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[allswellthatendswithmonique]

WAITING FOR MONIQUE, or I saw Quill’s Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead.

My Sunday was strange. Strange as in confusing. Confounding.  

I found myself at a center Jesus might have founded.  He was a carpenter, after all.   But it is no longer a Center.  Or THE Center.  No, it has been relegated to a theatre.  While the Center is now named for the electric company.  

Should I go in? Heads, yes; tails, no.  Heads, it is.

So, I did.  And I climbed the stairs that connected the sidewalk and the theatre, burning my bridges and testing my waterproof mascara with the smoke.

And they were waiting for me.  Actors. Wearing their daily masks.  I have seen a lot of plays.  I knew what to expect.

And yet, there were a lot of words being thrown at me, and everyone was dressed Shakespearean but me.  Strange costuming choice, but life in distressed jeans is better than no life at all.  And at least there was something to latch onto. I was clearly performing in a play. Thank heavens.  This I understood, even if I had to improvise.  I’m expected to laugh and clap and pay attention. Excellent.

And indeed, I was not far off with my discussion of improvising.  While waiting for the plot to coalesce, two of the actors decided to entertain with the Questions game.  Did Stoppard invent this?  Whose Line Is It Anyway?

And then the lights came on, reality was over.  My costars were gone, presumably to the dressing room, which nobody bothered to show me.  I panicked, because, while my make-up could certainly have used a touch up, I feared that perhaps I was dead.  The dead need no make-up.  Is intermission death?  I doubt it . . . death probably wouldn’t include a cash bar.

Act II.  My performance is now more nuanced.  I think I have it figured out.  I questioned my direction, as I really had no conception of my character.  Why was I at the play?  Didn’t I buy a ticket?  Did I have enough money?  What is money?  Can you wait a second?  What’s on second?  Abbott and Costello Foul!!

And then, another intermission.  I exited the theatre, which thankfully was the entrance into the lobby.  I hoped it would be the same in reverse, and it was.

Act III.  While I only had scraps of information to so conclude, I believed strongly that this was the last Act.  I half-remembered notes I had received when I rehearsed another play – but decided to rely on my actor instinct, because I feel notes are best left unremembered.  

“Monique, hi!!!  How are you??”

Thank heavens for a framing device.  I had to be alive at the end of the play so that someone who looked vaguely familiar but whose name I had forgotten could say hello to me.  

I’m afraid it was my best performance.  I’m afraid it wasn’t.

[allswellthatendswithmonique]

Monique’s Top Ten

It’s that time of year when we all reflect on the year that was and make our top ten lists.  As you can imagine, it was actually very difficult for me to pare down my list to just 10 roles.  I also faced issues of what constituted a role . . . as my fans are well aware, I perform an improvised one-woman show on a daily basis. You may remember my triumphs in Monique Buys a Shower Curtain and Monique and the Waiter Engage in Small Talk, or of course my acclaimed performance piece Monique, Dream or Nightmare?

However, many of the unenlightened believe that improvised acting is not acting at all, or if they see one show, they have seen them all and there is no reason to return even though it is in fact a different show every time and there is a lot of skill and practice involved in creating an improvised show and even though nobody will review it because they relegate it to “comedy,” like stand-up, improv is a very visceral art, much more similar to theatre than to stand-up and, in some cities, the improv and theatre communities are much more intertwined and the similarities and comparable skills are celebrated and supported, because honestly lots can be learned about “being in the moment” watching talented improvisers do their thing. 

But I digress. 

May I present Monique, Ten Performances That Changed the World . . . in 2019.

1.     Monique in Urinetown at TheatreLab.  My performance as a citizen of an icky town of fishnet stockings and expressions reminiscent of the national cheerleading finals (one would think cheerleaders would be happy, but if you’ve ever watched those tournaments, they all cultivate an “Don’t Come For Me Unless I’ve Sent You An Engraved Invitation” look) stunned even the other actors.  One of them actually had to drop character and rip up my prop program, clearly because she felt upstaged by my fishnets.  In case you were wondering, I thought outside the box and constructed my costume out of fishing nets and live and almost dead and surely dead fish.

2.    Monique in Once at Virginia Rep.  My performance as Girl was highly lauded.  Now, to be fair, there was another actress also playing a character named Girl.  But I am a Girl, and I was at the show.

3.    Monique in Every Brilliant Thing at HATTheatre.  While I am always delighted to perform in HATTheatre’s charming black box, I must honestly say that, crazy as it sounds, the producers must not have been familiar with my previous work.   They clearly were not convinced that I was professional and would obviously be off book. Instead, they handed me my lines (along with a cue number) when I arrived.  Naturally, I tore them up and delivered my lines when, and only when, the moment was correct.  The dramatic pauses were achingly anticipatory.  Unfortunately, many others remained on book.  Sad.

4.    Monique in The Mystery of Edwin Drood at Swift Creek.  I voted for myself.  Rosa Bud is a well-known Russian operative, and I do not accept my defeat.  I feel strongly that, even though I may have lost the popular vote, the electrician’s collage would have named me the winner. I’ve never really understood how the electrician’s collage works, but it sounds like a blue-collar vision board, which I fully support.

5.    Monique in Falsettos at Richmond Triangle Players.  Four Jews in a room bitching.  None of them actually on stage, but me and a few other tribe members appreciated the shout out.  

6.    Monique in Lost Boy at Whole Foods.  I was practicing my drag and became confused in the organic kelp granule aisle. Riveting, I am told.

7.    Monique in Taming of the Shrew at Quill Theatre.  I was pleased to lead a protest against this shrew-shaming show.  Bullies of any kind are unacceptable.  What’s next?  Mean-shaming?  Forgerer-shaming?  Wicked stepmother-shaming?  The protest began with a fruit and cheese spread on the lawn of Agecroft and ended with the protestors rising to their feet and slapping the palms of their hands together in a heartwarming show of solidarity for shrews everywhere.  Now that I have shined a light on this oppressed group, catch my upcoming performances in A Shrew, Good Men; The Shrew Story; and Shrew Christmas.

8.    Monique in Seven Homeless Mammoths Wander New England at Richmond Triangle Players. A very challenging role where I looked as though I was a woman in the audience of a show in Scott’s Addition, but all my lines were lines of audience members around me, and I was frozen in one position.  Very, very challenging.  And I wore fur.

9.    Monique in Cinderella at Virginia Rep.  With a different costume for each act, as well as a “traveling” costume for my end-of-show exit, I performed the near impossible.  I changed my costume right in my seat in the audience to gasps and complaints.  It’s true that my costume changes were not quite as smooth or fast as Cinderella’s, but then she was the title character.  Good for her.  I chose the more challenging role of Patron Whobravedalotofpuddlesdowntown.  The budget for my costumes may not have been as large as Cinderella’s, but, ask the patron in D8, sometimes using “look over there” as misdirection can work just as well as a fortune’s worth of snaps, ties, and Velcro.

10.  Monique in BINGO at CAT Theatre.  I received so many varied compliments on my performance as Bingo Winner Eating Popcorn it’s hard to narrow down why this performance touched so many.  It may have something to do with my good luck charms:  a botox syringe, my mink ballgown, and the aromatherapy wind chime I hung above my seat.  

Happy New Year Everyone!    

[allswellthatendswithmonique]

Holmes Is Every Man

My loyal readers know that I am a huge proponent of blind casting.  For those new to my column, I am not referring to an open call for Wait Until Dark. Instead, I mean that well-preserved women of a certain age should be considered for all parts -- gender and age be damned.

So, imagine how delighted I was to audition for the part of Sherlock Holmes in Swift Creek Mill Theatre’s Holmes and Watson by Jeffrey Hatcher.  The competition was quite stiff, as the theatre was just littered with Holmes’ wannabees.  In fact, when I arrived, there were Holmes of every shape and size eating together in the dining room.  Just delightful.  Now, I’m not sure why we were all scheduled to read together at 2:30 in the afternoon, but I was happy to view the competition, have time to attend my aerial step class first, and nosh on some pickled watermelon.  

You may be one of those close-minded creatives who feel that characters should look a certain way or that scripts should make sense.  BAH!  I pity you. Who says Sherlock Holmes has to be a specific age?  Why he might be 70 or 15 or anywhere in between! Who’s to say?  He’s a fictional character, after all.  Who says that Sherlock Holmes must be tall or short, thin or stocky? In fact, who says that Sherlock Holmes has to be able to speak, hear or see??  That Conan Doyle fellow, I suppose, but other than that, who says?  And most importantly, who says that Sherlock Holmes has to be a man?  It’s the 1890’s!  Women can smoke a pipe and wear a mutton chop disguise as well as any man!

And I found it just delightful that this new script allows Watson to not remember the weight, height, age, or facial construction of his good friend.  Now, to be fair, there were auditions happening for Watson, as well, so perhaps the actor cast will make different choices regarding Watson’s memory than the actor I saw reading for the part.  Watson was clearly the supporting part, because there were only two auditionees.  I, of course, only bring out my inner testosterone for leading parts, but I can report, to my glee, that apparently nobody knows what Watson looks like either!! The two men auditioning were different in height, weight, and accent!  Honestly, the future of theatre is so wonderful – boundaries are being broken right and left.

You are surely wondering how my audition went.  To be honest, I was actually quite satisfied. Now, for clarity’s sake, I should probably let you know that the script calls for Sherlock Holmes to be in disguise.  Well, I sat in the theatre seats with hundreds of other auditionees, and I am happy to report that NOBODY ELSE THERE THOUGHT I WAS SHERLOCK HOLMES.  Success, indeed!  

The auditions ran for nearly a month, and I have not heard Swift Creek announce the start of rehearsals or the run of the actual show.  However, I will surely let my readers know when the performances are announced.  Until then, I shall be researching how a great detective unwinds with cocaine. What ho!

[allswellthatendswithmonique]

Eyes Wide Shut Casting

Casting is a minefield these days.  Actors who accept jobs with different ethnic backgrounds, gender expressions, religion, national origin, or able-bodiedness may be subject to criticism.  This gives me horrifying nightmares because (1) it may limit the roles for ME and (2) I do not appreciate criticism. 

Perhaps this is why I was thrilled with the blind casting at work in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory at the Altria Theater.  Nothing makes me happier than adults cast as children. And it’s not just because it is hard to believe me as any character older than 23 (18 when I’ve had my recommended 20 hours of sleep).  It is also that . . . well, actually, that IS why.  In today’s politically correct casting world, a youthful visage is a curse. 

In Charlie, a show where the casting director was clearly looking out for well-preserved actresses of a certain age, all the children were played by adults.  The actor playing Charlie Bucket was truly believable as a child, both in looks and voice, and clearly must have been taking those gymnastic drugs that delay puberty.   Such medication can be dangerous, but I abhor safe art.  Bravo to this adult-child – I salute you, and could you share your doctor’s information? 

The other children – Veruca, Violet, Augustus, and Mike – were not quite as believably childlike. In fact, they looked to be roughly the same age as their parents, which added a strange sexual energy that I do not remember from the Gene Wilder movie.  In fact, speaking of sexual boundaries, this might be the first family musical to celebrate elderly polyamory.  Four bedridden nonagenarians sharing a twin bed was titillating, if somewhat disturbing. 

But perhaps the most exciting casting choice of the evening was to cast short Irish puppets as the Oompa Loompas.  There was even an entire song about the Oompa Loompas’ origin story and how they were discovered in the jungles of Ireland and brought to Willy Wonka’s factory to gleefully dismember children.  (To be perfectly frank (as Augustus would), it was never explicitly stated that the Oompa Loompas were Irish, but the red hair and pale skin was a dead giveaway.)  I did not see any freckled gingers protesting outside the theatre, so I am going to assume casting Irish actors as a murderous tribe of tiny folk is not offensive.  It is sometimes hard to keep track. 

However, I do have to question why it is considered appropriate to cast Irish puppets to play living, breathing Irish people?  As I am 14.2% Irish according to 23andMe, I am planning a sit in at the Duck Donuts inside the theatre, should anyone care to join me. 

However, as I tend to look at glasses as half-full of rose, I am just excited that the world of pre-teen roles has now apparently opened up for me.  I am contacting Nickelodeon as we speak about my ideas for Monique Montana and I, Monique.  I’m hoping, with the help of some Freaky Friday camera work, that I can also play my own Irish mother.  In fact, why stop there?  I look forward to the challenge of playing Kukla, Fran, AND Ollie in another exciting remake. Why should puppets have all the fun?  

[allswellthatendswithmonique]

Judging Monique

While black is not my best color, I still look quite ravenous in it.  Thus, I was utterly thrilled to perform as an official adjudicator in Animal Control at Firehouse Theatre.  I really was quite suited for the part as I’ve actually already had a contentious confirmation hearing.  While the senators involved agreed to call the mess an “intern interview,” I imagine the word got out to Firehouse’s casting director, because I found myself called upon last night to mediate a most troubling conundrum.

You see, I thought I was attending a play by Chelsea Handler, but apparently the actors were so distraught over a doggie tiff that they refused to perform the actual show. Instead, they pled their cases before me and begged for a decision.  Now, we all know that only foolish actors have lawyers, so they all decided to represent themselves.  I appreciated their habeas corpus but truthfully longed for a more professional presentation of the law, as there wasn’t a Law & Order stinger to be heard, which I tend to require in all my courtrooms.

Now, the actors couched their mens rea as a “world premiere,” which should have been a tip off to the audience that something fishy was going on, besides the stockings I wore under my robe.  “World Premiere” is a Latin term meaning Firstus Whirlibus. The show had been running for weeks . . . so if the night I attended was in fact a “world premiere,” things were off the rails.  

Indeed they were.  The set had been stripped of all decoration, while dust-colored paint outlined clocks and other items that used to be there. While waiting to present their cases, the actors posed dramatically and smoked behind chain link fences, a truly brazen legal strategy.  I was afraid the Marshal (a striking woman who was taking notes in colorful manila folders) would lead them away in handcuffs, given that smoking is forbidden in government buildings, but I think the Marshal was put off by the fence, a truly formidable and metaphorical barrier.  The actors managed to put out their cigarettes completely, but I wasn’t worried because there was a random fire extinguisher down right.

Now the case.  The ipso facto was a dog scrape/laceration/gash.  Word choice is important and also seemed to be the Marshal’s reason for living.  The plaintiff was a golden doodle named Winston Churchill and the defendant was a three-legged pit bull mix named Bailey.   I don’t know why CE (Canines Equity) was not picketing because both parts were played by white male humans.  But I suppose that’s another lawsuit entirely.

Aside from a few pictures and a J-Lo appearance (character witness from the block), there wasn’t much in the way of evidence, but luckily I have a truly perceptive legal mind.  I quickly determined, using de novo reasoning, that the only thing to do was to cut the pit bull in two and give half to each actor.  The decision was met by convulsive sobs, screams, and a reveal of some surprising backstory, but I know this was the right decision because the entire audience applauded at my verdict once the lights went down.

The less legally astute reader may wonder how I ruled so judicially.  My biggest clue was that there were empty bottles of water on stage but NO WATER COOLER.  There was a water heater with NO PIPES.  There was a computer with NO CHARGING CORD.  Thus, it was clear that the pit bull destroyed these items prior to the performance necessitating the impromptu trial.  Elementary, my dear Winston.

As I left the courtroom, I heard murmurings of impeachment, which means my performance was ab initio, no doubt.  Now that I’ve solved the backstage infighting, I’m sure the show can go on ex post facto.  Or perhaps it will close tomorrow.  Justice is blind.

[allswellthatendswithmonique]

DETECTING MONIQUE

I have practically made a career out of playing detectives.  From arresting Colonel Mustard to guessing the end of The Sixth Sense three minutes after it was revealed, my intuitive genius is unmatched.  I’m often asked to play detectives from the safety of the audience in order to limit my scathing interrogations.  Now, it would certainly be better if I were ONstage or ONscreen, but there are no small parts, only small paychecks. 

This weekend, my detecting skills were in high demand with two bookings.  First, I solved the mystery of the death of a nuclear physicist in Black Coffee at Henrico Theatre Company and then I got to the bottom of the stabbing of Johnny Depp in Murder on the Orient Express at Cine Bistro.There were indeed similarities, but there were also distinct differences, like comparing two egg yolks after they have been scrambled.  For instance, the food at CB was noticeably better than at HTC.  At CB, I was served a delightful hamburger and fries with a small cup of ketchup.  I even won a free box of peanut M&Ms for my lifetime achievements at CB, including my performance as Monique in “How can I fit three plates on this little tray table?” and my turn as Monique in “Why yes, I know this popcorn is large enough to feed a whole kindergarten class, but there are free refills, so I will have one.”  In contrast, at HTC, I had two pieces of Trident gum that I found in my purse.

There was a bit of a Poirot mustache stand-off between Tom Eichler at HTC and Kenneth Branagh at CB.  I’m not sure it was a fair fight, as Kenneth benefited from Hollywood make-up artists and gratuitous close-ups.   While Tom’s mustache was enviably curly, it did not read to the back rows.  However, Kenneth’s face toupee was thick and layered and would read to the back of the solar system.  I also venture to guess that Tom’s mustache was actually real, while Kenneth had to rely on movie “magic.”  Kudos to Tom for out-testosteroning Mr. Branagh.  And myself , for that matter.  I had to depend on one of these.

But to more important things . . . my performances.  In Black Coffee¸ I quickly deduced that the coffee was the culprit.  In watching Murder on the Orient Express, I was confused at first by the Israeli setting, but once everyone boarded the train, I intuited that someone would die of unnatural causes.  Spoiler alert . . . correct on both counts.  Please don’t feel bad if it took you longer, I am a professional. 

Having dispatched the mysteries in short order, I could focus on the intricacies of my costars’ performances.  I learned several things of note.  First, Penelope Cruz was doing perhaps one of the worst Swedish accents I have ever had the displeasure of hearing.  She sounded downright Spanish.  Second, there is a correct and incorrect way of arranging sticks in a vase.   Now, the uninformed might feel that the sticks looked the same before and after being neatened, and the truly ignorant might wonder why someone would put a bunch of sticks in a vase to begin with, but I took the oddity as an opportunity to learn and judge.

Finally, Hercules is properly pronounced Hercule.  I am glad to hear this and might consider going back to the original spelling of my name as Moniques.  I grew tired of people mispronouncing it, but the resurgence of Agathas Christies gives me hope. 

It’s hard for me to pick in which mystery I gave the better performance.  It’s like when I had to choose between my smoothie additives in Monique’s Choice.  If forced, I would have to say perhaps my finer work was in Black Coffee.  There was a bigger audience for my performance, including my costars who were clearly feeding off my passionate portrayal.  While I believe I was equally stirring in Orient Express, I think I somewhat dwarfed Michelle Pfieffer’s work, and she appeared a bit intimidated by my skill.  I was told that Michelle was not actually in attendance at CB, but instead was a 2-D figure on a movie screen, but I am not stupid.  She looked directly into my eyes, as if asking me how does one chew the scenery like I was chewing my popcorn shrimp and calamari. 

Indeed, I did enjoy my suspenseful weekend and have taken to playing clarinet music from my cell phone as I move around doing mundane tasks.  I feel it adds a tense atmosphere to my Zumba Acupuncture sessions.   Tenseness may seem unwanted if you’ve never seen my vast range of nervous/agitated facial expressions, but once you have been so blessed, you will wish the world was as tense as an Agatha Christie mystery.

[allswellthatendswithmonique]

The Faster You Are, The More Popular you Become!

There's been a lot of talk lately about "slut-shaming" and "feminism."  Not in my apartment, mind you.  There, we mostly debate the benefits vs. the side effects of Latisse.  I mean it is quite the conundrum -- the longer your lashes, the browner your eyes may permanently become.  It's a horrible truth!  I now know how Solomon must have felt.  And Meryl Streep when she had to choose between her children in order to win an Oscar.  No matter what people say, I think it is not too much to ask that offspring should give their lives for a golden statuette.  You gave them that life in the first place.  It's an even trade! But I digress.  Swift Creek Mill Playhouse has been having quite the success with the hard hitting, feminist manifesto, The Dixie Swim Club.  Every performance features a theater full of women standing and shouting for Equality Now and Equality Forever!  Or perhaps that was just the performance I was at.  Or perhaps just my seat.  In any event, I was inspired.  I am all about womyn power  . . . at least, when it benefits me.  In the face of a particularly nice necklace, well, "Equality" becomes just another artificial sweetener. As I was saying though, it was simply refreshing to hear a group of women announcing that it is better to be "fast."  And then drinking to it!  These ladies give a whole new meaning to promiscuity!  There is husband stealing, unfortunate side effects of what is clearly a 50 Shades of Grey relationship, and a PREGNANT NUN!  This is Agnes of God, if Agnes of God actually made sense! Now, I will admit that the playwrights are MEN.  So, it's only natural that they put in a few judgmental, anti-women plot points.  The nun suffers agonizing childbirth in a car; God smites the women with a hurricane; there is cancer given as karma to the sluttiest lady; and there is death.  But these are a mere quibble with what is otherwise a piece of literature that rivals The Beauty Myth, The Feminine Mystique, and The Hunger Games. The faster you are, the sooner you "win."  And you know what they mean by "win," don't you?  They are not talking the lottery, dear readers.  "O" no.   Now, I will admit to quoting out of context, which I often do when drunk.  I believe the original scriptural language talked about "swimming" fast, but clearly that is a reference to all the "fish" in the "sea."  "If" you "get" my meaning.  Wink. Wink.  Ow, these Latisse eyelashes are rather sharp! I believe the show closes tomorrow, which should give the ladies more time to do what they do best.  If you get my drift.   And I don't mean an ocean drift.  Or Drifty the Snowman.  Thank you.

[allswellthatendswithmonique]

The Monique Project

I was greatly inspired after seeing TheatreLAB’s The Antigone Project at Gallery 5 on Tuesday night. It was touted as a Devised Adaptation, which at the talkback I learned translates into “they wrote their own dialogue.” I write my own dialogue all the time, but I tend to call it “talking” instead of a “devised adaptation.” Potato. Potahto.

Truly, I’m happy they made up their own dialogue, because had they done the show in the original Greek, I fear too many people would have left the theater making the “It’s Greek to me!” joke. Now, I’m sure this joke was funny when some toga-clad Athenian made it in the olden days, but the luster is off that horse’s mouth, if you know what I mean. If you don’t know what I mean, may I suggest Sheckie’s Laugh Hut on Main Street. Not that I’ve ever been there, but order the onion rings. The show appeared to get a lot of inspiration from media and celebrity and involved a seizure-inducing video montage of lots of famous people and the Lucky Charms leprachaun. Interestingly, I saw no pictures of myself, but perhaps I missed them during my grand mal episode in the second act. In any event, I was in the actual audience, so my fame became a sort of meta-device in the production. Had I realized, I would have worn a toga to honor Sophocles. Honestly, how an ancient Mediterranean foresaw my meteoric rise and wrote me into his classic play, I do not know, but then again, I was pretty sure Whitney Houston wouldn’t make it to 60, so perhaps the future is not as unknowable as one might think. Back to the show. Antigone was costumed as a heroin-addict polar bear. I wasn’t quite sure of the symbolism involved, but my guess is that it had something to do with the arctic nature of modern interaction. Lost innocence is also always a good bet when trying to figure out symbolism. And generally, if symbolism is afoot, one can find a Christ figure, usually with the initials JC (for example, Julius Caesar). Many of the characters in The Antigone Project were unnamed, but I am quite certain one or more of the actors dressed in black was likely named Jacqueline Carrington, or something similar. Don’t quote me, but I feel quite secure with my guess. The play really got exciting when Antigone was jailed by Creon for burying her brother. Now, one would think Creon would be thrilled that he didn’t have to pay sanitation workers and could use that money for a private jet, but apparently one would be wrong. Given that, in Creon’s kingdom, the dead have to rot in the streets, I can only surmise that Creon made his money in the perfume or perhaps Fabreze industry. He certainly looked as though he smelled nice, although it is hard to understand why a Fabreze executive would be a death penalty advocate. Fewer customers is always a bad thing, as any successful businessman will tell you. I should also mention that the set consisted of newspapers taped to the floor in a sort of homage to a gerbil cage. And, in fact, in the opening sequence, many of the Jacqueline characters marched purposefully around the papers as though they were “caged.” It was a nice touch, although I think one of those wheels would have added depth of field. There certainly was a lot going on in this production. I am not sure I recall another production that I’ve ever seen incorporating Jesus, gerbils, polar bears, and Fabreze quite so evocatively. Well, Harvey Fierstein’s A Catered Affair came close, but its treatment of gerbils was too mundane for my taste. Kudos to TheatreLAB, Sophocles, and myself.

[allswellthatendswithmonique]

A Bright New Monique

Now!  Now!  Now!!  I could not agree more.   The other evening I attended Industry Night for A Bright New Boise at the Firehouse Theatre Project.  I am as industrious as the next brilliant actress, so I prepared accordingly with two contrasting monologues set in Idaho, the Boise State Broncos fight song in E Minor, and an acrobatic, lyrical movement piece celebrating the 104th largest city in the United States.  (I cut the piece down to a manageable 10 minutes by excising my salute to the 103 cities that triumphed over Boise). The showcase procedures were somewhat odd.  Although the emcee repeatedly asked for the next performer by chanting, "Now! Now! Now!", it appeared that all participants needed to wear an ugly red vest.  I was, quite understandably, tortured.  First, the red vest would cover my Potato Bowl costume, which was handmade out of french fries and chiffon.  Second, the vest would have been terribly unflattering to a figure honed through years of bulimia.  Finally, I did not receive the memo of such requirements and was, therefore, unable to prepare ahead of time.  I am certain that, with proper notice, I could have constructed an appropriate costume incorporating a red vest, but to do so on the fly was more than even I could handle, especially as the french fries were somewhat detrimental to clear thinking.

While I argued with myself as to the proper course of conduct, I watched the other performers with interest, and this is what I have to report.  (1)  Profanity is back.  (2)  The Apocalypse is a good topic for monologues.  (3)  The tech crew was asleep.  I'm sorry to point it out, but I must.  While actors were trying gamely to present their pieces, there was A VIDEO PLAYING IN THE BACKGROUND.  And not just any video, but a horrifying, disgusting video about CRAFTERS.  Revolting.  I saw styrofoam, glue guns, tummy tucks, even fondant.   At one point, I believe somebody was trying to make a human eyeball out of construction paper and fabric paint.  I am sorry to have to discuss crafting before my 5pm hot French class, but I simply must call them as I see them.  How anyone can hope to create art in such a situation, I do not know. In the end, I felt it necessary to preserve my high standards and chose not to present my piece in a vest.  Although the audience did not get to see my performance, we were all entranced by the talk of the Apocalypse.  It is a scary thought to some, I imagine, but I don't lost much sleep over it, which is a good thing, because if I get any less than twelve hours, I can't even audition for teenage roles.  In any event, the fact is, we are living in the Apocalyptic times already.  Honestly, if actors being forced to emote in red vests is not a sign of the end times, then it is possible I am not destined for greatness.  You see my point?  I realize now that The Four Horseman will not be well dressed.  In such a case, I sincerely hope that I am not Left Behind. What ho!!

[allswellthatendswithmonique]

Monique at the Sycamore Rouge

Last week, I attended a "bar performance" of Picasso at the Lapin Agile at Sycamore Rouge. I thought I was going to see a traditional play, but little did I know I would stand witness to some flagrant plagiarism. I don't know who this Picasso fellow is, but it is outrageous that he would present this piece of "reality theatre" without giving credit where credit is due! You see, it wasn't really a scripted play; instead, as I sat in the bar, Picasso arrived and talked to his friends and drew a few things . . and voila! theatre!!! Truth be told, I was quite entertained. This Picasso had a lot of interesting things to say and some truly charming friends. What's more, I was also sitting at the bar, so the "audience" was also free to drink in my arresting performance as "Woman on a Short Stool." But I digress. My point was that I have been performing this type of theatre for years. Everyone is familiar with my biggest hits, including "Monique Last Thursday" and "Monique Makes Breakfast, June 15, 1992 at 10:00 am." My most ardent fans are quite fond of my more obscure work like "Monique Watches A Video of Monique" and "Monique Sees a Play." Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, I know. But as Mother always says, a credit is a credit and you will be hearing from my lawyer. As a side note, it is certainly not too much to ask for Picasso to wash up prior to a performance. Good grooming shows respect for the audience. Blue paint covering most of your arms is not a good look unless you are part of the Blue Man Group. Speaking of which, the Blue Men could use a new make-up artist as blue does nothing but enhance undereye shadows. I unfortunately can't tell you what happened at the end of the play. The alcohol at the bar was NOT prop alcohol.

[allswellthatendswithmonique]

AGE AKIMBO

I recently caught a production of Kimberly Akimbo, currently playing at Theatre Gym. This may have been one of the most evocative and groundbreaking performances I have ever seen. At last!!! Age-blind casting of ingenues! What has taken stodgy regional theater so long!? In this play, the title character is a sixteen-year-old girl, and in this production, the part was played by someone who was, to put it delicately, a bit over sixteen-years-old. Truth be told, I'm not sure I could have passed for sixteen myself, although in a particularly favorite gymboree outfit, I come pretty close. But really, the casting of Kimberly could have been awkward. Instead, it really elevated the play. I believe they changed lines in the script to cover up the fact that the actress looked too old for the part. This added a VERY interesting subplot about some aging disease. Extremely creative! It reminded me of the time I refused to shave my head for a role in Terezin: Children of the Holocaust. We simply rewrote the script to permit a lovely bouffant. I'm fairly certain the production did not suffer. In any event, I enjoyed the show a great deal, even though Kimberly looked older than her parents. I can suspend disbelief with the best of them, and I encourage this type of thinking!! I'm excited for what the future brings for Theatre Gym!! I do hope they consider The Music Man. I believe I can bring new meaning to the part of Winthrop. Or maybe simply a lovely, understated Christmas Pagaent. I have always wanted to play the Baby Jesus. What ho!

[allswellthatendswithmonique]

What’s The Point of Make-Up?

I traveled in a torrential rainstorm to Swift Creek Mill Playhouse this past weekend to catch the thriller, Wait Until Dark. Rain is not my hair's best friend, so I had to spend to some extra pre-show time in my car fixing my hair and make-up. Well. I needn't have bothered! During the most exciting part of the play, we were plunged into total darkness, and nobody could even see how stunning I looked!! To make matters worse, the lead actress in the play was BLIND -- so even when the lights were on, she couldn't see me or my carefully selected theatre attire. You might think that viewing my performance as audience member number 127 would not be crucial to your enjoyment of the show, but you would be incorrect. In fact, it seemed to distract the entire cast as they were constantly searching for the "heroine" throughout the show. I imagine they should have given me a better seat so as to make it easier for the characters to move on to another topic of discussion. I attempted to help by shouting "I'm over here!!!!" but I guess they couldn't hear me over the rain, because the dialogue regarding the "heroine" never ceased. The actors brilliantly covered their inability to locate me in the audience by pretending that the "heroine" was a doll. At that point, I was rather relieved that I was hidden in a darkened auditorium, because the actors proceeded to knife the poor heroine and remove her insides. While I have always wondered whether my insides are as lovely as my outside, I felt the time was not right to find out. If you are looking for believable portrayals of characters searching for a heroic woman in the sixth row, this is the play for you, but if you are looking to see and be seen (and honestly, who isn't?) , I might suggest you "look" elsewhere!

[allswellthatendswithmonique]

My Kingdom for Some Air Conditioning

This weekend, I attended the closing performance of King Lear produced by the Richmond Shakespeare Festival. The program contained several pages of plot points to help if you do not speak Shakespeare. Had they asked, I could have assisted in condensing the summary as follows: King Lear ruled over a kingdom with no air conditioning. He simply did not believe in it. This was probably due to a strong lobbying effort from the dry cleaning consortium, as the entire kingdom was extremely sweaty. Much heartache and tragedy resulted from the overheating of the country, including the descent into madness of the King himself. Even clothed in a loose fitting cotton nightgown and leaves, he was unable to retain his sanity in the heat. Most supporting characters also ended up dead from suicide, murder, or heat stroke. I must say that the acting in this play was truly impressive. I actually believed that people were hot. In fact, in watching the show, I actually felt hot myself. I could have sworn that I myself was part of a sweltering kingdom. Brilliant!! Bravo! For those of you lucky enough to catch the show, you might have seen my charming portrayal of "audience member in the fifth row." I interacted pre-show with The Fool. We chatted believably about the weather and my seat. I would suggest that you attempt to catch a future performance but unfortunately The Fool is dead and the show has closed. It is unfortunate that some of you missed my appearance, but trust me when I say that it was a truly draining role that I'm not sure I could easily repeat. On the upside, I lost several pounds of water weight at each performance. What ho, a silver lining!!

[allswellthatendswithmonique]

My Barksdale Debut

I found myself back in Richmond, Virginia last week. For reasons unknown, I agreed to accompany the Puppet to visit one of his argyle cousins. The less said, the better. While there, I took in the production of Circle Mirror Transformation currently running at Barksdale Theatre. Well. I must say I was surprised and thrilled to find myself the central character. Kudos to the director for the brilliant stunt casting! If you attend, I highly suggest a seat down center with a good view of the mirror. I am visible through the entire production. Truly, I'm not sure what my costars were doing or saying, as my visage commanded the stage. How the designers knew exactly what I would be wearing on the evening I attended, I do not know. Theatre magic at its finest!! One caveat though. My mother attended the next week, and she was stunned to discover that I was not actually performing that evening. In a truly confounding bit of casting, my mother said she actually saw HERSELF in the mirror onstage. I pity the audience who missed my breathtaking performance. My mother suggested that perhaps my reflection was only there the night I attended. It is certainly a conundrum! If I am not there to see myself in the mirror, does the tree really fall? Well, I haven't the necessary time to truly contemplate this as I am late for my feng ski lesson, but it seems the safest bet to suggest that, if you want to be sure not to miss my showstopping performance as "Woman in the Mirror," you buy a second ticket and invite me to attend with you! You will not be sorry -- I do a particularly riveting cross and uncross of my legs about forty-five minutes into the show. Be sure to keep your eyes peeled!!

[allswellthatendswithmonique]

Dixie Swimming

I headed to Richmond recently for a production of the modern classic, The Dixie Swim Club, at a off-off-Broadway theatre dedicated to the musical CATS. Naturally, at such a feline-inspired theatre, I expected a rousing rendition of something jellical, litter boxes in the bathroom, or at least an all-cat version of Sylvia. Strangely, I experienced none of the above.

The play was a modern commentary on costumes and wigs throughout the ages. Personally, I would never allow myself to be cast in a role where I would play someone OLDER than myself. Truth be known, I could never really be cast as someone who is actually my age. While I don't flatter myself to think I could carry off anything less than 13 convincingly, I also understand that nobody would believe me as a woman in her, well, over 35. The MOST impressive part of the evening was that these aquatic women would regularly leave the stage to go for a swim in their wigs. I don't know what was more fascinating: the fact that the set included an off-stage ocean or the ability of the women to blow out and set their tresses during a scene change. And kudos to the actress who actually had to die each night. This part seems especially hard to cast, unless you are paid in advance. I myself tend to only accept parts where I am alive for the curtain call.

[allswellthatendswithmonique]

Pulp

On my way to sunny Florida, I stopped off in Richmond, Virginia, to see a production entitled PULP at the Richmond Triangle Players. It seemed apropos since I am traveling to the land of Orange Juice. Unfortunately, I could not spot any citrus of any kind on stage. There was a well stocked bar, to be sure, but not one screwdriver was served.I was most impressed by the actresses playing lesbians and men and lesbian men. As I play a gender-bending character myself 40 hours a week and overtime during holidays, I can attest to the level of difficulty. I also got the brilliant idea that Manny could wear designer high heels. Why not? It will still be drag, but more in the 40's style apparently.I politely asked for my money back at the close of the show, explaining that the reason I attended the performance in the first place was so that I could be well versed in all aspects of Florida culture. I was denied a refund, encouraged to participate in a raffle for gift baskets that touted Virginia peanuts and contained no sunshine fruit whatsoever, and eventually left in a huff. Pulp, indeed.