Fringe Lab: Experimental Performance 08/18/2011 2:45am

Editorial
Abstract "An artistic hodgepodge exposing the roots of what makes the Twin Cities what they are. Featuring four new plays by local writers working closely with fine artists hand picked by Cult Status Gallery (named Best Art Gallery: City Pages 2011) spanning topics from the union riots of the 1930's to frustration with the local weather. "Performed at Cult Status, just two blocks away from Fringe Central (moto-i) it is the perfect space for canvas and brush to blend with costume and dialogue." (taken from the show page on the Fringe website) Method The 612 is a series of short vignettes, set in various Minneapolis neighborhoods, that explore what it means to be a Minneapolitan. A recurring short sketch about a young man lost late at night in an unfamiliar neighborhood thematically unites the show. The performance took place at Cult Status, an Uptown gallery, which displayed wall-to-wall murals and small framed pieces that combined graffiti, comic, and poster art--a style that's been ubiquitous enough for the past couple of decades throughout Our Fair City to warrant being called the "Minneapolis look." Results I must say, this is the one show I was looking forward to the most this year, for a couple of reasons: one, I love stories about the place I call home. (I'm guessing most people do, but rooting unqualified universal claims out of my vocabulary was my New Year's resolution.) My excitement only grew when I got to the theater and saw in the program something called "Powderhorn Triptych" (I live in Powderhorn, about a block from the park) and another thing called "Polar Expeditions" (I had the great fortune of working as a contract writer/editor for Will Steger, one of our hometown heroes, a few years ago). Two, I love hearing the stories other people write about the places they call home. Home is complicated--it can be tender, or oppressive, or both at once--and this complication brings some of our deepest feelings to the surface. Such feelings are responsible for some of the best writing our species has managed to produce. Three, I was excited to see a bring-your-own-venue show--Fringe is so fly-by-night in all the major venues because it has to be, and I wanted to see what some literal rootedness could bring to the festival, in terms of both energy and aesthetics. Unfortunately, what I saw on stage did not win me over as much as I'd hoped. The acting was mostly good--although in the first short piece, "One Step Forward," while I could appreciate the idea behind the directorial decision to have the actors not look at one another throughout most of the piece, the effect wasn't one that really moved me. But it was the writing that, as much as it pains me to say it (being a writer myself, and one, moreover, whose Fringe writing has taken a pretty serious beating in the past)...I'm afraid it just wasn't as good as it could have been. Here's the main problem--and I hope the show's creators will take my suggestions in the spirit in which they are intended, which is one of constructive criticism--it's just not developed enough. The writing in all three short pieces and in the Powderhorn triptych scratched the surface of some pretty important ideas. In the Powderhorn triptych, you have a young man who's literally and figuratively lost, and the world is doing its darndest to send this guy a message, but he's either unwilling to see it or incapable of doing so (by dint of his maturity level, I'm guessing). In "One Step Forward," a young man asks that timeless question, "Should I stay or should I go?" (Okay, so it's post-Clash timeless.) "Strike" is about one of the most important, least-written-about times in our city's history--the turn-of-the-century labor movement (and is, in my opinion, the strongest piece of the group). And "Polar Expeditions" is another timeless tale--one of love between members of warring tribes (in this case, California girl meets Minnesota boy). But in each case, the characters were cardboard cutouts (minimal backtory) and there was little evidence of any attempt to mine these very rich seams--of feeling lost and trying to find the place where you belong; of young people who yearn for freedom but feel trapped by convention and family, isolated from the cultural centers of our nation and world; of the complicated and conflicted needs and loyalties of ordinary people at the beginning of an era marked by the increasing alienation of labor from capital; and of the strangeness of experiencing home for the first time through the eyes of another. It would be bad enough if the stories were merely thin (and in need of an edit, or at least a read-through, to get rid of clanger lines like the one introducing Linux the dog in the final Powderhorn tryptich). But what made me recoil was what felt to me like pretense--laying claim to a vague image of authenticity and edginess that seems to rely on outsider-views and stereotypes. The worst of these were, in no particular order: the "arty" people with problems, the bag lady, the genius misfit, the flat-cap-wearing union organizer and the red-baiting cop, a "conflict" that was mostly just complaining about the snow, a laundry-list of place references that sounded like they came from a Lonely Planet guide, and the laughable--at least to me--reference to Lake Powderhorn as "the lake that had all the assaults." (It also has art festivals, a spirituality fair, ceramics classes, yoga, the oldest trees in the city, free food, swap meets, Empty Bowls, summer Shakespeare, maybe a dozen sports teams with players from as many countries of origin, a fox terrier I am absolutely in love with whose companion plays on one of said sports teams, nature photographers, ornithologists, treasure hunters, and about five species of waterfowl including cormorants...but you probably won't find that in any Lonely Planet guide. I would love to be proven wrong on that point, though.) This pretense found its way into the language of nearly every line--either overwrought and convoluted in a misguided attempt to be poetic (as in "One Step Forward") or overly snarky and far coarser than any you're likely to hear out loud. Conclusion So I wanted to love this show. I really did. I kinda liked it. But I couldn't love it--not in its current form. There were just too many problems in the script. Fortunately, there's an easy fix to all these problems, and it's this: Trust yourself. Sounds far too simple, doesn't it? Someone gave me that advice years ago, and it took me until very recently to figure out what they meant. Don't try to sound a certain way--you can't. You might think you can, but you can't. You can only sound like yourself. Believe me, I know what a leap of faith this entails when you're from the Midwest and the last person you want to sound like is Garrison Keillor. The world demands edgy. So you want to give them edgy. This is an especially salient (and intimidating) demand given the hype Minnepolis has gotten recently for being the gayest, bikingest, hippest city in America. But I'd strongly advise you to stop listening to those things and start listening to A Prairie Home Companion. I know, I know...I'm not a fan of the folksy, down-home aesthetic myself. But it will help in two regards. First of all, "The News from Lake Wobegon" is really well written--Mr. Keillor has, in fact, been at the writing game for quite some time now. And if you listen very carefully, you'll understand that he's not really writing about casseroles, hotdish, or the cold at all. He's a master of the wry observation, the subtle turn of phrase--and he'll frequently surprise you. And that's what we all want from a good play or story--to be knocked on our asses by the startling complexity of human nature. Second of all, you really need to go home--wherever home is for you--to really understand this city. That doesn't mean that you'll be able to relate to everything Lake Wobegon is about--in fact, what I mean is quite the opposite. The more points of disagreement you find yourself having with Mr. Keillor, the more your own unique experience will start to emerge. As for me, I'm not from Minneapolis originally--nor am I from Minnesota originally. And "The News from Lake Wobegon" has really helped me understand why Our Fair City is the way it is. So many people here are trying too damn hard, all the damn time, to be something they're not--whether it's a perfect sinner or a perfect saint, be it leather-clad Harley riders at Bob's Java Hut or the Cabooze, or pocket-mulching winter-biking vegans at Hard Times or the Seward Cafe, or beard-sporting indie-rock manchildren at Caffetto or the Hexagon. And it makes perfect sense--they're the above-average children and grandchildren of the good Lutherans who hang out at the Chatterbox Cafe. I've never been anywhere else where people make such a concerted effort to balance being good with fitting in--whatever their definition of both of those things might be. So go ahead--write about people who are lost. Write about people who act tough but couldn't fight their way out of a wet paper bag. But before you do, I urge you to trust yourself--fully, openly, deeply. Spend a few long dark nights of the soul just sitting by yourself, in a quiet place, really thinking. (There are plenty of them here in Minnesota.) Listen to the voices in your head. Ask them tough questions. Don't settle for easy answers. Write down what they tell you. Pretty soon, you'll start to see the creases and folds of the wet paper bag that's around you. (We've all got one.) Then, pick up your pen--it's got a nice, sharp, pointy tip--and start fighting your way out. Once you've done that, you'll have your answers...and your stories. Chances are, they won't sound anything like Garrison Keillor's, or William Shakespeare's, or David Mamet's, or anyone else's, for that matter. They're yours, and only you and your stories can decide how they should be told. But don't ever think that such clarity will come at the first pass, or the second, or the fiftieth. I've been writing and throwing away stories for eighteen years. And I still can't write as well as most of the people I've seen in the Fringe this year. So believe me, this is not advice given lightly, or without tremendous pain. But if you trust yourself, you'll never stop trying until you get it right.
Headshot of Sarah Wash
Sarah Wash
Fringe Lab: Experimental Performance : All art is an experiment. But some experiments are more…well, experimental…than others. With some, you know pretty well what the results will be. With others, you can't be sure. What do you get when you mix baking soda with vinegar? Carbon dioxide (and, on occasion, an enthused five-year-old). What do you get when you put on a show and there's no one to see it?