By Susan Froyd
By Byron Graham
By Robin Edwards
By Bree Davies
By Josiah M. Hesse
By Bree Davies
By Susan Froyd
By Kate Gibbons
You'd think that plays about dysfunctional families and "personal identity issues" would have run their course by now. Well, think again, Oprah fans. Just when it seemed as if America's collective navel-picking and self-pity-partying were headed for the theatrical graveyard, along come a couple of local productions that resurrect our nagging tendency to analyze ourselves to death even before we've lived through a decent midlife crisis or two.
The good news is that both of these shows are comedies. And while each work's particular litany of neuroses is different in style and tone, both productions make you wonder whether our curiosity about behavioral psychology is a healthy interest or a debilitating obsession. As an added bonus, both shows are being presented in Boulder--the perfect place for perfected self-absorption--which may account for the fact that even their lamer passages of psychobabble contain a ring of truth.
The relentless pursuit and avoidance of such truth underscores all of the action in the Boulder Museum of Contemporary Art's presentation of Two Women Avoiding Involuntary Hospitalization (a hormonal cabaret). Written and performed by Nancy Cranbourne and Patti Dobrowolski, who each portray several different guests (including themselves) at a self-actualization farm, the two-hour comedy revue takes a few good-natured pokes at, among other things, menopause, dieting, sexuality and self-help authors.
In one of the first sketches, truth becomes such a valuable commodity that one camper, pausing to consider the amount of money she's spending to become a better her, turns to her Camp Singing Pines bunkmate and asks, "I wonder what that works out to be per experience?" A few moments later, the roomies reveal that they've each smuggled a cache of junk food into the heavily guarded compound. (After all, who can survive for an entire week on a strict diet of Tofu Surprise?) In a mock duel of sorts, the two reach underneath their respective beds and pull out small and then large coolers full of contraband, a predictable bit of slapstick that elicits howls from audience members poised to cackle their heads off at the cheesiest sight gag or one-liner.
For example, Dobrowolski delivers a drawn-out monologue about a supermarket checkout boy that nearly lulls us to sleep. But the punchline--"He called me 'ma'am'!"--produces plenty of chuckles. During one scene about food cravings, Cranbourne holds up a waffle iron she's sneaked into the cabin, and theatergoers scream and giggle with delight at the mere sight of a kitchen appliance. And when the girls gather in a circle to perform interpretive dance routines, the audience is nearly in hysterics as Cranbourne shows us her version of a chipmunk. Never mind that the actress has already established her character's extreme shyness, as well as her reluctance to follow her group leader's instructions. Once Cranbourne begins her dance, the exhibitionist within her is magically freed, and the former wallflower is inexplicably emboldened to frolic and cavort with a bucked-toothed, puffed-up grin on her face. While that's funny enough on its own, it doesn't make much sense given what we know about Cranbourne's character; nor does the experience seem to alter her in any way. It's as if Cranbourne is performing to earn our laughter instead of being truthful to her character's wish to survive an idiotic class assignment--which would probably be an even funnier choice. Then again, little in this patchwork show follows a clear, comic progression of believable characters.
That's not necessarily a bad thing, since most spectators seem more than content to revel in the delightful interplay and remarkable physical antics of these talented comediennes. And the minute you stop expecting this collection of extended bits to bear any resemblance to a play, the easier it is to accept the evening as the hit-and-miss nightclub act it eventually becomes. Still, some of the sketches--such as a trust-fall episode that goes nowhere and a Texan makeup artist's fluffy musings--could use some weight, and most of the other scenes would benefit from some added comic punch.
To that end, Cranbourne and Dobrowolski might want to insert a couple of heart-to-heart episodes in which characters too often played for laughs reveal themselves in less predictable and more substantial ways. True, it's always tricky to mix serious material with the funny stuff, but it's not as if the show were already a runaway freight train of yuks. And the two actresses are certainly likable and accomplished enough to warrant a dramatic departure or two that would reinforce director Molly Thompson's skeletal comic framework.
In fact, as the show wears on, each cartoonish caricature does acquire a few more endearing, true-to-life qualities. Even the camp "counselors" (two British-accented sadists and a savvy self-help author who discovers her affinity for an angry, undersexed lesbian named Jane) become more consumed with their own personalities to the point that the comedy begins to arise from the characters' situations as opposed to the performers' commentary. In that spirit, why not insert a couple of foreboding téte-à-tétes between Jane and her lover-to-be in Act One and then capitalize on those setups during Jane's well-acted "confrontation" scene with her scribe in Act Two? And what about orchestrating an earlier group scene in which all of the characters interact so rapidly that we get a sense of what it's like when a group of women bent on getting in touch with their bodies and their higher selves are forced to actually cope with everyone else's identity crises?
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