“Firebugs”
When a play’s got too much metaphorical gasoline, it burns itself down.
Such is the case with “Firebugs.”
Max Frisch’s script is all over the place. It tries its hand at a hissing Greek chorus of firemen who lament the fall of man in an obtuse Holocaust-like world and a drawn-out mondo-Greek tragedy.
As either, it’s really hard to care.
It’s not that weird, but the cast seems to think it is. They try to constantly remind you of the weird world they occupy, a world that proves detrimental after a while.
Dystopia? Check. Heavy-handed metaphors for the evils of the Nazis and Communism? Check. It’s like an inverted “Mad Max,” with too much gas instead of too little.
The semi-constant physical comedy is stilled and bombastic, and a little painful to observe, like watching an overstuffed popcorn maker jump around just waiting to explode.
The majority of the speech is weirdly stunted, too. Maybe it’s a stylistic choice, but most of it ends up falling flat and sounding bad.
William Johnson’s character is certainly odd (like the rest of it), but definitely the most intriguing to watch. He’s plays an impy little deviant, and his choices as an actor are certainly the most interesting in the cast.
Technically, the show is exceedingly strong — a jungle-gym set composed of fire poles and wood planks (conceived by Christopher Sousa-Wynn) with fascinating light (John Aspholm) and sound (Bill Clark) design. The technical aspects are creative and disorienting in the best possible way.
The alien nature of the play is most definitely physically represented in splendor, giving the onesie-bound firemen something to bounce around on while speaking listless words to you.
And since this is a school production, unlike the many local community theaters that struggle for volunteers, certainly no shortage of techies exists to fill every niche — and then some. They clearly put many hours of class time into the realization and execution of all its parts.
However, the musical selections for pre-show and curtain call are uninspired, as though someone just did a search for “fire” in their iTunes database and called it a day.
The monotony is, luckily, broken up by the bizarre but nevertheless entertaining arrival of a policeman (Travis Sweatte) looking more like Hot Cop, complete with a 70s porn star mustache and his very own onesie.
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Though, if someone wanted dystopian fire metaphors, they probably should have stuck to Fahrenheit 451.
“Chicago”
“Chicago” brews up jazz that’s twice as strong as a barrel full of moonshine in a show flashier than a bootlegger’s gold rings.
The chorus of supportive dancer/singers is keen, and the majority of the chorus is more interesting than the two main broads they’re meant to be backing up.
The fellas in chorus are clearly having the most fun onstage. Maybe a little too much fun, at times, as they are sometimes to the point of being goofier than a gin mill.
The band is lovely and live, and thank god for that. The show very well could have been all wet if they had just employed a recording. The running themes of show biz and music of the day would have been lost on us saps without the exuberance of the explosive horn. The band leader (Darby Fegan) is practically a character himself, announcing lines as the ringmaster of the nonstop media circus.
Not a lot of dialogue exists outside the songs, which may surprise some people. It’s a good thing, since the little bit there is is poorly delivered. Most of the performers are dancers, not actors, and the spectacle of their stomping is the bee’s knees, a talent that shows the actors paid their dues in rehearsal.
Not all the acting is a waste: Dehron Foster and Michael Finnegan are on the trolley from their inception, ducky as hell and nailing their songs to boot.
But it’s Mama (Tahrih Koller) that’s the real McCoy. She doesn’t need to flash her gams to give off the reek of sex, and it’s her solo song that’s truly the cat’s pajamas.
The older cat, dolled up like a dame (O. Benenati Tenorio), is real hip, but spills his lines too harshly to be understood most of the time, particularly when singing. Still, it’s always funny for a fella to be dressed up like a moll.
“Chicago” is a ritzy affair, full of killer footwork, hot tunes and beautiful women. It’ll give you the heebie-jeebies, making out as both the cat’s meow and its whiskers.
