Fifteen Dogs at the Segal Centre – Montréal

Photo by Emelia Hellman

Fifteen Dogs is a weird, weird book. I remember thinking that when I first read it – it was 2015, André Alexis had just won the Giller Prize, and my mother, avid reader of Canadian award-winning books, had passed me her copy. It’s certainly a strange premise: Apollo and Hermes grant human conciousness to fifteen dogs, betting one year of servitude on whether or not they will end up happy at the moment of their death. It’s violent, it’s reflective, it’s tragic, it… contains dog bodily functions that I, a die-hard cat person, tend to not think about all that much.

I picked up the novel for a second time in preparation for this production: and, yup, still weird. This time, though, I tried to picture how one might go about adapting it for the stage. I couldn’t picture it. Surely, it couldn’t be anything but a farce, what with a cast of human actors running around pretending to be dogs.

Fifteen Dogs is funny. Partly, yes, because of the physical comedy of humans acting dog-like, but also because of the witticisms of the text. It’s nowhere near a farce, though, and it loses none of the violence, reflection, tragedy – and, unexpectedly, hope.

Photo by Emelia Hellman

It’s a masterful adaptation by Marie Farsi, who also directed the play. A cast of six plays dozens of roles: dogs, gods, and humans. They narrate and comment as an ensemble – or, more accurately and punnily, a Greek chorus. Their dedication to their characters is astounding, and with nothing but their physicality and a simple costume piece, they flit from one character to the next with hardly a pause. Davinder Malhi was a personal favourite who, often literally, throws himself into his various roles: notably Prince, the enthusiastic canine poet, and Zeus, a shimmering angsty rock god.

The novel, which originally takes place in Toronto, is here transported to Montreal, which was audibly enjoyed by the audience. The liberated dogs take refuge on Mont Royal, and the confusing, graffitied parking signs are a delightful touch. Each dogs has its own figurine perched under a spotlight at the foot of the stage, helping us keep track in terms of number and appearance (helpful if, like me, you know next to nothing about dog breeds).

Something that had never even crossed my mind, however, was the difficulty of bearing witness to the death of each dog, much more poignant onstage than on the page. I was awed when, at the death of the very first dog (who we had only known for a few minutes), the audience let out a little cry. It’s difficult to tell exactly who you’re rooting for – both the dogs and the two gods – but I was thankful for the moments of levity when the overarching concept is so bleak.

The play runs for around two and a half hours with an intermission, which is quite long, but I honestly couldn’t think of any potential cuts. The length then is necessary. Still, the piece is well-paced, including during text-heavy moments or monologues – again thanks to the actors’ movement and the dynamic direction. While you might get fidgetty, there are no dull moments. I certainly hope this play will have the chance to live on: a play that is, despite its title, not about what it means to be a dog, but rather what it means to be human.

Fifteen Dogs plays at the Segal Centre until April 21, with discounted tickets for groups, seniors, students, and those under 30. Buy your tickets here!

Boy Falls From the Sky at the Segal Centre – Montréal

A tale that literally defies gravity—as well as expectations, categorization, and the glorified Broadway success story.

“What is this show?” was the question my brain, staunchly in review-mode, asked as I left the opening performance of Boy Falls From the Sky. Publicized as a solo show, though not as a jukebox musical—almost a concert but with a set and script—non-linear, but with a strong sense of narrative.

Here’s what it is: marvellously-paced, beautifully-sung, and closely intimate despite being staged in the Segal Centre’s largest space, the Sylvan Adams Theatre.

Source: The Segal Centre

Maybe that intimacy, the feeling that Jake Epstein is speaking directly to you (and the theatre kid in you!), is why I struggle to categorize this piece as a solo show. That, and because the dynamic band made up of Daniel Abrahamson on the keys, Srikanth Narayanan on bass(es), and Christina Beaudry-Cárdenas on drums are just as much part of the performance as Epstein is.

Let’s back up. Boy Falls From the Sky is Jake Epstein’s (writer and performer) account of his theatrical journey from having a handful of lines in a Toronto play as a child to originating a role on the Great White Way as a theatre veteran, with the substantial pit stop of his experience in Spider-Man: Turn Off the Dark, a show notorious for its performers’ many injuries, including Epstein’s. It doesn’t hold back, detailing the medical issues caused by his stints in professional productions as well as the toll on his mental health from touring and performing. From euphoria to devastation, this show covers every emotion that comes with working in the theatre industry.

Source: The Segal Centre

It makes sense that this show initially grew from barroom story exchanges between Epstein and his friends, because that’s exactly how he treats his audience. There’s no unnecessary context for the many references, as the audience has the option to read up on these references beforehand in the program. Epstein jumps into songs with no introductions, expecting the spectators to immediately recognize them, which, consistently, they do! There’s a give and take happening here, and from the moment the performers step onstage, the audience understands that. It’s not uncommon to hear someone in the theatre humming along to an unmistakeable Broadway classic, or for the crowd to eagerly echo one of the returning lines. This is why I hesitate to label this a solo show, and why I don’t think it should shy away from calling itself a jukebox musical.

I was reminded of a significant event while pondering this production. Just over one year ago, Sara Porkalob, starring as Declaration of Independence signatory Edward Ruthledge in the Broadway revival of 1776, gave her much-discussed Vulture interview in which they said they didn’t feel artistically fulfilled and openly denounced certain elements of the production and process. After this interview, she was called ungrateful and criticized for speaking out. All this happened following the Mirvish run of Boy Falls From the Sky in the spring of 2022. I’m glad that a show like this one, which offers glimpses of the uglier side of Broadway (poorly given notes leading to bad vocal hygiene, unsafe practices, toxic audition processes) is receiving rave reviews, and I hope that it leads to a renewal of this kind of discussion. A toxic work environment is a toxic work environment, even if it’s the job of your dreams. Epstein’s stories were reminiscent of this interview, and I hope that, perhaps due to the conversations that will continue to emerge thanks to these kinds of narratives, the history books will be kinder to Porkalob, especially as a queer POC performer.

“What is this show?” is perhaps not a relevant question for a piece like Boy Falls From the Sky. Sometimes, your dream job can make you miserable, ruining your body and mental health, and that’s valid. Sometimes, a show defies a straightforward category, and that’s okay. But if you’ve ever identified with the label “theatre kid,” no matter your age or current involvement in the performing arts, Jake Epstein will repave those old paths in your brain as you remember your own slow descent into loving musical theatre in all its messy, magical glory.

Boy Falls From the Sky continues its run at the Segal Centre until December 10th, with tickets ranging from $30 for students and those under 30 to $68 at the regular rate.

The Sages of Chelm at the Segal Centre – Montreal

In which I perhaps delve a bit too deeply into the politics of this vibrant, grin-inducing, family-friendly musical brought to you by Dora Wasserman Yiddish Theatre.

The small, peaceful village of Chelm is disrupted when flute-playing wanderer Menakhem happens upon it and makes it his mission to stay. Our eventual romantic lead, played and sung effortlessly by Jake Cohen, is immediately jarring in the midst of the traditional Chelm. He wears denim, plaid, and a beanie, modern clothing that clashes with the garb worn by the villagers – the type of costume design one would expect when watching a musical based on Yiddish folktales. It is clear that Menakhem arrives as a symbol of progress, a voice of reason in the midst of the “foolish souls” – but the conclusion of the show is not a lesson about the inevitability of progress that I came to expect.

The plot is centred around Menakhem and Shoshane (Jeanne Motulsky), the most beautiful woman in the village with whom Menakhem suddenly, magically, falls in love. The two leads have a playful, childlike chemistry, and you can’t help but root for them. Their major obstacles are Shoshane’s current engagement to another man, as well as her family’s (and the general villagers’) distrust of her beloved.

Image source: Segal Centre

It is always very clear to the audience when a cast is genuinely enjoying every moment onstage, and this cast has the endless energy of a fireworks display and a set just as colourful. The show, entirely in Yiddish, includes both English and French supertitles – but I found that, even when my eyes strayed from the text, meaning was conveyed clearly through the actors’ complete devotion to their characters and this story. Besides Cohen and Motulsky, other standouts include Stan Unger as the Rabbi, whose performance felt the most grounded of the cast without losing any vitality (I’m assuming he is the cast member most fluent in the Yiddish language), and Jodi Lackman playing Yente Peshe with an electric, occasionally frantic energy and an obvious utter joy of performing. Special shout-outs to the band, who with only four musicians managed to completely fill the theatre without any sparsity in sound, as well as the person running the supertitles – I can’t imagine the challenge of syncing up the English and French written lines with the spoken lines in an unfamiliar language, and they did a commendable job.

Image source: Segal Centre

Now, for the political analysis that may be far-reaching and that nobody asked for (SPOILERS AHEAD). What I find particularly interesting about this production is that it neither entirely embraces nor rejects progress, which is arguably the underlying theme of the show. Menakhem arrives as a positive symbol of progress to introduce new ideas and a brighter, more accepting future to the Chelm villagers. Specifically, he is the reason Shoshane is granted agency in who she wants to marry, and at the very end of the show, he champions a gay wedding (although there is no trace of preexisting homophobia in the village, so this may insinuate a rather callous assumption about the inhabitants of Chelm). However, this is not a story about small-town people who discover and embrace the glory of modern times. Twice throughout the show, the Litvak appears, sent to bring a steam locomotive to the village. Both times, he is forcefully rejected by the characters. He exists as somewhat of a capitalistic symbol, representing an unwanted future – one in which everyone rushes from one place to the next; in which corporations threaten their employees with the claim that machines will make them obsolete (the villagers claim that, with the presence of the train, their wagon will no longer be needed, endangering their livelihood). This is a future of consumption and planned obsolescence, illustrated by the iPad carried by the Litvak. It’s a future that would ruin the village and its inhabitants, both psychologically and economically, and it’s a future that seems eerily like our present. It’s a nuanced take on the topic of progress, and it seems to me that the conclusion is that progress is a good thing, but not to the detriment of people’s well-being. Then again, I might be reading into it a bit too much.

The Sages of Chelm has six more performances at the Segal Centre, and if you have a craving for two hours of laughter, love, and music, I cannot recommend it enough. Congrats to the cast and crew!

Small Mouth Sounds at the Segal Centre – Montreal

Originally directed by a personal favourite, Rachel Chavkin, Small Mouth Sounds by Bess Wohl treks its way to the Segal Centre in a production directed by Caitlin Murphy. In this one act, 90-minute play, six individuals sign up for a five day silent retreat led by the mysterious “Teacher.” Whether running away from illness, loss, or a series of tragedies, all are in search of enlightenment, to varying degrees of success. It might be obvious to say that in this play, which includes little dialogue, it’s what remains unsaid that counts—but I can’t resist the urge to say it anyway.

The Small Mouth Sounds ensemble has incredible chemistry for a group of people who hardly speak to each other. Each character is given equal weight, even if only a tiny sliver of their story is revealed. This is how Wohl’s piece takes its audience seriously: nothing is ever completely spelled out for us. When the characters are asked by Teacher to write down their “intention” for their stay, we are only fed small hints as to this information. In other pieces, this might feel frustrating—but the mystery and ambiguity here feels natural. Only one character freely volunteers their entire life story in a monologue performed hilariously despite its bleak subject matter by Matthew Gagnon’s Ned.

Certain aspects of the play remain unclear. We are told that the retreat lasts five days, but the passage of time is uncertain, making their departure seem abrupt. Also, the nature of the retreat is a bit confusing. It includes lectures by (supposedly) well-known figures, though their names and the topics of these lectures are unknown. Furthermore, the characters are forbidden to speak except during the Q&A portion of the lectures. Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of a silent retreat? What are the lectures about, and who are the lecturers? And how many people are part of this retreat, anyway?

Luckily, we are too distracted by Murphy’s captivating direction and the cast’s both funny and moving performances to dwell too long on these questions. Each actor has the chance to deliver at least one touching moment, though some occur a bit too early in the play for them to count as character development.

Bruno-Pierre Houle’s set design is both delicate and functional, and the alley seating is used imaginatively and effectively. Martin Sirois’s lighting design and Rob Denton’s sound design interweave the realistic with the atmospheric. Truly, this production is a team effort, and it shows.

In the end, I’m not sure this show quite answers the question in its tagline, “How do you speak your mind when you can’t say a word?” Mostly, this is because almost all of the characters fail to remain silent right off the bat. However, the themes of communication and connection still shine brightly, and this production of Small Mouth Sounds makes for a lovely evening of theatre.

Small Mouth Sounds runs until March 1, 2020 at the Segal Centre. Tickets are $59 general admission, $56 for seniors, and $25 for students and people under 30.

Image source: Segal Centre

Fringeterview #4: Miriam Cummings of The One

Theatre’s always curious about what’s already happening, and technology is happening, and will keep happening.

The One, a one-woman show about the development of a dating app, opened tonight at Le P’tit Impro as part of the St-Ambroise Montreal Fringe Festival. I sat down with producer, playwright, and performer Miriam Cummings to discuss her creative process in developing and performing in this play.

Answers have been edited for clarity.

 

 

In one sentence, what is The One about?

“A woman in her early (late) twenties searches for love in real life (online) while developing the world’s most authentic (fake) dating app.” Jesse [Stong] helped me with that. (Laughs)

Where did the idea for the play come from?

My life. I was writing it before I knew it was a play. It was just stories and poems that were a way for me to release energy in a positive way. I did a lot of app dating, and I used a lot of apps. I kind of felt like a scientist–I saw all these patterns and rituals and really strange but repeated human behaviour that felt pre-planned and ordained somehow, and I spent a lot of time and energy doing it in hopes of meeting a partner, so I kind of felt like I needed something to show for it. But when I was writing these poems and stories I would send them to one friend, and they’d be like, “That’s really funny.” And I’d be like, “Cool.” I’d say that started maybe three or four years ago.

The play was developed at Playwrights’ Workshop Montréal’s Young Creators Unit. What was the writing and dramaturgical process like through the program?

It was so great. I’ve never written a play outside of the context of school. I had the pleasure of working with Kit Brennan a number of times at Concordia, and I started to write a solo show in her class that I actually pitched to Jesse as the project I would work on. I said, “I have this solo show, I started writing it with Kit Brennan, I haven’t touched it in five or six years, but there’s thirteen pages of it. Or this other thing, that’s not really a thing, I don’t know what it is.” And he’s like, “That one!” So it was a good place for me because it’s such a good way to generate material in a really organic-feeling way. For this draft of the play, most of what’s in there I wrote on Wednesday nights from 6 to 9pm, at the Young Creators Unit, and there’s a few remnants of things I wrote three years ago on the metro home from a terrible date.

You wrote the play, and you’re also performing in it. What’s it like making the jump from playwright to performer? Do you have to change hats or are you still a creator in the rehearsal room?

That’s a great question. The jump feels to me like actor to playwright, not the other way around. All my training is in acting. Writing is one of those things I like, but I don’t ever feel qualified to do. Acting is my comfort zone, so I would say the tension between that is like, trying to make it better as an actor instead of making what’s there work. I do definitely have to change hats. I’m also producing it, so it’s a very distinct decision for me, like what hat am I wearing right now? What’s useful for the work? What did we agree to do today?

How do you find working on a show with multiple actors different from working on a show that’s just you?

It’s so different. Everything’s different. It feels like a forty-five minute coaching session. The director, Jessica Abdallah, is wonderful, and we have a lot of the same training. She’ll just make a gesture and a sound and I’ll know exactly what she means, and my experience with that level of attention to detail and transitions and breath is usually in the context of working on a monologue for an audition. But somehow, and I don’t know how she did this, we’re in each moment, breathing each moment, and there’s also a structure and a space that I’m in and a thing I’m doing at all times.

Have you worked with her before, or is this your first time working together?

It’s my first time working with her in this context. She’s the director of the Geordie Theatre School–she created that program from the ground up. She’s a very accomplished artist and skilled administrator, and I’ve known her for a long time, and part of what made me think of her is she just directed Alice Abracen’s What Rough Beast reading at The Centaur. Alice was part of the Young Creators Unit, too, and I loved working with her. I really needed someone in this process who I trusted completely to  be organized, because as producer/actor/playwright, I need someone who’s a full partner in keeping us accountable and on time and doing what we said we were going to do, so I trusted Jessica completely in that sense, and it almost was this beautiful discovery, of like, wow, we are so aligned artistically, and we just understand each other.

What kind of designers are you working with for this show?

It’s a really amazing team. Caite Clark is doing the lighting design at the same time that she is making her directorial debut in the show Tomorrow, by another Young Creator, Ryan Bommarito. I really love working with Caite, we have a great working relationship, and again, she’s making this thing that was only in my head come to life. Jenn Townsend is stage managing, and she is so skilled and such a helpful presence in the room, and very present in her body, which is so key when there’s one actor. I was actually talking about this with my friend yesterday, when it’s a one-person show, it’s basically a duet with the stage manager. The only other person that cues anything that happens is Jenn. She’s pressing the button, but our bodies are connected in space. I’m so glad it’s her, I trust her completely. All the other design, the set and the costumes and props, are a team effort. I would say that I am in some ways the head designer, if I can say that, because the character is very close to me. She’s wearing all my clothes, for example, and her house is very similar to mine, so the armchair in my living room is coming to Le P’tit Impro, but it’s kind of like a sourcing and open discussion of what’s needed.

The show is very much rooted in technology. How do you think technology has changed theatre and the kinds of stories we tell in performance?

I’ll start by saying, my personal philosophy is not that technology is evil or bad or any one blanket statement thing, but that it really highlights what’s already there. I mean, I think technology in a broad sense has elevated the technical production aspects of theatre, the ability to have all these projections and amazing sound design. Theatre’s always curious about what’s already happening, and technology is happening, and will keep happening. I’m working one-on-one with this young artist who showed me this terrifying video of all the changes in the world by 2050, and 2050 is the year that it’s predicted that artificial intelligence will outmatch human intelligence. We are on a path. Not talking about it and not understanding it or trying to understand it won’t make it go away. I think it holds a mirror up to us, and highlights what we’re already doing.

The One runs from June 6 to 16 at Le P’tit Impro. Tickets are $12 General Admission and $10 for Students and Seniors.

Fringeterview #3: Alessandra Tom of Attempts in Flight

“So much of our process has been trying to think about the things that we do in the world and being conscious of the damage we do, and the effort it takes to repair it.”

Music, dance, poetry, movement. This is just some of what makes up Dai Bao Productions’ Attempts in Flight, opening in just a few days. I met with director and company founder Alessandra Tom to discuss working with seven performer-creators to build this devised piece.

Answers have been edited for clarity.

In one sentence, what is Attempts in Flight about?

Attempts in Flight is trying to unpack the damage we do in our relationships and in the world in the limited time we have here on Earth.

What are the origins of this piece? How did it come into being?

So this stemmed from a thought of wanting to do a show that’s devised creation, nine boxes, seven performers. Those were the ingredients we had. What came on first was the team, and then we just started talking about what themes really interest us as artists, the art that we’re inspired by, the art that we want to make as young creators, and then putting that in a mixing pot and figuring out how we can make that possible. We refined the structure of taking a poem, in this case “Lullaby” by W.H. Auden, and pulling out some of the key images from it, and those became the scenes that we were framing this piece with. Then it was colouring in the lines, so what does the line “human” mean? What does “proves the child ephemeral” mean? “Find the mortal world enough” is another one of them. What do those lines mean to us? How do they resonate? And it’s changed quite a bit, but we’ve had a month building and blocking this show.

In terms of the actual process, it sounds like it was very unstructured, but was there a kind of structure to it? Was there a kind of, not a schedule, but a kind of structure to the creation process?

I wouldn’t say there was a hard schedule. It was a lot of improvs, a lot of ensemble work and connecting as a team. Some people in our cast were already friends, and some people were building this working relationship together. But not so much structured. Mainly improvs, mainly viewpoints work, we did some flocking together, a lot of eye contact, and then some of the things that bubbled up in the improvs were really poignant. We always had music in rehearsal as well, and then it was just latching on to whatever we felt really worked in the moment. Then we put it in a Google doc and and started molding the show from there.

What does your role as the director entail?

Because it’s a non-hierarchical process and devised creation, and we’re very fortunate to have artists with so many skill sets, I was able to be a creator and a director. What that meant was creating a container for the work and for the show, and being able to lead in times of insecurity, and obviously, you know, be the outside eye for blocking, but also listening is a crucial part of it, and also trust. As much as they hopefully trust me as the director, it’s more of a conversation and a mutual discussion than “I want you to stand here.” It’s not solely my vision, it’s understanding what we built as a group, and how to best articulate that to an audience.

Your central image are these nine plain boxes. Where did this image come from?

Yes, that is definitely our central design image, and that came from just being inspired by the blocks we have in the studios and what can possibly happen with them. It was an offer. This one image holds so much potential. But I would also say our central image, or at least for me, as a director, is a string, a single string. When we were talking about repair, that came up a lot, of sewing things back together, and being able to hold different fabrics that may not ordinarily be created together. Because some of the actors are playing the same character, it became, this is one string, but you’re different fibers within that one string, so you work together and are going through similar movements.

So all the design elements came from the performer-creators, you don’t have any specific designers for this show?

We don’t have a set designer, costumes are being guided by me, but sometimes an actor comes in wearing a really cool pair of sweatpants, and we’re like, “Those are going in the show!” Elsa [Orme] happens to be a designer who’s worked at Mainline, so she’s going to do our lights. We’re really fortunate with the cast, like Cat[erine Preston] volunteered to run our social media, and in terms of writers we have very musically-capable people in the cast. I mean, that was something I knew when I was choosing actors to work on this show, but also it’s such a gift. Truly, I think the world of all of them.

What do you want the audience to come away with after seeing this show?

Oh, that’s a good one. I want them to come away feeling warmth, but also in a larger sense, so much of our process has been trying to think about the things that we do in the world and being conscious of the damage we do, and the effort it takes to repair it, and it’s not always easy. But I guess knowing that they have a nudge from this group of nine artists to go and repair what they would like to work on. And to call their moms. (Laughs)

Attempts in Flight will be performed at Mainline Theatre as part of the St-Ambroise Montreal Fringe Festival June 6-16. Tickets are $12 general admission and $9 for students and seniors, but no one will be turned away at the door for lack of funds.

Fringeterview #2: Julia Weisser of Culver

I want people to take the Red Pill movement seriously as a threat.

I have the immense pleasure of stage managing a play at the St-Ambroise Montreal Fringe Festival this summer called Culver, a two-hander in which “two co-workers get drawn into very different online worlds in the wake of the #MeToo era.” I sat down with producer, playwright, and director Julia Weisser to talk to them about their process and the topics covered in the show.

Answers have been edited for clarity.

In one sentence, what is Culver about?

JW: Culver is about what happens when two people get so caught up in their own Internet echo chambers that they can no longer speak to one another about the same subject. It’s also about the Me Too movement and the Red Pill movement.

What is the Red Pill movement?

JW: The Red Pill movement is a group of online men’s rights activists that took their metaphor from The Matrix. When you take the blue pill in the movie, you continue on blissfully ignorant. But when you take the red pill, you wake up and you see things how they really are. So these particular men’s rights activists believe that women are actually running the world and that it is men who are oppressed, so they want to get other men to “take the red pill” to see things how they really are. There’s no point trying to have real relationships with women because women are sneaky manipulators, and as sneaky manipulators actually have the upper hand in society.

This is your first time taking part in a Fringe Festival. How have you found it so far?

JW: I already loved the Fringe. I have volunteered at the Fringe Festivals in Toronto, Vancouver, and Montreal. Montreal is my favourite Fringe that I’ve partaken in so far as a volunteer. I’ve done it the past two years, so this is my third year. I’m volunteering as well as producing, and I love it. I think it has a great community feeling to it. Fringe is something where people really come together and are really generous with their time and want to help one another so that we can have the best festival possible.

For many, many months you worked with Camille Fecteau, the dramaturg for this show. Can you explain what her role as dramaturg was and how she helped the development of this play?

JW: Our stage manager, Dani Eyer, maybe you know her (laughs), suggested to me in November that I get a dramaturg, and that hadn’t occurred to me. I had thought, I’ll just do a bunch of workshops with people who’ve heard the play in [Jessica Carmichael’s] playwriting class. It didn’t occur to me to have one person to help me with the text. But it was actually a really, really brilliant idea, because Camille is as committed to this play as I am, and she is as committed to the characters. She knows the characters as intimately as I do. She really wants this play to succeed. She started over Christmas break, and then she went over the text over and over again, making sure that the character arcs and the characters were consistent and coherent. She asked me questions as the playwright when something wasn’t clear, or just ask me questions to get me thinking about the character, why the character would say that, whether it’s important for the character to say that. The play is so much better, and so much more interesting because of her and because of the work that she’s done. I don’t think that people know enough about what dramaturgy is, and I don’t think dramaturgs get enough credit, but as a playwright, I feel as though sometimes you’re in love with your own words, and you have a hard time letting something go. Camille did a lot of things, but one of the things she did was challenge me when something wasn’t really in line, when a line or a paragraph wasn’t really in line with the character.

I’ve noticed that a large portion of our team is made up of women. Was that intentional or did it just sort of happen?

JW: It’s not intentional, it did just sort of happen, but I do think that women and men respond to this play differently, and there’s a lot of other factors to take in besides gender. But if you will permit me to make gross generalizations, I do think women and men as audience members will respond to this play differently. Even in terms of who are my target audience members, my target journalists. When I had to send my press release, when I had a choice of a female-sounding name and a male-sounding name working at the same magazine or institution, I chose the female name, because I think that women are more interested in the topic of Me Too, and also when they see the play, they’re going to see themselves in the play. I hope men see themselves in the play as well, but it’s going to be a different kind of seeing themselves. I think for women it might be more of a relief and for men more challenging.

I assume you would call this a feminist piece of theatre.

JW: I would call it a feminist piece, and I don’t shy away from it. I don’t want people to get the impression that I’m trying to be neutral in this play, or that I’m trying to say that one Internet echo chamber is as bad as the other. I do think as a feminist, my Facebook feed, for example, is a little bit too filled with people who agree with me. I do think that you should stretch yourself, and you should try to form relationships, even superficial ones, with people who don’t think the same as you. But I’m tired of people pretending to be neutral, so I don’t want to give that impression. I want people to know what they’re walking into.

You mentioned that you think women will see themselves, especially in the character of Kelly. What do you want the audience to actually take away when seeing this play?

JW: I would like the audience to think about their relationship with the Internet, the way they use the Internet; to think about their relationships in general, their friendships and their intimate relationships and even their relationships with their family members; and to think about the times in which they are just humouring other people versus the times in which they are challenging other people. I think that the character of Kelly is having a feminist awakening, and she is starting to challenge comments that she might have just let go of, and there are consequences for that. I think that a lot of people don’t know that there are Red Pill-ers out there, that there are men’s rights activists out there. They don’t know that it’s a real thing, or maybe they think that it’s funny. I don’t think that they know that this is serious. I want people to take the Red Pill movement seriously as a threat. This play doesn’t get into the links between the Red Pill men’s rights activists and white supremacy, but there are real links, it is scary, and I think that people should go home and Google that shit. It’s only amplifying. We’re living in a world that’s becoming more and more polarized. The left and the right don’t speak to each other anymore, and again, this isn’t a play about how we should all just become centrists. That could be somebody else’s play, but that’s not my play. However, I do think that the threat is real. I didn’t make anything up in this play. Everything is based on real comments that I’ve read on the Internet or real conversations that I have either heard or been privy to second-hand. I’m not exaggerating anything, so if people weren’t aware that this is a thing, I want them to know that it is so they can be prepared, and maybe think about if they want to fight back and in what way.

Culver will be playing at Le P’tit Impro on St-Laurent as part of the St-Ambroise Montreal Fringe Festival June 7-16. Tickets are $10 general admission and $8 for students, seniors, and QDF members. Buy tickets here and check out the Facebook event here.

Fringeterview #1: Ella Kohlmann and Madie Jolliffe of Exits

In my experience, and I know other people’s experience, of interpreting literature as a queer person, sometimes it’s important to try to put yourself into these texts that aren’t for you.

A young girl runs away from home with nothing but a copy of Herman Melville’s Moby Dick and the ghost of her eleven-year-old self. That’s an abridged summary of Exits, being produced at the St-Ambroise Montreal Fringe Festival in June. I sat down with playwright and actor Ella Kohlmann and director Madie Jolliffe to discuss this coming-of-age play.

Answers have been edited for clarity.

Can each of you describe in one sentence what Exits is about?

EK: I mean, the one that I always use is, “It’s a queer coming of age story about graffiti, Moby Dick, and running away.”

MJ: It’s about dealing with all the big questions while also having to deal with not being straight while growing up.

Ella, you not only wrote the play but you also play the main character. What was it like making the jump from playwright to actor?

EK: Weird, but fun. I think the main thing is I had to get to a point with the script where I felt comfortable enough with the text that I could just go, “All right, it’s done, here we go,” and put my actor hat on. I also just feel really supported by the crew I’m working with, and Madie’s a really great director, so I feel like I’m in a safe and comfortable place to let it be something that I’m no longer nit-picking at and to just have this role instead of such a control-y one.

This play is being produced thanks to the Concordia Association of Students in Theatre. I’m curious to know, what was their reaction to this play when they accepted it? I guess, what was their reaction and what was your reaction as well?

MJ: Their reaction was just “yes” basically. They just said, “Yeah, you get to do it.” But talking to members of CAST they said they were really excited. I was super thankful because I’m graduating from the department, and because I’m not a performer, I didn’t get a big, final production. This feels like a Concordia thing because everyone we’re working with, even our minor, we’re working with because of Concordia. It feels to me like we’re being recognized before I leave.

EK: It felt like a really good opportunity to do something outside of school that still feels supported by school, like a kind of safety net. Money support, of course, is nice, but also to feel like there’s this community here that we feel we can go back to.

Madie, what drew you to this piece as a director?

MJ: Lots of things. Number one was just, Ella, we’ve been working together for a couple of years now. How fun is that to say?

EK: Time isn’t real.

Laughter.

MJ: Ella and I work well together and I’ve gotten to see a lot of Ella’s writing come to life in different ways in different classes. Being in the Young Creators Unit [at Playwrights Workshop Montréal] together, I’ve gotten hints of the show. I think Ella’s one of the best writers I know, so when she was like, “Hey do you want to direct my play for something?”

EK: This was before Fringe, I was just like, “I want Madie to direct!”

MJ: It felt really nice that I was the one that Ella wanted. I’ve been directing a lot of shows recently that have been the writer performing in it and being in the rehearsal room, so I feel like I’ve had practice negotiating that relationship. This is a pretty big piece, but I felt comfy in doing it with Ella because of how we’ve worked together before. But it was also the show itself. As a queer person, it took so long to sort out that part of me. I’ve never even seen a show about a queer young person before. So just that aspect alone, I’m like, “This is a show that has to be onstage.” But there was also a lot of space for me to interpret it and put my own artistic style on it.

Laughter.

EK: Our lighting and sound designer, Amy [White], has been really amazing. It’s been gift after gift after gift that I’m getting from her, because I’ll write a stage direction and be like “This is the vibe or the feeling,” or I write something poetic that I want from it, and then she’ll come in and be like, “It’s underwater,” or “It’s this, that, we’re doing these things with lights!” And it’s like, wow, you understand! I’m not very prescriptive; I like to keep things open to interpretation.

This was part of Playwrights’ Workshop Montréal’s Queer Reading Series back in January/February—yours was January 31st—how instrumental was PWM in helping develop this play?

EK: So instrumental. I technically started writing this piece when I was seventeen, when I was in grade twelve. It sat on my computer for a little while after that. I came back to it because I joined the Young Creators Unit two years ago, and I was like, “I have this rough thing that is not quite a play yet that I would love to go back to and turn into a play.” Jesse Stong from Playwrights’ Workshop and the Young Creators Unit dramaturged it with me and was super instrumental in me figuring out what I wanted out of this piece. Also being able to put it up in the Reading Series was so useful both for me in my process of writing and seeing it put on its feet. I’m acting in it now, but I didn’t act in it in the Reading Series, so that is another reason why the transition was easy for me, because I got to see it realized by someone else.

MJ: I went to the Reading Series. I hadn’t touched the play yet—I had read it and done my own work on it, but I hadn’t really talked to Sarah [Segal-Lazar] who directed it, so getting to see it, a lot of beautiful little details came out of the reading that were surprising, like the way they did the spray paint. It was different from what Ella and I were envisioning, but it was super beautiful, so we’re stealing that. Laughs.

What was it like going back to a play that you started when you were seventeen? Do you feel like you’re playing your seventeen-year-old self? Or has it evolved passed that?

EK: I mean, yes. This is the play that I taught myself how to write plays by writing, because it’s the first play I had ever written. It’s not literally me, obviously: I never ran away from home, I never met a girl doing graffiti in a back alleyway, I never read Moby Dick when I was seventeen, but there’s a lot of myself in the character. In the play, the seventeen-year-old character is having conversations with her eleven-year-old self, and in working on this play and performing it now it feels like I at twenty-one am having a conversation with my seventeen-year-old self. I think a lot of the reasons I came back to it was because I wanted to write something for me back then and for people like me. If you feel like you’re not seeing yourself onstage or in art it can feel really isolating to not know where you fit inside of stories. Another part of what I’m exploring with this piece is, “What does it mean to feel really connected to works of art—in this case it’s Moby Dick—but that isn’t necessarily written for you?” I don’t think Herman Melville was like, “Ah yes, a seventeen-year-old lesbian in 2019 is going to be really invested in my book about whaling, but she is, and she’s finding ways to see herself in it and interpret her own life in it, and I think there’s something really vital about that. In my experience, and I know other people’s experience, of interpreting literature as a queer person, sometimes it’s important to try to put yourself into these texts that aren’t for you. But then at the same time it sucks to have to do that work, when you aren’t seeing these stories.

My last question is, how important was it for you to put together a group of queer artists to work on this show?

EK: I think part of it is feeling like I’m working with people who understand the things that I’m exploring. But also in a very straight-white-male-dominated industry, it’s always good to make sure that you’re giving space and opportunity to diverse voices. One of the most exciting parts of working on this piece is working with Oli [Hausknost], who is our fourteen-year-old who is playing Young Rachel. It would feel really hypocritical to tell this story and not have the people who are telling it be part of this community.

MJ: It was also lucky. I feel like we’re so plugged into a queer network, too, so we were like, “Who do we want to work with on this? Oh, they just happen to be gay!” Finding Oli was such a precious thing because sometimes working with minors, you have to consider so many things, like what is someone’s exposure to gayness in the world? What is that for them? So that was really special, to find someone who could engage with the content as a young person, because they’re just so much more self-aware than I was at that age, so it was really refreshing.

EK: The kids are alright.

Catch Exits at the St-Ambroise Montreal Fringe Festival June 7-16 at Mainline Theatre. Buy tickets here and check out the Facebook event here.

Children of God at the Segal Centre – Montreal

I am sometimes hesitant to review (and criticize) a show telling a narrative that is profoundly not mine. And I think I’m still trying to figure out why that is. Maybe it’s that I’m afraid of negatively reviewing a piece and losing sight of my own privilege. I still wonder if it’s wrong to criticizing something without acknowledging your relationship, or, more likely, your lack of relationship to the issues addressed.

This is why I went in to Children of God feeling anxious about reviewing this show, worried that my review would make me seem that I let my privilege cloud my judgement. I am very happy to say that I don’t need to worry about that.

Wow. Just, wow. I went in with high expectations, knowing that the vast majority of critics raved about this show – and I was not disappointed.

Knowing this musical was about the reservations schools, I went in ready to cry. What surprised me was that it wasn’t the moments of despair that affected me most, but the moments of pure, innocent joy shared by the children. There was something about finding solace in the worst of situations. These small triumphs made the piece all the more devastating, knowing as an audience that this unadulterated happiness won’t last.

The story of Children of God is split into two timelines: one in the 50’s, I believe, about the children forced into reservation schools; and the other years later, when one of the survivors goes to a job interview in the hope of putting his life back together while he tries to cope with his past trauma. Using two timelines can be tricky, but Corey Payette’s (also the composer, lyricist, and director) book is brilliantly paced, slowly offering the audience small hints as to what conspired in the school while not giving everything away. We are fed the story little by little without feeling as if we are intentionally being left in the dark.

The timelines also serve to show how Tommy, one of the children in the reservation school, becomes the adult Tom, struggling with alcoholism, anger management issues, and overall bitterness. We really see the contrast between these two selves and how Tom’s experiences have slowly chipped away at his innocence and optimism.

Speaking of Tom, the actor in this role, Dillan Chiblow, is an absolute standout in this cast. He switches from Tommy to Tom so effortlessly, they might be played by two entirely different actors. He is electrifying in every moment of his stage time. Cheyenne Scott as Tommy’s sister Julia and Michelle St. John as Rita, are also exceptional – the strength behind Scott’s Julia outshines the character’s victimhood, and St. John stands strong and proud, an unbending force, as the siblings’ mother.

This show is a whirlwind of movement. The transitions are fluid and theatrical – my favourite kinds of transitions. Choreographed costume changes occur onstage and set pieces roll in and out, dance-like.

Of course, you can’t talk about a musical without addressing the music, and Payette’s score is sublime. The band consists of only a piano, a guitar, a violin, and a cello, but their music fills the entire space despite the possible thinness of sound that often occurs with a smaller band. The music is a blend of Indigenous music and more contemporary sounds – for people who are well-versed in contemporary musical theatre, I was reminded of the work of Miller and Tysen (Fugitive Songs, The Burnt Part Boys), who are two of my favourite composer/lyricists.

(Very mild spoiler ahead, feel free to skip this paragraph.) My only critique would be the stage time and plot importance given to Sister Bernadette (Sarah Carlé). I understand that her change of heart is integral to the plot, but I didn’t find her second-act solo particularly engaging, and it was perhaps a smidge too long. Maybe I was just too invested in the other characters to want to spend any time seeing Sister Bernadette evolve as a character. But this is such a tiny aspect of the show that it’s almost inconsequential.

Children of God is just a beautiful, beautiful piece. Expertly crafted, splendidly executed, eliciting laughter and tears from the audience. It is an invitation into this community, a reminder of our brutal national history, and a statement of hope for future forgiveness and reconciliation. It is a healing experience, and so relevant in our current government that refuses to acknowledge the thousands of missing and murdered Indigenous women. This show is necessary, and I am so happy that it is getting the attention and praise it deserves. Here’s hoping all this will continue to spread across the country in the years to come.

Children of God will play through to February 10th at the Segal Centre. Tickets depend on seating, but as always there are discounts for seniors, those under 30, and students.

A Doll’s House Part 2 at Segal Centre – Montreal

Confession of an embarrassed theatre major: I haven’t read Henrik Ibsen’s A Doll’s House. That is, until I saw that the Segal Centre was doing A Doll’s House Part 2 by Lucas Hnath, which I’d remembered from its 2017 Broadway run after it had received eight Tony nominations.

So I buckled down and finally read it, and without going into too much detail, it was pretty much what I had expected: somewhat of a dull plot (not a big naturalism fan) but with a fantastic final act. I knew the ending, of course; it’s not a spoiler alert when I say it ends with Nora leaving her husband, Torvald.

And so I went in properly prepared, and left with quite a lot of thoughts about the show.

I want to begin by saying that I was thoroughly entertained. The show doesn’t lag, it is peppered with humour, the simplicity of the staging – a room empty but for two chairs – is compelling.

But mostly I left asking myself, Why this play? Why put it on today? What is the point?

I’ve come to the conclusion that the main problem with this production is that it’s just not a particularly good play. Let’s start with plot: fifteen years after leaving her husband, Nora returns to her old house. She’s done quite well – she’s become a successful novelist, though a controversial one, writing books about liberated women who leave their husbands. The problem, exactly as in the original, is that she has unknowingly, accidentally committed fraud. Thinking that she and Torvald are divorced, she signed contracts without his permission, which is illegal if she’s married. She is at risk of having her life destroyed because of this, so she returns home to demand a divorce from Torvald.

Only, Torvald is still resentful toward her for leaving him, and refuses.

That’s the general premise. Throughout the play, she pleads with the old housekeeper to help her convince Torvald, meets with her grown-up daughter for the same reason, and argues with Torvald, ending in a hilarious climactic scene.

It is so bizarre for me to say that Oliver Becker’s Torvald is the best part of the play, when he’s (I can somewhat confidently say) the most hated character in the original. Becker had the entire audience rocking in their seats from laughter. Meanwhile, Sarah Constible’s Nora grew on me throughout the play, her inflated, unbridled emotions contrasting with her daughter Emmy’s (played by Ellie Moon) restrained nature. It had a superbly strong cast, with strong direction by Caitlin Murphy, this play being her professional debut as a director. The set departs from the realism of Iben’s A Doll’s House, aesthetically juxtaposed with the gorgeous period costumes. Overall, a strong production. But I can’t quite keep myself from coming back to the play itself.

The play asks all the right questions that the original play left ambiguous: What happened to Nora after she left? What happened to her motherless kids? How did Torvald explain Nora’s disappearance without humiliating himself?

But is that enough justification to warrant an entire play about it? My main issue here is that this play doesn’t say anything new. Where Ibsen’s play was controversial in its time for depicting an independent woman, this one fails to do that. Today there is very little that is controversial about a woman freed of her husband’s bonds, even if she is openly anti-marriage. On this topic, the play doesn’t take a particular position – instead focusing on the nuance of personal relationships, which is maybe better than a set doctrine. Still, I’m having a hard time understanding why this play is relevant today. It’s such a recent piece, but I don’t see the justification for producing it – other than the fact that it’s a safe show to produce (the connection with Ibsen guarantees audience interest and attendance).

My theatregoing companion and I eventually came to the conclusion that the things that this play is trying to do – especially in terms of making Torvald a more nuanced, sympathetic character – could simply be achieved in a well-directed production of A Doll’s House. This play has little other justification for existing and being worthwhile to produce.

It’s an enjoyable production. It’s worth seeing. It’s just not quite worth thinking about too hard.

A Doll’s House Part 2 will be playing through to December 9 at the Segal Centre. Tickets are $55 general admission, $52 for seniors, $30 for under 30, and $25 for students.