the pirates, a giant, double-crosses, human-sized rats, and the snappy, wonderful dialogue you remember.

One drawback with such a familiar story is that the movie has been shown over and over on television. You have to try and leave comparisons behind, because on stage, in this venue, it just can’t possibly have the expensive production values, or camera tricks of a film. Yet directors James Cartee and Mimi Harkness make the most of the second floor area which has numerous openings, doorways, and levels where actors make entrances and exits.

Off to one side Grand Dad (Ted Delorme, solid as usual), and Grand Kid (Abigail Olsen, sufficiently pouty), engage in the book reading/storytelling of The Princess Bride. A nice touch is when Grand Kid has some long distance interaction with the characters. Leslie Anne Giles is perfectly cast as the pretty, feisty Buttercup. Her love Westley is played by Thorin Thompson who certainly looks the part, but the audience strains to hear him at times. This is not uncommon for those who work in film, then come to the stage. (Mr. Thompson has produced and directed a film in Charlotte recently.) Errol Sulleyman brings just the right energy to the effete Prince Humperdinck.

One of the highlights of the show is when Miracle Max (David G. Holland) and Valerie (Poppy Prittchit) revive the tortured Westley who is only mostly dead. They are over-the-top hilarious, and every bit as good as the originals, and that’s saying a lot. Joel Summer adds laugh-out-loud bits as Vizzini/The Albino/The Distinguished Clergyman. Berry Newkirk admirably stays in character with accent as the sullen Inigo Montoya out to avenge his father’s killer. Ian Fermy, Dominick Weaver, and Russell Bennet, Jr. round out the cast with their contributions to the zaniness.

Technical elements are challenging in this space, but Charles Holmes does an excellent job as fight director with the actors wielding their weapons well and in synch with each other. Suzi Hartness is also to be commended for the colorful costumes.

The acoustics are not the best, and the night of the performance was an unusually warm evening that made it somewhat uncomfortable. Yet, Citizens of the Universe is the closest thing Charlotte has to avant-garde theatre. It’s not perfect, and in its imperfections we are shown why it can be so much fun to suspend your disbelief. I hope theatre fans will come out and support this production. You may find out why, with all the hard work and limited rewards, so many have an appreciation for live theatre. Review by Ann Marie Oliva

Ann Marie Oliva is an award-winning local playwright with productions across the United States, a published fiction and non-fiction writer, and reviewer. She is the producer/editor of ARTS à la Mode and a judge for the National Youth Theatre Awards. Ann Marie is a member of the Dramatists Guild of America.

Not a COTU review, but I thought to add it.

Future unclear for Story Slam
By Perry Tannenbaum

The scene at 1401 Central Ave. lacks its usual bustle. Charlotte's prince of gels, Eric Winkenwerder, has hauled away all the lighting equipment from the Story Slam Arts Center. Jimmy Cartee, the gonzo leader of the guerilla Citizens of the Universe theater company, has been carting off the stage, the set for an upcoming production, and sundry Slam viscera in his trusty pickup truck and distributing them to various holding sites around town.

"Yeah, it looks so sad here now," says Bob Nulf, the stalwart spokesman for Slam's administrative team. "What we've seen as the new theater district in Charlotte seems to have a cold, and I hope it's not the plague."

When Slam couldn't meet its monthly rent — $3,000 for its lobby, makeshift theater, and suite of offices in Plaza Midwood — property owners John Rudolph and Herman Moore gave the occupants 30 days to vacate. There are no hard feelings on either side (Rudolph and Moore are, in fact, fans of the enterprise) and plenty of pride in the variety of artistic activities that have slammed into the 1401 storefront: theater, music, readings, rehearsals, and the inimitable Dr. Sketchy, a wild gumbo of art studio and burlesque.

The place has been humming for 15 straight months, every week and every weekend. In theater alone, the output has included Cartee's COTU (ranging from Uncle Vanya to Trainspotting), workshops by the esteemed Machine Theatre, and the astonishing PlayPlay for toddlers, which leapt from Central Avenue to Spirit Square with a jubilant Wee last month. Slam's shutdown occurs six weeks before COTU's A Quiet Evening With Sid and Nancy is scheduled to open for Valentine's Day.

Nulf still hopes that will happen. In fact, he and Mark Woods — founder of NC Shakespeare, former producing director at Charlotte Rep, and Slam's founder/acknowledged Vision Keeper — are vowing that Story Slam has more life in it. If not at 1401 Central, then somewhere else.

"From my perspective," Woods insists, "we only have one choice, and that is to continue. I've said from the very beginning, in front of every audience I've been in front of, 'We don't know what we're doing.' Six months into the process, it became pretty clear to us what we're supposed to do."

He brought a cartload of playscripts and movie scripts from his New River Dramatists project up in Healing Springs to the table and invited the Charlotte arts community to make Story Slam their front porch. The results have been amazing — even to Woods, who labels Slam one of the most extraordinary wake-up calls of his life.

"It never occurred to me that there were so many people out there with so many great ideas and so much passion for their ideas," Woods marvels. "I didn't know! The kind of people we've had the joy and the thrill to participate with on this journey, put them in a room together, shake it all up with PlayPlay — I'm telling you, man, it rains gold. It's a beautiful thing, and that's what we should be doing."

So Woods and Nulf, who came here back in the late '80s to be development director at Spirit Square and helped raise $1.3 million for its renovation, are rolling up their sleeves. Bringing together bankers, real estate people, architects, arts patrons and developers who can have the conversation that can put Slam on a solid footing.

Top priority for Woods and Nulf, at 1401 or at a new site, is more space. In its current 2,000-square-foot configuration, fire marshals will only allow 49 people — including the performers. That cannot generate sufficient income to pay the rent, the actors and the gas company. Blueprints have been drawn that bring down the walls at 1401 and increase seating to the 200-225 range. But again, there are other Plaza Midwood commercial sites that may be riper plums — or yield a riper deal.

"There are plenty of people out there," Woods affirms, "including John and Herman, who, under the right circumstances, might be able to make the big dream come true.".

COTU unloads the ultimate gross-out
September 22nd, 2010 by Perry Tannenbaum in Arts

I’ve been married to my dear indulgent Sue for more than 11 years and dragging her to see local theater productions for more than 12. But before last Saturday night, she never had a better reason to ask me, “How could you take me to see such shit?” For in the current Citizens of the Universe adaptation of Trainspotting, the sensational 1996 Brit flick revel in the pitfalls of heroin addiction (based on Irvine Welsh’s novel), flying shit bespatters the walls of the Story Slam performing space at the end of the opening scene. Then bookending Act 1, it comes splashing toward us, out of the nastiest toilet bowl in Scotland, just before intermission.

Fortunately, the two scenes forming this fecal sandwich are nearly as funny as they are gross, certainly among the most hilarious I’ve seen this year. Even more fortunately, director James Cartee and his guerilla chemists aren’t simulating the smells of these scenes along with the sludgy sights. Otherwise, Sue and I would have made a beeline for Central Avenue. We were courteously warned, by the playbill and Cartee’s curtain speech, that the front rows should be considered splash zones (although sewage was not mentioned), so we did retreat to the second row. Tipped off during the break that there would be no further shit in Act 2 – or I should say shite, since most of the Edinburgh folk have accents thicker than diarrhea – we returned safely to the front.

The font of all the shite spewage is our narrator/hero Mark Renton, whom we first encounter waking up in a strange bed that he has thoroughly befouled, aside from the aforementioned solids, with vomit, urine, and a sprinkle of semen. Such are the repellent degradations experienced by a truly devout junkie, and it would be cruel to divulge how Mark’s private shame hilariously and unforgettably explodes at his hosts’ breakfast table. Suffice it to say that Berry Newkirk, so scintillating last month as the mastermind in Queen City Theatre’s Rope, is every bit as perfect here and far more charming. And let’s not overlook Mark’s redeeming qualities, for it is on the road to kicking his dependency that Newkirk must muck around in that ugly, graffiti-decorated toilet. The graffiti, by set designer Diego Francico, is lavished over a scenic concept best described as urban outhouse.

It’s Stephen West-Rogers who turns this production into something of a foreign language travail without the benefit of subtitles, for I may be wildly exaggerating if I claim to have understood 40% of the slang-infested brogue he speaks as Francis Begbie, Mark’s best bud. Still the violent vehemence of this obviously cynical and embittered young man needs no translation, and West-Rogers is mercifully intelligible in his other six roles.

Everyone else in the cast has at least three different roles as this picaresque kaleidoscope unfolds. Joel Sumner is the most affecting as Tommy, the clean-cut friend who too easily persuades Mark to cook up his first dose of smack – and is a totally lost soul from that moment on. Chris Freeman is most memorable as Johnny Swan, the déclassé local drug dealer who isn’t above it all.

Women have lesser roles here – we are back in the 80s, after all – but they can be vivid nonetheless. This is especially true for Mimi Harkness, who is an abused girlfriend, a battered wife, and perhaps most indelibly, a stoned dominatrix among her seven incarnations. Kaddie Sharpe is quite capable as a couple of the girlfriends we encounter along the way, including the one whose home Mark wakes up in at the start, but she’s not the sensation she was last year in Fight Club. On the other hand, Jenny Wright is haunting as Allison, a rather criminally unfit mother – to us and to Mark, who hallucinates about Allison’s dead baby in the throes of withdrawal.

A top 10 film in BFI’s list of the 100 best Brit flicks of the 20th Century, Trainspotting wasn’t exactly drawing a sellout crowd at Story Slam last Saturday night when we went. So this week, they’re reducing tickets to $10. At that price, you’ve got to see this shit.

TRAINSPOTTING
Based on the novel by Irvine Welsh
Adapted for the stage by Harry Gibson
Directed by James Cartee
Citizens of the Universe
Story Slam
September 15-26, 2010

Based on the cult novel by Irvine Welsh which follows the lives of several young people in Leith, Edinburg all of whom are either addicted to heroin or whose lives revolve around others with such addictions, Trainspotting is a energetic, obscene, sometimes poignant evening. Set in the 1980s, the play revels in the lowest levels of humanity. No bodily function is off limits and any fluid that can be emitted by the male or female body is referred to at least once. Usually this is to good effect, and some good laughs are created by taking the audience to the edge of their comfort level and beyond. Still, with scene after scene after scene of depravity one begins to wish for a little something more. Welsh’s novel both celebrates and lampoons the disaffected youth of 1980s Scotland.

The play makes some attempt at touting redemption, but this seems perfunctory. It is clear the play, like the novel, is more interested in shocking us than in truly examining these lost souls. Still, despite all of this, its youthful, angry, anti-establishment, rant is heartfelt and effective it just never really adds up to anything concrete. So should you see this morally ambiguous mess? Yes, absolutely! Citizens of the Universe‘s production is so sincere, so devoid of self importance or snobbery, that it takes what is essentially an aging hipster’s wet dream and transforms it into a sad riff on the seductive trap of addiction.

The ensemble, though uneven, does a nice job of projecting the too-cool-for-life sentiment of the heroin chic. Accents are handled well-enough and Stephen West-Rogers’ homage to Sean Connery in one brief scene gets a well-deserved laugh. Berry Newkirk, last seen in Queen City’s Rope gets more opportunities to emote here as Mark. His character tries to be good despite the lack of anything for him to live for. He slowly becomes aware of the sinking ship he and his friends are on, and eventually tries to save himself. Newkirk conveys all of this nicely. Jenny Wright holds her own against the depravity of the men in this ensemble, able to shock as well as the best of them, but still finding some small moments of reflection and tenderness. Stephen West-Rogers does well as Begbie (and others) and is perhaps the best at the thick dialects which forms the core of one quite humorous monologue. For the most part the cast is quite good and it is clear all are quite committed to this production. Every now and then you see an ensemble that feels more like you’re watching the members of some indie punk rock band than an acting troupe, that’s what I felt here!

Special mention must be made of Diego Francica’s phenomenal set. Setting the play in a men’s room is inspired and appropriate. The wall-to-wall mural of Bread and Water also enhances the nihilistic environment. The minimal lighting equipment is put to good use by Eric Winkenwerder. Though I like the use of original music, some preshow music and other choices were confusing to me. Though the text of the play seems set very clearly in the eighties with its mention of AIDS as a certain death sentence, the music is quite contemporary. Another minor quibble—no mention in the program (unless its in the microscopic print at the bottom which no one can read) is made of this being based on the novel of the same name nor of the author Irvine Welsh. Its clear that COTU celebrates the arts and the artist, and I imagine this slight was certainly unintentional.

When I attended on Friday night, the crowd was small but appreciative. I hope people will find the time to support this exciting theatre troupe. Like Queen City Theatre, COTU has a strong identity and a clear mission, I hope they can find the large audiences they deserve. Trainspotting is good, shocking fun. So leave grandma and the kids at home and head out to Story Slam! Review by Tim Baxter-Ferguson

Tim Baxter-Ferguson is an associate professor of Theatre at Limestone College and Chair of that program. He has had his plays produced throughout the United States and Canada.

Trainspotting Review
by Colby Davis on Wednesday, September 15, 2010 at 2:35am
Choose This Show
by Colby Davis

I did not see Trainspotting when it was first produced here in Charlotte by the Citizen's of the Universe, nor have I read the novel it is based on. I hear there is an Alec Guinness movie as well. I’ll have to check that out. As virgin as my experience was to this rollercoaster of disgusting hilarity, I knew it involved one thing at least: Heroin. That’s it. Well, there are a lot of things that come to mind when you think of heroin. Things like spoons, needles, rubber bands, and even HIV. But what the common junkie doesn’t grasp a hold of is clearly portrayed by Jimmy Cartee’s Scatpack. Choose life, because the antithesis is an oxymoronic disillusioned reality of peaks and valleys. Even when someone does “choose life” they still have to account for their past decisions. Decisions that would haunt normal people, but who needs reasons when you have heroin?

I was impressed at how the show, almost simultaneously, made me want to gag and laugh at the same time. There were multiple times when, I warn those faint of stomach, I embarrassed myself trying to keep from throwing up. I say embarrassed because I didn’t want to take away from what was going onstage. “Just think of it as oatmeal and chocolate syrup”, another show seer said to me. I was not able to. The show sucked me in like blood in a syringe and shot me up with dose after dose of brutal, raw, uncensored glory. Censoring this show is akin to digitally putting Jabba back in to the original Star Wars film. Don’t do it!

The cast was a fantastic ensemble, changing hats and wigs at a whim, and always bold with their characters. Berry Newkirk leads the group as the main protagonist of the story and brings you along his journey from smack, rehab, and everywhere in between and after. He only leaves this character for a brief…ummmm…period...during in which he plays an out of towner at a local pub. The bar maiden, Jenny Wright, uses her sex to her advantage in a scene I will not soon forget. Joel Sumner and Stephen West Rogers both are as hilarious as they are threateningly present. The rest of the cast, Chris Freeman, Mimi Harkness, and Kaddie Sharpe have fantastically sexy and sadistic cameos that leave you wanting for more. I’m relapsing as I type.

The set is beautiful. Black walls with art you might see tagged on any poor building in Charlotte. Three bathroom stalls are the main coming and goings for the characters, props, and effects. Fitting with the themes in the piece, the toilets to me are gateways to possibilities. All throughout, the negativity of the material world is flushed away by the monologues of tempted youths. The show does a great job at showing you what it truly means to be in a fully orgasmic state of mind, but is keen on focusing more on the horrors of its aftermath. Some get a chance to move on, hooray. Some don’t, ah well. But for any theatre goer with a brain open to fantastic storytelling, this won’t be so easy to get over.

Theater review: Uncle Vanya
Published 05.18.10
By Perry Tannenbaum
 

With the Fed and BP expecting all us media folk to cool it for awhile on oil-and-water analogies, let me say that the artistic affinity I expected between director James Cartee and the Russian czar of tragicomedy, Anton Chekhov, to be no closer than chalk and cheese. The prospect of Cartee and the fight-club, reservoir-dog guerillas who populate his Citizens of the Universe tackling Uncle Vanya certainly didn't galvanize the COTU company's fanbase, judging by the turnout at Story Slam for last Friday's late-night performance.

As it turns out, the friction between Cartee's hellbent approach to theatre and Chekhov's legendary subtlety proves to be rather fruitful. Instead of fussing with exquisite balances or emphasizing the protagonists' poignant missed opportunities, Cartee glorifies the eccentricities of Chekhov's characters and the comedy. Rather than reminding us of the glowing bittersweetness we find in Chekhov's other masterworks -- The Cherry Orchard, The Three Sisters, and The Seagull -- this Vanya tends to evoke the outrageous absurdities we find in such one-act farces as "The Bear" and "A Marriage Proposal."

Keying the shift from subtlety to absurdity is Colby Davis, wearing his heart and entrails on his sleeve as he bellows the hurts, the frustrations, and the hypochondria of Vanya between slurps from a whisky flask. He has adored Yelena Serebryakov for years, but she is married to a far older man, The Professor, whose scholarly pretensions Vanya has financed since the days of Prof. Serebryakov's prior marriage to Vanya's sister. Besides, Yelena is piously devoted to her decrepit Professor and far more attracted to the busy family doctor, Astrov. The visiting Professor's daughter, who manages the estate with Vanya, has been carrying a torch for Astrov that burns no less brightly than Vanya's for Yelena.

It's complicated.

Nobody else is quite as high-energy as Davis, but the eccentricity among other key characters is layered so thick that this drama-queen Vanya isn't anything close to a total misfit. As the Professor, Jim Esposito parades onto the stage from the Slam lobby with all the ostentation of a Roman Caesar and presides over his sickroom like a spoiled sultan. Studded with enough face and tongue jewelry to outglitter Liberace, Zannah Kimbrel rubs against Sonia's desire to transcend her physical plainness with a funky Central Avenue ferocity. And with outré props and costuming by Cartee, Charlotte Hampton as Vanya's mother hardly even dabbles in sanity. As for the impoverished landowner Telegin, we get a free-range interpretation as Cartee lets James Lee Walker III play his harmonica.

The COTU guerilla swagger is there from the outset. Off to one side of the Story Slam platform, Davis is half-buried on a couch as Vanya sleeps off his latest binge. On the other side, Cartee mans the rudimentary sound system, cuing the occasional cricket while clad in a greatcoat that could very well have been ripped off the back of a true Russian wino.

While Annette Saunders doesn't pass for 27 as Yelena, she has all the starchy devotion to the Professor you could ask, and there's enough allure left to warrant Vanya's adoration. She is aptly paired with Lou Delassadro as Astrov, who turns out to have more than a medical interest in Yelena's well-being. With Saunders and Delassandro, the tender romantic heart of Chekhov and the elegant demeanor are preserved.

Unsettling for the Stanislavsky purists, but great fun.

UNCLE VANYA
by Anton Chekhov
directed by James Cartee
Citizens of the Universe
StorySlam
May 15-22, 2010

Citizens of the Universe, a Charlotte company that often acts out movies onstage, has committed another sacrilege. As they must know, Chekhov is sacred to many theatre artists, because Konstantin Stanislavski honed his realistic acting "method" on Chekhov's tragicomedies. And that method, in various American forms, permeates most of theatre and film acting today. But COTU has turned Chekhov's esteemed Uncle Vanya into a Saturday Night Live satire—making it outrageously funny, at least at first.

Chekhov insisted that his plays (about the foolish, passionate, self-sabotaging upper-class and their servants in rural Russia over a century ago) were comedies, though Stanislavski and later directors have tended to focus on the tragic elements. With this production, Cartee pushes Chekhov's play into Ionesco territory, finding its wild absurdities and adding more, across elite and popular, past and present cultures. The deep, complex emotions and relationships of the original become cartoonish. This may be initially entertaining, even liberating. But it then becomes tedious like a TV skit going on too long.

Lou Dalessandro, as Dr. Astrov, proves to be a handsome figure with mischievous charm, as he twists his missing mustache or teases the servants. But his passion to save a forest, to stop Vanya's suicide, or to confess his true feelings for Yelena (and against Sonya) gets lost in the translation to satire. Colby Davis puts great energy into portraying Vanya with reckless drunkenness, smarmy sorrow, and violent lust, as if being John Malkovich in revenge against Stanislavski. This evokes more sympathy for the actor, as entertainer, than for the character—especially in his crazy love of, grabbing at, and falling for Yelena. Annette Saunders as Yelena (married to the much older Professor) provides a stoic grace but does not show the twisted feelings within this character, as she poses for the gazes of various men around her, and helps or makes use of the plain-looking Sonya, who has a hopeless love for Astrov.

Likewise, the other actors fit the director's concept well, though that limits what they can do. James Lee Walker II, perhaps the most mutable actor I've seen in Charlotte, gives new meanings to Telegin, who is also known as "Waffles," due to his acne. Walker brings smooth black skin, big smiles, harmonica playing, and pick-pocketing to his trickster turns. Jim Esposito, as the Professor, gives a grotesque mirror to those of us who pose as knowing more than others, while our aging bodies undermine such arrogance. Caitlin Snead is absurdly young to play the old nanny, Marina, but that fits here, too. Zannah Kimbrel has studs in her lower lip, as Sonya (the Professor's daughter), perhaps connecting her motherless plain Jane to our time. And Charlotte Hampton, as Vanya's mom and Sonya's grandma, Maman, reads a big book entitled The Liberated Woman, pulls smaller books from her bosom, and reads steamy scenes from an Anne Rice novel during the scene changes.

The small Story Slam stage allows for two to three acting areas with minimal furniture. Prerecorded Russian music offers stirring spirits, more authentic than the show. (The night I went, Virgo Musik also provided a wonderfully lively hour of new American songs, with acoustic guitar and violin, prior to Vanya. I especially enjoyed the ghost ballads and the love-crush tango.) But a bill comes due from Stanislavki near the play's end—added by the director, as if admitting the guilty pleasures here, with a classic tragicomedy trimmed and twisted into soap opera. Review by Mark Pizzato

Mark Pizzato is Professor of Theatre at UNC-Charlotte and author of Ghosts of Theatre and Cinema in the Brain and Theatres of Human Sacrifice. His plays have been published by Aran Press and his screenplays, produced as short films, have won New York Film Festival and Minnesota Community Television awards.

A bouquet for Citizens of the Universe!
The last time I published a COB e-newsletter was early January, so I didn’t have the opportunity to promote the Citizens of the Universe’s production of RESERVOIR DOGS, produced and directed by James Cartee, which ran in February at Studio 1212 in Plaza Midwood. It was an impressive show with several intense performances by a cadre of fine actors, masterfully adapted from screen to stage by Cartee. My palate is hungry for these types of risky, gonzo performances in Charlotte, and COTU delivers a great meal. Not everything on the plate may be familiar and not everything is perfectly seasoned, but it’s fresh, hot, and true. Color me a fan.

And, a word about the performance space, Studio 1212, a warehouse across the street from Piedmont Middle School on 10th Street, between Intemezzo and Seigel Avenue. It promotes itself as an artist collective and studio. Personally, I’d love to see future theatrical productions in this space. I hope it will be an affordable option for independent producers looking for a cool venue.

The gunplay's the thing in Reservoir Dogs
By Perry Tannenbaum

You wouldn't want to see a stage production of Quentin Tarantino's Reservoir Dogs that left out the gunplay from the movie. So before you walk in to the current Citizens of the Universe production, you'll find a jarful of complimentary earplugs to bring in with you. As COTU's lead guerilla, director James Cartee, tells us, we don't need the protection until Act 2, but when the blood begins flowing in Act 1, it's reassuring to have that protection in your pocket as you anticipate the fireworks to come.

Like last summer's Fight Club, simply attending a COTU operation is an exotic adventure. Earliest arrivals can park in front of Studio 1212, tucked away on that portion of 10th Street that connects Central Avenue and the Innerbelt. Otherwise, a helpful dude with a flashlight guides you to parking spots across the street. Then you must circle around the long warehouse, down a gravelly alley and past an art car that looks like a Nazi nightmare.

Portions of Reservoir Dogs are even more frightful than the car, particularly in Act 2, where gunfire and torture run amok. With some misgivings, Sue and I held our ground in the front row after intermission, emerging unspattered. A sprinkling of cinematic touches, impishly projected on the rear wall by Cartee, provide welcome relief. At any rate, Sue's implantable defibrillator didn't go off.

The bungling multi-colored Reservoir Gang -- including Mr. White, Mr. Blonde, Mr. Brown, Ms. Blue, a tetchy Mr. Pink, and a profusely bleeding Mr. Orange -- are led by kingpin Joe Cabot, infused with raspy-voiced fire by David Holland. Management support comes from Joe's son, "Nice Guy" Eddie, given an effective layer of privileged superciliousness by Colby Davis.

Joe's slickly planned jewelry heist has gone spectacularly wrong, largely because, as Pink -- the thinker in the group -- has rightly surmised, there's a rat in the gang who has set them up. Even the setup flames out, when somebody sounds the alarm, and we learn that Mr. Blonde has gone berserk. In the ensuing shoot-out, a couple of colors die out of the Reservoir crayon box amid the general carnage. At least one cop has been killed, and another has been kidnapped by Blonde.

Tom Ollis lavishes a gleeful brutality upon Mr. Blonde, reaching an apex of sadism when he begins torturing his kidnap victim – not to find out who the rat is but just for the sheer joy of it. After a brief stint as the Waitress in the opening scene, Brittany Patterson completes her memorable Charlotte debut in frantic, blood-curdling style as Blonde’s victim.

That torture scene sets in motion all the falling dominoes that follow. In the end, as the borderline between good and evil begins to blur, this becomes a story of Mr. White's (Larry) paternal loyalty toward his fallen comrade, Mr. Orange (Freddie). Scott Reynolds ably projects the twisted, combative heroism of White as he becomes more and more invested in Orange's survival. For most of the production's 108-minute length, Orange is in excruciating pain, but Berry Newkirk lives credibly in this narrow, desperate range, his sufferings occasionally the wellspring of cruel, black humor.

Keep your eye on the sly opportunistic Mr. Pink, rendered by Chris Freeman with a nervous watchfulness that belies his coolheadedness under fire. Fight choreography by Kara Wooten, as well as makeup by Amanda Liles and Rebecca Brown, are well above the standards you would expect from a guerilla company scrambling for locations to perform. Set design, such as it is, horseshoes around the audience, so I'd recommend a seat on the innermost stage-left side of the house where the gang is visible at their restaurant table. Sue and I turned around, craned our necks, and caught most of the scene. But if more seats get filled this week as word of mouth spreads, sightlines could be further impaired.

Don't sweat it. Nearly all the action -- and all the blood -- is up front in this fast-paced production.

Reservoir Dogs’ bite is as good as their bark in COTU’s latest production.
By John G. Hartness
Presented by Citizens of the Universe
Studio 1212

In order for theatre to succeed, it must not be afraid to fail. If there is any one word I would use to describe Citizens of the Universe founder and director James Cartee, “fearless” is near the top of the list. From portraying psychedelic journalist Hunter S. Thompson in the one-man show GONZO: A Brutal Chrysalis to staging Fight Club in a parking lot, Cartee has quickly developed a reputation in Charlotte theatre circles as someone who’s not afraid to take chances. And in COTU’s current production, the stage version of Quentin Tarantino’s breakout film hit Reservoir Dogs, those gambles pay off handsomely.

For those unfamiliar with the film, when the director hands out earplugs at intermission, take him up on the offer. The tongue-in-cheek Cartee even reminds us of that with a video message in the middle of the act! Reservoir Dogs thrust Quentin Tarantino into the spotlight upon its debut at the box office, with the rapid-fire, often-profane dialogue raining down on moviegoers like spent shell casings on the floor of the set. The stage adaptation is amazingly faithful to the film, which is good for fans of Tarantino’s work, but rough on the production’s poor laundry crew. Anytime you estimate the stage blood usage in gallons per night, it’s going to be a wild ride.


After a brief breakfast-table chat scene, the real action of the play gets underway with the entrance of the normally unflappable Mr. White, played by a very solid Scott Reynolds, and the gutshot Mr. Orange (Berry Newkirk) into the warehouse rendezvous point after a jewel heist gone bad. Orange and White are joined throughout the play by the other members of the Crayola gang, who use colors as names to hide their identities from their cohorts throughout the planning and execution phases of the job. A distraught Mr. Pink (Chris Freeman) brings in the idea of a rat in their midst, and the psychotic Mr. Blonde (Tom Ollis) brings his own special brand of party favor for the crew.

We watch these normally professional criminals devolve quickly in the face of betrayal, death and possible incarceration, as the pressure cooker of the hideout and distrust quickly begins to take its toll. Cartee’s choice of a photo studio (Jim McGuire’s Studio 1212) as a performance venue may have been inspired by necessity, but seems simply inspired as the studio subs very nicely for an abandoned warehouse without need for much set dressing. And the dressing is minimal indeed, a few chairs, a small platform and a few props. Six lights, an LCD projector and a portable sound system are the major technical elements, and the rest of the burden is on the actors. This is no Broadway tour, with lavish sets to cover up the inadequacies of aging sitcom stars, this is in-your-face acting, without a net.

And this cast and director can handle it. From the moment the lights come up, the cast grabs your attention and doesn’t let go. Reynolds is the anchor in the whirling dervish of activity, holding center calmly and crisply throughout the night. The screaming Newkirk starts the show as a dying bag of blood (and more blood, and more blood), but in Act II takes the stage with a fantastic monologue that mixes direct address and narrative form seamlessly. Tom Ollis always has done crazy well, but this time he may have outdone himself. His Mr. Blonde was downright chilling, and there were times watching him on stage that I wondered if he might have finally tipped over the edge. His partner-in-pain, Brittany Patterson, made a great Charlotte stage debut as the doomed Jenny Nash.

An almost unrecognizable David Holland owned the room as the growly Joe Cabot whenever he was on stage and provided an excellent counterpoint to Colby Davis’ bouncy and hyperactive “Nice Guy” Eddie. But Act II belonged to James Lee Walker II, who walked in as undercover tutor Holdaway and walked off stealing every scene he was in. Walker brought a relaxed physicality and crisp characterization to the bit part of Holdaway that worked exceptionally well opposite the nervous pacing and jittery monologue of Berry Newkirk. Newkirk and Walker dominate the flashbacks of Act II, and never let go of our attention once they’ve grabbed hold. Credit Cartee with excellent casting all around, mixing theatre and improv comedy vets to create a solid ensemble.

This is not a polished production, nor is it a polished venue. The hand painted parking signs and gravel walk down a darkened alley set that stage for us early. But if you’re looking for a little of what Lou Reed walked on, then COTU’s Reservoir Dogs is for you. The language is vintage Tarantino, with plenty f-bombs and racial epithets, so leave the kiddies at home for this one. If you need valet parking for your theatre, then you’ll be better served elsewhere, but for a show with a lot of guts, some excellent performances and gallons of sheer hutzpah, you’ll definitely want to talk a walk on the wild side with these dogs.

RESERVOIR DOGS
By Quenttin Taratino
Directed by James Cartee
Citizens of the Universe
Studio 1212

It’s hard to not be taken in by the sheer ebullience of this production. This production of Reservoir Dogs is like an Andy Hardy film, only this time instead of a barn, the audience is sequestered in a hangar-like artists’ studio, but like those films, we are treated to a plucky group of performers who want nothing more than to “put on a show.”


Based on the 1992 film by Quentin Tarantino, Reservoir Dogs follows the plights of seven total strangers who have been brought together to rob a bank. The play, like the film, revels in a mix of violence, pop culture references, and an almost insufferable need to be cool. The good news is if you like Tarantino and/or love the film, than this production will not disappoint. The ensemble is excellent.


I’m not entirely sold on the idea of performing screenplays as plays. Don’t get me wrong, I was completely engaged by some first-class acting and a truly remarkable ensemble. It’s just, especially with Tarantino, we are seduced by clever camera angles, multiple edits, and innovative cinematography. It’s true that Tarantino’s dialogue is clever enough, but once you get past the self consciously ironic sex jokes, the incessant pop culture riffs, and the heavy-handed morality, I’m never sure what it all adds up to. And ultimately, when you strip Tarantino of the one thing that he is arguably strongest at, his visual storytelling, you are only left with his words, and, clever as they are, he’s no David Mamet.


Before I get too much further, let me day, everyone should see this play. This company deserves an audience. Whether I agree with this particular choice of play or not is immaterial, this company is unique and should be championed.


I’m not going to try to summarize the plot too much. Suffice it to say a group of criminals are brought together to rob a bank. They’re not allowed to know each other’s names, so they are given the names of colors. The fly in the ointment, however, is that a cop may or may not be one of the criminals. I’m not going to spoil it here, just in case you’re not familiar with the film. The ending does sneak up on you.


As I’ve said, the ensemble is amazing. Nearly all of the actors are dynamic and engaging. Berry Newkirk as the wounded Mr. Orange and Scott C. Reynolds as the ill-fated Mr. White are particularly good, but the entire cast is fully committed to this production and we are sucked in.


Technically the play is sparse. Slip-covered chairs suggest the escape car, a plank of wood becomes the floor of a warehouse. There’s no need for much. The studio suggests the warehouse very well, and the other few locations are easily produced with an over-sized desk and some assorted chairs. Still, the costumes are wonderful, and the use of firearms (necessitating ear plugs which are generously provided at intermission) is great fun. There’s hardly a misstep in the production save for some fight choreography that needs a little fine tuning and some makeup effects that don’t stand up under the close scrutiny of an audience that is this close to the action. I might also suggest in future productions elevating either the audience or the actors. I missed a great deal of the play in my third row seat.


Again, Citizens of the Universe is a company to support. This is some of the best ensemble acting I’ve seen and this is a group that is seeking to do something new and unique. I’m still not convinced that such a talented company should be producing staged versions of movies, but they’re doing it really well. I look forward to seeing what’s next for this compelling group! Review by Tim Baxter-Ferguson


Tim Baxter-Ferguson is an associate professor of Theatre at Limestone College and Chair of that program. He has had his plays produced throughout the United States and Canada.

CAST AVG. While technically not a COTU venture, we helped this production by doing a Zombiewalk before the show.

Perry Tannenbaum
Published 10.28.2008

While AvantVanGuard doesn't officially launch until this Thursday, with a latenight aftershow at Carolina Actors Studio Theatre following the new production of Monster -- The Real Story of Frankenstein, we caught a foretaste after the Pointers late last Friday. If Night of the Living Dead can serve as a predictor, Cirque de Morte will be gory, campy, gloomy, hysterical and heavy on the makeup. James Walker and Nick Iammatteo were the chief earthlings fending off the alien zombies engulfing the world, with James Cartee directing the mayhem between splices of the classic film.

We will carefully watch this new CAST offshoot and report on all bizarre mutations that show up over the Halloween weekend on Clement Avenue.


THEM'S FIGHTING WORDS: Stephen West-Rogers, Kaddie Sharpe, Diego Francica (front, left-right), Bret Kimbrough, John Michael Coutsos, Kenny Kline and Chris Freeman (back, l-r) put up their dukes in Fight Club.

Fight Club: Fistfuls of testosterone
Published 07.07.09
By Perry Tannenbaum

Sixth rule of Fight Club isn't in the script. It was decreed on opening night of the current Citizens of the Universe production, tucked behind a corrugated row of cheapjack office suites off Central Avenue, in a grungy parking lot flanked by a loading dock and some railroad tracks. The sixth rule was spontaneously proclaimed last Thursday midway through Act 2, when the rains had already wrecked the lights and the sound system.
COTU founder and director James Cartee had replaced the kliegs and the spots at intermission with the headlamps of a car and an SUV. The show went on, and the rain resumed. Cartee emerged from his car and strode onto the makeshift stage in the middle of a scene where the schizo narrator, Jack, was about to experience a birthday celebration involving two cakes shaped like a woman's boobs.
The candles were not to be lit in their central locations. Instead, Cartee proclaimed the sixth rule:
"Gotta call it when the scenery starts blowing away."
Reasonable enough. Sue and I left under the cover of our umbrellas and, since we had the CP day-night doubleheader booked for Friday, returned for the July 4th edition of Fight Club. With pedestrians lined up on the sidewalks awaiting the fireworks at Memorial Stadium, it was a little more difficult to find the 1311 Central Ave. location -- and to avoid mowing down mothers and children as we entered the parking lot.
Stoppages were more benign at this performance. We timed our arrival to coincide with intermission, so we had missed the stoppage during Act 1 when a train had rumbled through. But we sure didn't miss the climax of the fireworks at Memorial, a cluster of cannonades so loud that Diego Francica, playing Jack, called the second timeout.
As aficionados of the Chuck Palahniuk novel and Brad Pitt movie are well aware, I've already broken Fight Club rules 1 and 2: "Don't talk about Fight Club!" Even a devout rule-breaker like me has trouble talking too much about COTU's asphalt jungle version with sound dropouts, decimated sub-guerilla production values, and a 47-1/2 hour intermission compounding the inherent difficulties of Dylan Yates's stage adaptation. Additional hurdles presented there include Palahniuk's circular plot; detours from the known frontiers of chemistry, sociology and psychology; and frequent zigzags backward and forward in time, with the occasional probability bypass.
Yet the whole testosterone spectacle rouses me to persist. So I'm talking. Jack holds down an actuarial job at a Big Three automaker. Tyler Durden, a maniac screen projectionist, coaxes Jack to live with him and launch his network of nationwide Fight Clubs. Marla is the woman who loves them.
We get hints at the beginning of Act 2 that Tyler actually dynamited Jack's condo before offering him shelter, but there are greater shocks and surprises to detain us as the story unfolds. Fight Club evolves into a cadre of human automatons who are a ghoulish mix of masochism and anarchist terrorism.
Comedy episodes seem to gravitate to Kaddie Sharpe, the only female in the ensemble. Early in Act 1, she's a surreal stewardess on a down-market airline whose pre-flight spiel includes a proscription against fucking in the restrooms. (Reminds me: COTU's Porta-Potty is on back-order.) Then she settles into her main role as Marla.
Act 2 hilarity peaks when Marla arrives at Tyler's pad with freezer baggies filled with her mommy's liposuctioned fat. Why is Marla saving this gelatinous gook, and why is Jack insisting so vehemently that she shouldn't open the fridge? Here I won't talk, except to hint that it all connects with Tyler's diabolical scheme to fund his underworld network and blow up more things -- resulting in Francica's finest moments as Jack in some gross-out physical comedy you won't soon forget.
Fight choreography and tech are executed with the same precision as the buffoonery. Stephen West-Rogers brings a martial arts fervor and simplicity to Tyler that stamps a seal of authenticity on the larger Fight Club scenes. He's as effective getting hit as doling out the punishment.
Four Space Monkeys fill out the cast, with Kenny Kline standing out in multiple roles as Angelface, the Fight Club newbie; Gloria, the support group bimbo; and the union boss who kicks the crap out of Tyler. The others -- Bret Kimbrough, Chris Freeman, and John Michael Coutsos -- are all suitably silly, clueless or fascist as needed.
Can the cast hold it perfectly together amid all the distractions, deluges, mishaps, and interruptions? Not always. After the fireworks subsided, Francica lost his lines briefly on Saturday night, and later on, Rogers made an awkwardly delayed entrance, probably because it was impossible for him to hear his unamplified cue line.
Stuff like that makes Fight Club even more fun to talk about. Even if it is against the rules.


FIGHT CLUB
By Dylan Yates
Based on the novel by Chuck Palahniuk
Directed by James Cartee
Citizens of the Universe
A parking lot behind 1311 Central Avenue
July 2-11, 2009
OK, space monkeys. What's the first rule of Fight Club? Don't talk about Fight Club. So I can't say as much as I want to. But this show proves that theatre can take place just about anywhere. In a parking lot between corrugated metal buildings, next to a train track and trees, beside a dumpster, Citizens of the Universe is meeting with courageous theatergoers to explore our postmodern appetite for violence and madness.
The opening night's rain ruined COTU's lighting and sound equipment. But the company adapted, creating a more primal, urban experience with car headlights and speakers in an open hatchback. Noise from nearby building fans, a helicopter circling overhead, and even a train passing by—all add to the gritty environment, even if actors' voices are hard to hear at times.
The set consists of shredded pieces of hung plastic, an unpainted platform on the side, a fridge, and a table on the other side, plus a few folding chairs. And the actors sometimes seem to be reading lines from the novel, rather than playing characters. Yet this fits the novel's spirit of consumer critique, sardonic wit, angry energy, and ironic mimicry.
Actual fight clubs emerged around the US, with men fighting bare-fisted and bare-chested, in imitation of the machismo shown by Brad Pitt and Edward Norton in the 1999 film version of Palahniuk's book. Perhaps some homegrown terrorists have also been spawned by the goofy, violent pranks of Pitt's Marxist trickster, Tyler Durden, and his Project Mayhem. But the book works on the reader in a very different way from the film, drawing one inside the mind of the troubled narrator, Jack. Through him, the novel evokes personal identifications with the charming Tyler, rebellious Marla, and other weird characters, twisting it all, through shockingly comical actions, into a self-critical knot.
This Fight Club stands somewhere between the novel and film. With excellent fight choreography—and the immediacy of actors' bodies hitting the same concrete where spectators sit on portable chairs a few feet away—the thrilling brutality of WWF or Extreme Fighting begins to peal away and the wastefulness of young male egos appears. The play's airplane scene (and program cartoon) also reveals the deeper terrors of mortal vulnerability and wasted time, behind the veneer of safe travel and routine work, yet here with a comical roughness. Likewise, the support group meetings, the soap making out of maternal fat, the double-breasted birthday cake, and the split-self suicide become visceral in this show, as well as literally insightful and movingly action-packed.
It's a difficult play to watch, though. Even the wicked charm of Stephen West-Rogers as Tyler, the burning confusion of Diego Francica as Jack, and the playful transformations of other actors into various characters barely makes this show pleasurable. For they each acquire monstrous attributes that reflect the madness in us (and the patriarchal crisis in our society) like an intricate, shattered mirror.
So go if you dare. But don't tell 'em I told you about it.

Review by Mark Pizzato
Mark Pizzato is Professor of Theatre at UNC-Charlotte and author of Ghosts of Theatre and Cinema in the Brain and Theatres of Human Sacrifice. His plays have been published by Aran Press and his screenplays, produced as short films, have won New York Film Festival and Minnesota Community Television awards.

A Universe of fists and words
Young, avant-garde Charlotte theater company brings ‘Fight Club' to the paved outdoors.
By Lawrence Toppman
Theater Critic
Posted: Friday, Jun. 26, 2009
fight club

The cast of "Fight Club" reviews the rules of the organization under which they do battle.
More Information

'Fight Club'

Book/film about a timid conformist liberated by a dangerous anarchist, staged by Citizens of the Universe.

When: 8:30 p.m. July 2-4 and 9-11. There will be pre-show drinks and music at Snug Harbor, 1228 Gordon St., starting at 6:30, and a post-show meet-the-cast at Thirsty Beaver, 1225 Central Ave.

Where: Behind Quick Pawn Shop at 1305 Central Ave.

Admission: $10.

Details: cotu23@yahoo.com, 704-449-9742 or 704-953-2874.

First rule of Fight Club: You DO NOT TALK about Fight Club!

Oh, well – blew that one. Might as well tell everything, now.

This “Fight Club” is Dylan Yates' theatrical adaptation, blending elements of the novel by Chuck Palahniuk and the movie script by Jim Uhls.

It offers more simulated butt-kicking and actual wise-cracking than any other local drama this year.

And it takes place in a parking lot behind a pawnshop. Not the play – the production, which starts Thursday at dusk.

It comes to you courtesy of Citizens of the Universe, whose first local outing – a similar take on “Trainspotting” – rocked the Milestone in 2008. COTU then staged “Night of the Living Dead” around Halloween at Carolina Actors Studio Theatre.

On one level, the universe these citizens inhabit is familiar: Hip, impoverished thespians push the theatrical envelope until it all but shreds.

On a deeper level, like “Fight Club” hero Tyler Durden himself, they're banging their heads – metaphorically, if the fight choreographer did his job – to prove they matter in a community more accustomed to conventional things.

COTU is no democracy. Co-founder and “Fight Club” director James Cartee clearly ran the rehearsal where Tyler (Stephen West-Rogers) and The Narrator (Diego Francica) mock-pummeled each other in a cluttered artist's studio off Central Avenue.

Yet COTU is a place to take risks, to unveil a side of yourself even you didn't foresee.

“This company uses any talent you want to bring to it,” says Francica, who played the short-fused Begbie in “Trainspotting” and also helped design the posters for that show.

“He'll cast actors who don't know whether they have (the role) in them, because he sees something in you. And he'll give you lots of free rein.”

Adds West-Rogers, who met Cartee when they labored together at a lighting company, “My entire wardrobe in this show is my own. I've made suggestions about sound. One actor custom-builds furniture and helped out with elements of the set.

“It's not hierarchical here – and we all appreciate each other much more that way.”

Flexibility has been the key since COTU began, just before 9-11in Greenville, S.C.

Cartee, who had graduated from Winthrop University in 1998, hooked up with like-minded theater folks to produce an eclectic array of shows, including an “Equus” where the audience sat in a stable, surrounded by horses.

Cartee has held a range of jobs, moving to Charlotte briefly in 2003, going west, coming back in 2006. He meets bills now by working with IATSE, the union of professional stagehands, movie technicians and allied crafts.

And there are bills, not least when COTU is rolling.

“I pay for all this,” he says. “You have to save up to do a show, and you rely on the actors' abilities to find props or costumes. The theater community has stepped up for us: We've gotten wood from Theatre Charlotte, help from the costume designer at Children's Theatre, support from CPCC and Actor's Theatre.”

Cartee hasn't made things easy with “Fight Club.” He'll need body microphones and an outdoor lighting grid; the cast will compete with summer heat, mosquitoes and audible interruptions from a train that passes a block away.

Is this all worth the pain?

He nods. “I'm a child of the '90s, with a feeling of, ‘Screw capitalistic stuff, stand up and believe in yourself,'” he says.

But ask about artistic philosophy, and he shies away:

“I did ‘Trainspotting' with no intention of ‘art.' I'm planning a ‘Reservoir Dogs,' and I felt I should do a show where I fought my initial reaction to something I didn't like, which is ‘Uncle Vanya.' So this company isn't really a company. It's a series of ideas.”

http://www.artsalamode.com/AALM_TheatreReviews.html
TRAINSPOTTING
Based on the novel by Irvine Welsh
Adapted for the stage by Harry Gibson
Directed by James Cartee
A Citizens of the Universe Production
The Milestone Club, January 23-25, 2008

Kudos to producer/director James Cartee. Not since Artzilla has Charlotte seen such an original, subversive production. And yes, it's that Trainspotting. You may have seen the 1996 film which has become a cult favorite. Also adapted from the book, the film is a gritty black comedy about a group of young, socially disaffected heroin users in Edinburgh, Scotland in the 1980s. It doesn't get much blacker (comedically) and grittier than the stage production at the Milestone Club. It is definitely not for those with delicate sensibilities. Age should have nothing to do with it, though. A person can be old at 20, and young at 80, so don't let that stop you from attending the closing performance tonight.
There is a reason, if not a message to all three incarnations of this story. We are mostly guided on our "tour" of the mean streets by Mark Renton (John Wray) who looks around him and is not impressed with what he sees. You'll probably recognize much of the dialogue, "Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a ******* big television, Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players, and electrical tin openers…" Then, the crux of the play, "I chose not to choose life: I chose something else. And the reason? There are no reasons – who needs reasons when you have heroin?" As mentioned, this is not a message play. The audience simply goes along for the ride. There isn't a plot per se either, but a series of escalating scenes that shows the brutality of addiction. Renton is intelligent, he tells us he is a dropout university student, but alienated and staring at the "truth" as he sees it in the beginning; you are born, suffer and die, without much fanfare or making a difference. Yet, if you become addicted, all your fears, anxieties, and problems just become one big problem - scoring heroin.
Also along for the journey are the multiple characters portrayed with zeal by the ensemble cast, all giving every ounce of energy to the multiple scene changes, costumes, and Scottish accents they use. John Wray is outstanding as Renton, the sarcastic, alienated, anti-hero. He maintains the accent throughout, but is understandable. If his performance doesn't work, the play doesn't work, but he does an excellent job of making Renton just human enough that there is empathy in the face of his depraved behavior. That's not easy. Joel Sumner is a standout in his roles, especially as the initially sweet, naive Tommy. Jenny Wright is one of those actors who bring energy onstage whenever she's in a scene, and is interesting to watch. She has one of the grossest scenes in the play, but somehow makes it work. Diego V. Francica is the most intense actor in the production and suitably scary as Berghie, although at times I couldn't understand his thick accent. The other actors: Stephen West-Rogers, Kaddie Sharpe, and Teresa Abernathy also add nicely to the mix.
The "comedy" alternates with the torturous, shocking scenes of Renton trying to kick his habit when he's physically sick and bodily functions are out of his control, or he callously uses other people. Because Renton doesn't preach to the audience, merely reporting on his debased life as an addict, the audience can witness everything without being forced to make a decision of right or wrong. It simply is the way it is. Renton's explanation about why he choose heroin? "Take the best orgasm you ever had, multiply it by a thousand and you're still not near it." Then you see the result of that choice.
The Milestone Club provides good atmosphere for this particular play. The program is a bonus and unlike any I've ever seen with CD's of songs donated by various local and regional bands. The technical folks deserve special consideration that so much was achieved with so little, but wear warm clothes. The near capacity audience sat in their coats throughout the play, although it didn't dampen their enthusiasm. Trainspotting is quite an accomplishment.

Review by Ann Marie Oliva