WHY: When I was handed a pink poncho and a condom—branded with the show’s name—along with the program (featuring a picture of the star dressed as a fluffy herpes lesion), I immediately thought “ahhhh, I’m at the Fringe.”
I use the word “branded” intentionally, because that’s how Cherise Pascual (aka “Cherry Cola”) the high-octane star and writer of this inventive solo show felt after being diagnosed with herpes. Sexual secrets are hard to reveal and even though it seems that “everyone has herpes now,” Cherise kept her herpes under wraps for a long time. As she says “herpes isn’t fatal, but it nearly killed me.” Her secret lead to substance abuse, fear of relationships, long-term celibacy, poor self-esteem and self-deprecation. Finally, to forgive herself, to survive, to live a life free of guilt, Cherise HAD to tell her story and she tells it with incredible humor, theatricality, and most importantly, a brave heart.
Directed by the “solo-show whisperer” Jessica Lynn Johnson, the charismatic “Cherry Cola” uses musical parody, projected images, hilarious props; she impersonates boyfriends, doctors, and her mother; and breaks the fourth wall to talk with the audience, all on her journey from self-hate to self-love. I was glad to be along for the ride. (PS: I won’t tell you what the poncho is for….you’ll have to go see for yourself.)
WHY:This one-woman show was adapted from the novel “Lolly Willowes; or the Loving Huntsman” by Sylvia Townsend Warner and was a sensation when it was first published in 1926. Its feminist message is just as relevant 91 years later.
Lisa Wyatt plays Laura “Aunt Lolly” Willowes, an aging English spinster who struggles to break free of her controlling family. Lisa is fascinating to watch as she slowly draws us into Lolly’s life: an endless round of taking care of others. There’s a clever dimension of the supernatural as Lolly “tunes in” to her family’s comments, demands and criticisms through a radio. It’s a little harder however, to “tune them out” as they constantly tell Lolly what she “should” be doing, where and how she should be living. I liked that the recorded voices emanated through an old “cathedral-style” radio (my grandmother had one just like it) which gives the voices a dose of spiritual gravitas.
And all Lolly wants is to be left alone! She wants to leave London and move to the small village of Great Mop (population 227), where she can have a small house “and a donkey!” She eventually moves to countryside but soon after, her nephew visits and decides to stay. While out walking, she meets Satan and strikes a pact. I loved Lolly’s observation that “all women are witches….and even if they never do anything with their witchcraft, they know it’s there.”
Lolly Willowes appealed for a “life of one’s own” three years before Virginia Woolf called for her own room. Kudos to Kate and Sal for finding this gem of a story and adapting into a poetic theater piece.
WHY: In this diversity scholarship winning show, Indian-American actress, improviser, and rapper Rasika (pronounced “Ross-ika”) takes us on her artist’s journey in Hollywood as she struggles with ADHD as well as finding relief in her diagnosis. This is a powerhouse one lady show where Rasika explodes with energy and commitment (until she gets distracted) but then dropping back in for sheer moments of brilliance. Anyone dealing with feelings of ineptitude in a town where everyone is working for their big break will find this show resounding. Also, for any fringers wanting to support females of color, YOU CANNOT MISS THIS SHOW.
Amanda Conlon takes us on a hilarious musical journey into the hell known as online dating. She is surrounded by supportive women, a judgmental mother, a loving gay roommate and the worst of humanity that only the internet could put together. The music is familiar but the lyrics are all hers. You know where she’s going as the first bar begins but that makes it all the funnier. Today, meeting a potential partner through natural interaction seems a thing of the past as she sings literally about not touching another human being. I laughed out loud as did the woman next to me till she cried “This is my life right now!”
Alyson Mead speaks with playwright Dorothy Fortenberry about Chekhov, the land, and indigenous plants as metaphor in her new play Species Native to California, an IAMA Theatre Company production currently playing at the Awater Village Theater.
What conversations do you want to have? Send your suggestions for compelling female playwrights or theater artists working on LA stages to Alyson Mead at [email protected], then listen to “What She Said.”
As a playwright fortunate enough to participate in the William Inge Play Lab this year, one of my favorite Master Classes was given by Constance Congdon (Tales of the Lost Formicans, Gilgamesh, Raggedy Ann and Andy and others). Connie’s been teaching playwriting at Amherst College for twenty-three years and knows her way around a writing exercise*. She graciously agreed to sit down and talk about her plays, writing for theatre and what if anything had changed for women playwrights since the production of her first play, Gilgamesh, in 1977.
AN: What was your earliest theatrical experience?
CC: I had puppets and used to perform puppet shows over the top of my parents’ bed. Later, when I was in Junior High, I played “Mammy” in A Feudin’ Over Yonder and got a lot of laughs. Though I love actors I never wanted to be one. (Note: I saw Connie kick it in the “Improv to Page” workshop conducted by Ron West and Catherine Butterfield. Connie can act.)
AN: Did you study theatre in College?
CC: I was an English major and not a great student. It took me 6 years to get through. Of course it didn’t help that I kept moving and had to pay for school myself.
AN: So, no theatre in college. How did you find your way back to it?
CC: I had lots of jobs but the life-changer was as a mobile librarian. I discovered children’s literature and reading aloud to kids. Something was sparked and that experience served me well when I began writing plays and musicals for the Children’s Theatre of Minneapolis. I hadn’t known that would happen when I boarded the book mobile.
AN: What was your first play and first production?
CC:Gilgamesh at St. Mary’s College in Maryland where I was teaching remedial reading at the time. They gave me a first class production. Not all my plays have been so lucky.
AN: Tony Kushner calls you “one of the best playwrights our country, and our language, has produced.”[2] But for whatever reason, I’ve never seen or read any of your work. I’m going to rectify that now and catch up on your canon.
CC: Thank you.
AN: You taught at Amherst College for twenty-three years. Over the course of your career in both teaching and playmaking you must have observed some changes in how women are perceived in the theatre.
CC: Not as much as I’d like. There’s more opportunity for women and the awareness of the need to produce women’s plays has increased, but there’s still a resistance to the female voice, whatever that means. It extends to Artistic Directors and Literary Managers and sadly both men and women.
AN: Now that you are retiring from Amherst, what’s your game plan?
CC: At 72, I am energized to see more of my work get to the stage. A few years ago, I was fortunate to be part of Profile Theatre’s one playwright a year with a few of my plays. And I have just finished a new work called Hair of the Dog: The Foule Murder of Christopher Marlowe as Uncovered by William Shakespeare and am working on a book on playwriting with Mac Wellman and Jeff Jones.
AN: What advice would you give to female playwrights?
CC: My biggest piece of advice is to apply for grants; particularly state grants if they’re available. It’s usually other playwrights like me who read the plays and make the decisions, which is good. And if there are no state grants, apply for any arts grants that exist. If you want to teach, get your MFA. It’s important for the boards and administrations of most colleges and universities to know you’ve been vetted. Go to theatre festivals and network. Familiarize yourselves with different theatre departments and submit, submit, submit. I also advise not to worry about reviews. I’ve never gotten good reviews and I’ve made my peace with it.
AN: I loved your Master Class and the “rant” exercise *. Can I share it with the playwrights who read the LAFPI blog?
CC: Absolutely.
Constance Congdon’s “Rant” Exercise: As yourself or one of your characters, write a rant for a solid 10 minutes. Let the vitriol out at a person or something you hate. Don’t edit and write honestly, like you’re going to rip it up. Have someone call time at 5 minutes, 2 minutes, 1 minute and 30 seconds. The idea here is not to break up the “planning” that often occurs in the writer’s mind about what you’re writing. When you’re done, read it. Take a breath and then write for another 10 minutes but this time you are writing the rebuttal to your rant. You can be the person ranted against, or someone else with a strong point of view about the first rant. The third part of the exercise is to go back and forth between the original rant and the rebuttal, taking one or two lines from each and you might just find yourself with the beginnings of a scene.
Anna Nicholas just returned from the 2017 William Inge Play Lab, where her play, Ocotillo was chosen for development. Annanicholas.com
Moon freckles. Ginger.
…
Snaps.
…
Thank you, Bible God, for Alex.
…
What if I’m the last woman on Earth.only I’m really short and when they send the search planes they can’t see me because I’m invisible?
…
What if the reason I can’t feel my arms is because I’m a marble torso?
…
I spy my toes.
…
The presents are all wrapped and under the tree and it’s only Christmas Eve — Day –Morning… Christmas Morning. Things could be much, much worse.
…
I’m so cold, I wish you were here — Hey Daddy, did I ever tell you that I swore under my breath that I’d do good?
…
Make you proud of me someday?
…
Sorry that never happened.
…
When I was five-years-old and tripped over your bedroom rugand split open my chin on your bedside table, and the nurse draped a white sheet over my body with a hole cut out for my chin?
…
I screamed because I thought I was dead and I didn’t want to die. Even at five I knew.
…
Did Ivan know he was about to die?
…
No tears.
…
Okay maybe twice.
…
Happy tears when Daddy gave me an acoustic guitar for Christmas.
…
I couldn’t believe it. The music the magic. The only thing we ever really had in common. Lying on the living room floor listening to vinyl records. Happy memories.
…
Broken branches
Broken bucket list
Beach front cottage windows
On every whitewall
Crashing waves
Salty air.
I can breathe
…
Seeking forgiveness seeking joy again seeking anything but guilty tears.
Every child’s laugh his laugh.
…
His arms beggingto be held.
…
His sweet everything.
…
How do I answer when my everything is gone?
…
What did I do?
My child, my son was in his stroller.
Outside work’s security door. About to enter.
The key code.
When they stormed in.
“We’ll kill you and the kid, if you don’t open the door.”
Cocked – Ready – Primed – Aimed – At me.
“I don’t matter. Please don’t kill my baby.”
“Open the door bitch.”
What do I do?
What do I do?
What do I do?
…
SHOOT ME ALREADY.
…
What did I do?
What did I do?
What did I do?
I think of gifts
Joy
What I gave away
Boomerang effects
Releasing expectations
… that I can spell
… that I have needs
… that I have No needs
… that I must be perfect
… that I am imperfect
… that, suddenly, I inspire
And joy is mine
I want for nothing
Except more
… hot soup
… hot coffee
… puppy dog kisses
… crushed ice
… feelings
… life
Joy
Gifting
Gifts
From my short play / film I ONLY CRIED TWICE, and dedicated to Charlie Hebdo:
Some mornings I wake up
Turn over
See her face in sleep
My throat catches
I admire her courage
But I can’t let her know
I can’t give her that
Peace
My approval
It would feel
Like
I’m saying, you’re right
I agree with you
Our tiny son is worth less than a dozen
Sons
Every one of them a son
To somebody
Not my son
Anymore
I don’t remember his scent
Baby smell
She washed his clothes
His blankets
Packed them away
Like his ruined body in the casket
We couldn’t
Couldn’t
I can’t
But every day my brain
Accepting
Helpless
I am a coward
Married to a warrior