ONE FLEA SPARE: THE REVIEWS ARE IN

From the New Orleans Times-Picayune:

Katrina-plague parallel is stretched

The poster for The Cripple Creek Theatre Company's "One Flea Spare" shows a boarded-up New Orleans shotgun house. In the theater space where "One Flea Spare" is performed, the blacked-out windows are similarly boarded.

Clearly, we are to draw parallels between the world depicted onstage -- the plague-ravaged London of 1665 -- and post-Katrina New Orleans. The comparison holds, but only so far. We understand the similarities of both events in exposing poverty, brutalization, class-consciousness, oppression and non-response from the ruling class.

But ultimately, Naomi Wallace's poetic melodrama, depicted in self-contained vignettes, each a small play in itself, stands alone and apart from our situation. If anything, it resonates more closely with the Holocaust, with talk of pits of dead people.

And

Emilie Whelan, though not remotely believable as a 12-year-old, is nonetheless a riveting presence as a wild child, quiveringly stimulated by the possibilities of sex and violence. Blake Baudier's sailor is increasingly vulgar, yet with his own personal code of honor. Charles Vaught is haughty, well-spoken evil incarnate, while Mishikea Braithwaite is damaged porcelain as his gracefully suffering wife. Her scenes with Baudier sizzle with sensuality. Completing the cast is Ron Reeder as the blithely heartless guard, singing merrily of death as he barters for lives. Well-acted portrayals all, under Andrew Vaught's direction, which brings out the playwright's implacable criticism of the way the world was and, she says, still is.

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And from the New Orleans Gambit:

Token Gestures

Andrew Vaught gathered a strong cast and took advantage of Blake Baudier's strong abstract set (a floor of hardwood planks and the two wooden arm chairs) to emphasize the symbolic aspects of the tale. Scott Stewart designed the excellent lighting.

Charles Vaught is a fuming volcano of an imprisoned merchant, and Mishikea Braithwaite gives us a stifled, embittered Darcy. Blake Baudier as the sailor walks a fine line between insolence and deference. Emilie Whelan is appropriately enigmatic as Morse. Ron Reeder's Cabe tears around in a frenzy like the legendary inmate in control of the asylum.

One Flea Spare has an impressive pedigree, including productions at the Humana Festival of New American Plays and The Public Theater of New York. Nonetheless, I was generally underwhelmed by the claustrophobic and somewhat overlong tragedy. Or, rather, I was engaged by fits and starts, instead of from beginning to end.

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The reviews for my first show in New Orleans are in, and they're...not bad. Of course, I want every play I'm involved with to cause artistic orgasm among the members of the press who cover them, but obviously that's not always going to happen. Really, as my ex Becky pointed out to me, these two reviews are actually quite positive, especially in their critiques of the talent, and the production itself.

So cool. Welcome to the Big Easy, Ron--you're in the public record now, as a good actor working with a good company. Yeah, I'm talking to myself; wha' choo gon' do 'bout it?

On to the negative aspects of the critiques. To contextualize, even though I disagree, I think both reviewers raise fair points. The Picayune picks up on the Katrina parallel, which I suppose isn't so odd considering the fact that the storm, and its horrifying aftermath, continue to dominate public discourse here in New Orleans, but I think that if the same production were performed in, say, Houston, no one would have thought about Katrina at all, as is evidenced by the couple of reviews Mildred's Umbrella got for their version of the play a few weeks back. That is, in my opinion, the Katrina parallel for our version isn't "stretched" at all; if anything, Katrina is a whisper with One Flea Spare, only noticeable if you're listening intensely for it. Our director very consciously decided not to play that angle up, allowing audiences to make their own connections if they felt compelled to do so, allowing the text to speak for itself. On the other hand, my own artistic inclination is to hit people on the head, such that, if the audience gets anything at all, they get the message--I probably would have even gone as far as placing some kind of essay in the program, literally telling the audience how to understand what we're doing.

But that's what art is about. Different artists have different approaches. And I can't even speculate as to whether subtlety or obviousness would have worked better with the Picayune's critic. His problem appears to be something along the lines of how the death toll in NOLA wasn't as high as with the Great Plague of London. And that's a fair observation. But it's also a fair observation to remember the horrifying stories and images coming out of the Superdome and the Convention Center. To remember the people of color in their rag tag bands of desperation blocked from exiting the city by paranoid Jefferson Parrish sheriff's deputies. To remember the people who stayed for weeks in pre-industrial conditions without help or protection. I mean, I wasn't here, but if anything, the comparison isn't stretched; rather, it could go much, much further.

But don't get me wrong; I'm thankful for what is an overall good review.

The Gambit raises a completely different point. What the Picayune calls "self-contained vignettes, each a small play in itself," the Gambit refers to as "fits and starts." NOLA's tabloid alternative weekly might be onto something here. The New York Times review of the play's above mentioned premiere at NYC's Public Theater back in 1997 says:

But while sensationally dramatic things do happen in ''One Flea Spare,'' the work remains stiff, schematic and surprisingly unaffecting. Often one has the feeling of looking at, rather than listening to, a score for a chamber ensemble. The notes are clearly all in place, but you've yet to hear the music that would sweep you into experiential involvement.

That is, in my opinion, the script itself has some problematic features, most noticeably the story's flow. These "self-contained vignettes" possess a lot of drama, as the Times observes, but they don't really show many crucial character moments, moments of agonizing decision, moments when the conflict moves the characters to take their lives in new and different directions--I mean, it's all suggested, of course, but it mostly happens off stage. It's possible that we're all missing stuff, but I don't think so: if Dianne Wiest and other distinguished New York professional actors couldn't pull it off, then it's probably a script issue.

That is, it's a script issue that doesn't really bother me personally: I'm all about the anti-wealth ideology, myself; the drama here is a vehicle to make audiences think about how the rich fuck the poor. I think the playwright necessarily makes a few concessions, sacrificing some psychological human reality in order to get more to the heart of the themes she explores.

But I can see how some audience members, especially those who prefer realism, would be left feeling like they just didn't get enough. As with the Picayune review, however, I'm very thankful for the mostly positive critique.

Hey, have I mentioned that I suck a girl's toes for a brief moment in this play? Well, here you go:



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