Filling in the gaps 08/08/2013 - 2:22am

Editorial
I like to think I’m cultured and worldly because I camped alongside a freeway in Nebraska one night back in the summer of 2010. But it was one stop in a string of 4 months of camping and roadtripping across the US and Canada, and the truth is that night did not leave a powerful impression on me or my overall trip. Nebraska was literally our only option, given the mess Sturgis was creating across the border in South Dakota. So my request for a ticket to North 83rd at the Xperimental was predicated purely on buzz, not on its setting in 1968 Omaha or its billing as ‘Musical Theater.’ Those tight pink pants didn’t look so good until everyone started wearing them, right? My short walk over from Theater in the Round boasted a brilliant sunset overlaying some stunning greenery near the Carlson School. Post-downpour, campus was largely silent until slipping inside the Rarig doors. Even at 8:08 PM, the line wrapped against two walls and chatted eagerly. A quick conversation with the woman in line behind me revealed that her husband was close friends with the writer or the director, I forget. This was the only show they planned to see this year, possibly ever. “What else should we see?” she asked innocently. Embarrassed, I stammered that it depended on what they wanted and quickly recommended Elysium Blues. (Read Kenna Cottman’s review here.) I’m supposed to be better at this, right? Entering the sold-out theater, I quickly snagged a seat without dashing too many hopes of couples determined to sit together. Sighing, I wished I had shoved some Craisins into my mouth before entering the space. What if my stomach growled loudly? What if I threw up? Stop. Stop it. An older white-haired man, later revealed as Roger, sat beside me. Worth a shot. “Excuse me, but am I going to cry during this show?” “I suppose it depends on how emotionally stable you are, miss.” “I cry frequently during Disney movies. Finding Nemo I was a goner.” “Well, I have a very clean and available handkerchief should you require it during the show.” We exchanged some thoughts and recommendations; Roger was no stranger to the area or to the Fringe and very in-tune with the current buzz. Fascinating. Off-hand, I wondered if his Facebook friends blasted him with reviews and propaganda and what his taste even resembled. I wondered what Roger had had for dinner; he seemed the practical type who would definitely eat before catching some 8:30 PM theater. A quick glance around presented the alarming realization that I was one of two people of color at this sold-out show, although there was a good representation of young couples to older ones. Mostly couples. Okay then. And then the show began. The sound of Janet Hanson’s shoes echoing and creaking down the steps to the stage offered the first sounds for this production. Her strong and kind gaze, her bold and curious pace, her weight squeaking the floorboards underfoot as she prepared for her first words. And even before she opened her mouth, I liked her. I could see the reason for this buzz, the gentle strength she offered that made you love her fiercely. I love the concept for this show. I love the writing about the architect’s vision for a house, a daughter’s experience of a family, and a survivor’s memory of a home. She sings: ‘A chair is not a house / A house is not a home / when no one is living there.’ Elegant and sweet. The ghosts too are overall good. The music and singing is well done, the band minimalist and sharp, although some of the song choices distanced me from the emotion of the piece itself. Like somehow channeling a familiar tune undercut the emotion of these moments. Similarly, some deliveries felt emptier and more stilted than I had hoped. And where silences are a gift in theater, here the silences were obliterated by the rumbles of music from above our heads. I never felt quite in the world of this show, perhaps partly for this reason. Annette Cummings’ charm and resolve well matched Hanson’s heart. Hanson’s ability to walk her own shoes across her own timeline brought beauty and sadness into this production in a welcome way. Seeing her emotions and experiences reminded us how malleable our experiences are, how fluid time can seem, and how close ghosts can feel. And for some of the audience, that was powerful. For me, sadly, I saw her grief but did not share it. Something kept me disconnected from the show--firmly relegated to observer rather than experiencer. Frankly, I’m still confused. Roger and I apparently felt similarly, a conversation confirmed. He then introduced me to his wife, Mary, who echoed almost word-for-word what her husband had shared out of earshot. (“That’s the product of a long marriage, Lisa!” he chuckled when I pointed that out.) Mary smiled. “The woman next to me cried silently through almost the entire thing. I think it was really powerful for her.” I wonder if shows like North 83rd are our ways of remembering grief and re-experiencing loss. Something akin to therapy or a ritualized living memorial to ghosts in our hearts. And maybe that is what makes a production like this so charged--the emotion and pain the audience brings into the theater, sparked by Hanson’s relatability, together erupts in silent tears. Well I guess I was all cried out from marathoning Grey’s Anatomy, my own personal therapy, and therefore shed none for this show. But I walked away from it still enjoying the show and its messages. “Are you off to see another one from here, Lisa?” Mary asked as they prepared to say goodbye. “I’ve already made it this far. You two have a nice evening. It was nice to meet you.” Seeing Roger and Mary scale the stairs together out of the Rarig basement made me thoughtful. Suddenly I missed their temporary companionship and dreaded the thought of a bus ride back to St. Paul alone. Maybe all theater is a reach in the dark for companionship. Maybe I should get some sleep and stop my musings.
Headshot of Lisa Hu
Lisa Hu
Filling in the gaps: Musings from a mind bustling with questions amidst the chaotic shenanigans of the Fringe: Who hardcore Fringes when? How are we products of our environments? Do these shows interact with one another? Does it matter?