Less than halfway into June's first performance of The Female of the Species at ACT, after a psycho-fan (Renata Friedman) has taken a famous author (Suzy Hunt) hostage, the latter's estranged daughter (Morgan Rowe) joins the interrogation with far more verve than expected. So exhilarated was Rowe's character to take revenge on her mother that the actress slammed a vase on a desk for emphasis—and the glass prop accidentally shattered. Shards were everywhere, Friedman was barefoot, and 45 minutes of slapstick and physical mayhem remained in the one-act play. Such moments of suspense—in which the performers, stage crew, and director share the audience's terror—trump almost anything scripted or choreographed. Jeopardy electrifies the air. New lines are invented (the author tells her captor, "Put your boots on!"). Blocking is amended (Rowe wanders into the kitchen for a broom). Within a few minutes, the disaster is under control, and the pros manage to make the whole episode seem like something in the script. But later, when another character stamps his foot for emphasis, then winces suddenly in pain, we know the pain's for real. MARGARET FRIEDMAN
Chris Bennion
Megan Cole in Three Tall Women.
Related Content
More About
Pacific Northwest Ballet has been performing works by George Balanchine since the company was founded, but in May we got a chance to see where Balanchine may have gotten some of his best ideas. PNB Education Director Doug Fullington's lecture/demonstration on the relationship between Balanchine and Marius Petipa, the architect of classical ballet, was laced with snippets of fabulous choreography danced with zest by the company. But it was Fullington's commentary, pointing out similarities in structure, vocabulary, and pattern, that made the audience feel so much smarter than when they'd walked in the door. SANDRA KURTZ
After nearly two decades reviewing theater, I don't think I'll ever forget the sight of dancers Cherdonna and Lou lying on the floor of the Century Ballroom in October, ooching like inchworms across the floor—except that Cherdonna's miniskirt had been transformed into a none-too-wide belt, giving us an unwanted eyeful of Jody Kuehner's lady-bits. Dance? Theater? Performance art? Um, no, despite the protestations of letter-writers and personal pals who sought to defend It's a Salon! I did take personal affront at this, the longest hour I've ever spent in the reviewer's chair. I knew I'd take heat for calling it a load of crap, too. There are always a handful of dilettantes who believe that if something is stupefyingly incomprehensible, that makes it "thought-provoking" or "challenging." Sure, OK. I'll bite. What were we supposed to think about? "Ah," they'd say with certainty, "that's the mote in your eye: a failure of imagination." I can tell you this: Kuehner's junk left nothing to the imagination. KEVIN PHINNEY
Seattle Opera made it considerably harder to complain about the neglect of new music after the company unveiled Daron Hagen's Amelia in May, on a daringly contemporary topic: a woman's struggle to deal with the loss of her father in the Vietnam War. The handsome production was sprinkled with stars (Nathan Gunn, Jane Eaglen), and Hagen's beguiling music helped Gardner McFall's semi-autobiographical libretto rise to moments of affecting drama—most memorably the concurrent, climactic death/birth scenes in adjoining onstage hospital rooms. (It was harder still to kvetch after the Seattle Symphony announced a project to commemorate Gerard Schwarz's last season: a series of 18 [!] commissions, with a brand-new work on nearly every program this season.) GAVIN BORCHERT
Sometimes accidents made by deeply talented artists should be viewed as alternate interpretations. This is how I felt on the opening night of Three Tall Women at the Rep in October, when indisputably masterful actress Megan Cole called for her lines five times in the first act. In the absence of context, you might say "Unforgiveable!" or ask, "How could that happen?" But consider this: She was playing an Alzheimer's patient in the throes of delirium. And playwright Edward Albee had given her scads of recursively looping lines. And for me, these unfeigned memory lapses were preferable to seeing a performer studiously recall every syllable while affecting forgetfulness. Besides, the line calls lent a deliciously absurd, Beckett-like mood: Her requests were answered by a booming female voice on the loudspeaker, which Cole then echoed. It was utterly eerie, and it better conveyed the helplessness and frustration of Alzheimer's than did Albee's well-crafted dialogue. Friedman
Christmas plays are universally mediocre, and ArtsWest's December revival of A Tuna Christmas initially sounded as terrible as last year's Plaid Tidings. Its setup—two actors playing 22 residents of the small redneck town of Tuna, Texas, on a virtually prop-free stage—did nothing to bolster expectations. But against all odds, the production is sharply written, nuanced, and extremely funny. And it features tour-de-force performances from Jay Jenkins and Buddy Mahoney that make you want to miss your train and linger in Tuna's Main Street diner until the night janitor kicks you out. (The show ends Thursday; go see it.) MIKE SEELY
It was homecoming week at On the Boards' Pat Graney retrospective in October, onstage and in the audience, too. Graney revived three of her most significant works (Faith, Sleep, and Tattoo) in trimmed-down versions, so that her rich imagery and awkward virtuosity were even more dense. It was like seeing the entire Ring cycle in a single evening. Many of the original performers came back for the revival, and many of the original audience members were there as well. Intermissions were full of catching up and the performances full of remembering—of what the dancers used to do and who you used to be when you first saw them. KURTZ
