By Show and Tell
By Bree Davies
By Bree Davies
By Cory Casciato
By Emilie Johnson
By Robin Edwards
By Bree Davis
By Josiah M. Hesse
Dobrowolski describes a lonely childhood year and her participation in a school play, when she fell in love with her role as Running Bear, an Indian boy, and realized -- half-comprehendingly and amid the jeers of her schoolmates -- that she was gay. Dobrowolski, too, is capable of inspired mime, at one point describing a teacher's dangling red earrings as wrecking balls and moving her head slowly from side to side to demonstrate their heavy motion.
Only Cranbourne could watch a production of Wit and -- as the protagonist rises from her deathbed into a heavenly cone of light and the rest of the audience weeps helplessly -- find herself fixated on the actress's "gorgeous fake breasts."
Both women describe jobs as artists in residence -- Dobrowolski in a small, conservative town, Cranbourne in a summer dance program that yielded two students. That year, Cranbourne sank into a depression so profound that her host family's furry white pillows terrified her. It took a phone call from her mother to restore her to herself.
Dobrowolski takes care of her long-estranged sister, who has had a grueling operation to straighten her scoliotic spine and replace her ribs, and that becomes the beginning of their reconciliation. But the sister can't attend this play, because she still has trouble getting through security when she travels: "Ma'am, could you step over here, please, and remove your rib cage?"
Then there's an extraordinary scene in which Cranbourne recollects being on a plane with her mother. She has communicated her mother's persona to us earlier as chatty, scatty and kindly. On the plane, her mother muddles ideas together, loses her train of thought and hops from subject to subject. The way Cranbourne plays this is so amusing that it's some time before we realize -- apparently in tandem with Cranbourne herself -- that something is seriously wrong.
A theme is emerging. It involves mothers, as a program note confirms, but I think it's also about tenderness in general, the difficulties posed by long-term relationships and the redemptive power of love. This could be sentimental, but these two women are too witty and idiosyncratic for that.
Dobrowolski and Cranbourne improvise their scripts, then prune and shape them with the help of a third longtime collaborator, Molly Thompson. As with Two Women, I had trouble determining whether the material was as clever as it seemed (though there's no doubt that it's sometimes intensely so). These women are such superb performers that they could carry off anything. Dobrowolski plays now a grown woman, now a crying child. She knows when to pull out all the stops and when to be subtle. Cranbourne has a style that's all her own -- caustic, irreverent, but brimming with feeling. She can literally entrance an audience; you feel that humming electric silence when she's coming close to the bone.
"They should have put this piece last," I whispered to my companion at the intermission. "There's no way anyone can follow it."
My mistake. Next up is dancer and performance artist Michelle Spencer Ellsworth in a piece called Six Points. She drinks toilet water from a pristine bowl on stage; her face, mouth silently moving, is projected onto the inside of its lid. She speaks on the phone to one of her three daughters, who's forged a knife and killed her father with it. Ellsworth's a gladiator. We know this because she tells us, and because she's wearing a leather belt and leg guards. She also talks to God, who answers her. God sounds female and has only one word: "No." Eventually, like the maiden in the folk song "Oh, No, John!," Ellsworth figures out how to turn this to her own advantage, posing theories that she wants contradicted. Then there are six little water-filled balloons and.... But what's the point of going on? No words can communicate the flavor of this event, nor of the longer piece with which Ellsworth follows it.