Fringe Review: Inferno

by Robert Subiaga

Well, I suppose it had to happen. I finally saw a Fringe show that, in its current form, I can’t recommend.

And I blame Lino Lakes.

You know, the town who passed their little “English only” language ordinance. You see, language seems a hot-button subject with some people and they give in to fears and insecurities about the other, especially when communication is occurring that they don’t fully understand.

But the truth is, that when we don’t give in to our fears a little mystery not only is fun, but we tend to seek it out. All we need is a little hint, a clue, a hook on which to hang our own speculations. Think about the first time you saw Shakespeare performed after trying to decipher the “English” reading it in class; all you needed was a summary of what’s going on in each scene and you enjoyed figuring out the rest while the actors emoted and action unfolded.


I wanted to like Carlo Gicala’s Inferno in its current form. Not that I knew what to expect. Was it a quirky take on Dante or literal reading? It is the latter, bit I’m a sucker for great literature and a daring try at that could work. The problem is that Inferno just isn’t daring enough--precisely because Gicala tries to be too accommodating.

Gicala gives a very dramatic reading of the first few cantos of Inferno, at each point from a single spot on stage while on the large screen a video rolls. The backdrop is visually arresting - the work of Gicala’s collaborator, the gifted videographer Renata Sheppard - but the graphic hardly changes. This is to facilitate subtitles in English of the entire text being read, just so those who cannot understand Italian can follow along.

This is information overload. The summary leading into each canto is sufficient; I found I could make the production tolerable by not reading the English, instead just shutting my eyes and basking in the almost incantation-like mystery and beauty of the Italian. It reminds me of how another Italian, the brilliant writer Umberto Eco, willingly challenged his readers in bestselling novels like in The Name of the Rose, a medieval detective story laced with untranslated Latin. Readers might pause to look things up, but were even more likely to save it and just speculate on the exact meaning, based on whatever background knowledge we had and the context. It is a mystery, after all.

So all I can do is hope Gicala doesn’t shelve Inferno but refines it to be more aggressive and less accommodating. That he just broadcasts the canto summaries and maybe an occasional literal passage, instead letting Sheppard have free rein to use images. And that he allows himself to walk or pace or even stalk the stage as he sees fit; I sensed the passion in his voice was only the surface of the energy of his whole body if he cut loose.

In short, I wish Carlo Gicala had given himself permission to scare us a little.

This is a trip into Hell, after all.

Oh, over in Lino Lakes they still probably would have hated it. But for them facilis descensus Averno.

Inferno hits the stage once more before the end of the Fringe Festival on Saturday, August 14th at 2:3opm at Intermedia Arts. Click HERE for more info and tickets

Fringe Review: Rachel Teagle Believes in Ghosts

By Robert Subiaga

Rachel Teagle Believes in Ghosts. I don’t.

You’d think that’d bode badly for my liking her piece. But see, Rachel Teagle is a storyteller. And for that matter, I’m not sure whether she even believes in ghosts herself.

That’s the whole idea people would do well to learn about storytelling and myth. (And by the way the original word mythos simple means “story.”) Stories are crafted to tell a truth, not necessarily to be literally true. So long as someone’s not pulling the wool over our eyes--or admits they might’ve temporarily pulled the wool over our eyes to get us to think--a mythos is immortal.

Storytelling is also an art we’re blessed to see a lot of at the Fringe but too little otherwise. It’s got its quirks if you want to pull it off.

I've been to a lot of open mics in the past decade or so. A LOT of open mics. Poetry open mics, musical open mics, stand-up comic open mics. And do you want to know the most curious thing I noticed? If you want to be appreciated for what you do, go to an open mic that has more than just what you do. And look for the person who does something else to come up and be doing the appreciating. Maybe that's partly from competiteveness. Poets, for example, aren't really there to listen to other poets, they're there to have other poets listen to THEM. (Watch how fast they bolt some time when the list is too full to get them on.) But another big factor is just that too much of the same thing, even when good, even when GREAT, is still just...too much.


The Fringe time slot is one killer advantage to make storytelling work. Instead of using the 90-minute feature as a target, 45 minutes works better. Still, 45 minutes of just doing a "reading" in the same way will cause the audience to tune out, so the best storytellers weave in variety. A variety of sounds and music, a variety of images, even if it's where they move or stand or sit. And a variety of kinds of story, a variety of topics and tones.

The only trick is that this still needs to have one or more connecting threads. Rachel Teagle, in Rachel Teagle Believes in Ghosts, weaves back and forth through a beautiful range of stories types, showing just how much can be connected to the common thread of--surprise!--"ghosts!"

She opens with a Southern belle kind of tale, using the balcony of the Rarig Experimental stage and stalking around in a hoop skirt until she descends below us as if into Hades. It was a chilling, Beloved-like feel that segued into the brighter, modern memoir of her moving to Georgia, and maybe having a ghost in her new home. This meandering yet oddly sensible way she goes traverses her own experiences and classic stories--even her experiences as a girl reading classic stories--from the South to Minnesota to California. She goes back and forth between the present and the past (including the infamous Winchester house supposedly haunted by those killed with the Winchester repeating rifle). And she interweaves the macabre and the funny, the gothic with the modern, and going-along-with-it credulity with genuine skepticism, not giving short shrift to any quality.

Some interpretive dance movement and rotating guest artist near the end are unnecessary--just because they distract from her tales--she's that good.

I still don’t believe in ghosts. But I’m starting to believe in Rachel Teagle!

Rachel Teagle Believes in Ghosts has one more run during the Fringe Festival on Saturday, August 14th at 2:30pm on the U of M's Rarig Xperimental stage. For more info and to purchase tickets click HERE.

Fringe Review: Happy Sauce & The Sad Carousel Double Review

By Robert Subiaga

The word “sophomoric.” You say that like it’s a necessarily bad thing? Saturday Night Live and MadTV have made an institution out of it. And if you really think back to all your friends in high school and college, at all those parties, improv-ing all sorts of silliness--yes, you may look back with a groan, but odds are you split your sides laughing at the time. Weren’t those laughs worth it?

Two shows in one day, both sophomoric. And no, I’m not saying it like it’s a bad thing.

Neither The Sad Carousel nor Happy Sauce has a joke in it that anyone would label profound, and the sketches that’ll make you laugh out loud are sometimes a little groan-worthy, though they work to hold the laughing parts together in a way that I see no way to improve--or need to. The laughs meanwhile (which can be especially gut-busting in Happy Sauce) are worth it.

Oh, the jokes might be politically incorrect, particularly in A Sad Carousel, but given those jokes are by a B-level insult comic it’s perfectly keeping in character; this is both a homage to insult comedy and a parody of it.

The Sad Carousel

As well as both an homage to and parody of the Fringe. Keep in mind that the Fringe is representative of the full range of performance, from standard plays to poetry or storytelling to dance and beyond. What makes the comedians of Pommelhorse in A Sad Carousel most effective is a very judicious use of breaking the fourth wall, as well as exceptional performances of what otherwise might be pedestrian characters. Sam Landman is perfectly cast and costumed as Herschel, and Peter Ooley in multiple roles works wonders. But the most standout performances are Matthew Glover in an understated role as Herschel’s nebbish nephew, and Lindsey McDonald Dorsey as the bimbo with a heart of gold, who exudes tremendous sex appeal with spot-on movement and stance.

Happy Sauce is the even more “sophomoric” of the two. Again, not a bad thing. Whether it’s Ben Gansky as Felix flipping out with messianic revelations after tasting the sauce; Eric Powell Holm beaming with pollyanish enthusiasm for the recipe or the girl he loves; Maren Searle (also being an unusually sexy love interest) suddenly stirring up the denouement to Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing;” Joshua Fazelli as Mr. Turtle expounding on his self-made used-car-salesman venture capital philosophy, or Ben Lewis as Tommy Bottles just being, well, an exaggerated douche-lord of a friend; these are parts and performances a million people--including you--could probably pull off for their friends. And you know what? You’d laugh just as hard.

Happy Sauce

The difference is they put in the work to give it to you in an organized way. Look at all the cast members SNL has had over the years, does the fact that many people can pull similar things off make it any less funny? Maybe all it takes is somebody to dare to do it, and to organize and compile them into a whole performance. (Without overextending themselves. Skits, especially live skits, even 45-minute compilations of live skits--good. Feature films ranging around “real“ world sets? Not so much.)

I appreciate that. The stress relief of good laughs, no matter how lowbrow, can’t be faked. The human interaction with real performers doing it can’t be faked in a movie house, no matter how good the 3D.

You know, come to think of it I loved my sophomore year. Bet you did too.

A Strange Carousel has two more shows on the fringe schedule. Saturday, August 14th at 1pm and Sunday, August 15th at 5:30pm at the U of M's Rarig Center Arena. For more info and to purchase tickets click HERE.

Happy Sauce has one more performance on the Fringe schedule. Saturday, August 14th at 10pm at U of M's Rarig Center Arena. For more info and to purchase tickets click HERE.

Fringe Review: Alexander at Delphi

by Robert Subiaga

“Dying’s easy, comedy is hard,“ right?

Bullshit.

Don’t get me wrong. Great comedy is hard. Gets short shrift among big awards. But why are high school plays usually comedies? Why are most people’s formative attempts at YouTube videos comedy? Why is the first thing out of your mouth at a casual gathering a joke?

Because if you fuck-up, people laugh. A laugh won’t kill a comedy.

So, generally most theater companies are afraid of doing drama. They won’t even try it unless it’s a big production with a lot of money, or at least a script by an already renowned writer. I like the Minnesota Fringe for many reasons, but one of the big ones is that companies aren’t afraid to do drama.

This year’s particular production of Alexander at Delphi isn’t without its issues. So how can I give it a perfect score?

Because, boys and girls, the script is that good.

And it’s a script by the director.

A tall claim. After all, the history the theatre stretches back to ancient Greek drama, coming up from there through Shakespeare, and so on. People who we not only see in performance but read in literature classes, poring over the fine points of themes and philosophy, arguing about hefty matters like fate and free will. But Minrod Mier’s writing shows he understands these things, even enough to hold his own among the giants.


The structure of the play mimics classical Greek drama, complete with song and actors working in chorus. The Fates open the play, original fixtures in Greece yet at the same time reminiscent of Macbeth. This will be an exploration of ambition and hubris, only in this case it involves Alexander the Great. Alexander, before he conquered Persia, was known to have visited the Oracle at Delphi seeking a prophecy. No one knows just what the Oracle told him, but Mier here gives us his take on it--a take that also like Macbeth has a twist.

The only hint I’ll drop is that when we‘re taught about Macbeth it doesn‘t necessarily seem to fit the formula of tragedy: the protagonist sees the light and is redeemed, only too late. How is Macbeth redeemed? “Lay on, MacDuff.” In the last few moments, Macbeth may have become a monster, but now goes his own way, regardless of what is fated, not caring whether the card deck is stacked for or against him. An often unsung feature of heroism, compared to going through life like a video-game player with all the cheat codes.

The unfortunate flaws in Mier’s production are that he understands these parallels and nails them in the script, but doesn’t trust the audience will get it. He splits the difference between his lead being like the real Alexander and too-obviously like Macbeth in look and mannerisms. The historical Alexander was a mix of ferocity and drive with boyish naivete, a rash talent like a star athlete, not a ruthless but wickedly careful businessman. All the important parallels hold up in the script alone, even if we were given a historical Alexander in look and feel, but Mier’s Greeks are attired like Romans, and in the lead Chris Dexter gives it his best try, but he’s just too respectably lantern-jawed to be Alexander.

This no doubt will have many reviewers ready to play senator to Mier’s Caesar and slip out their knives. Once people have been forced to read things like Shakespeare, hating it, and then see how vibrant it becomes in performance, something flips; theatre folk tend toward the position the performance is the real key, as if a great producer or actor could make something out of your grocery list.

Thinking it doesn’t all start--and even sometimes end--with the writing isn’t the key? Now that’s comedy!
Check out Alexander at Delphi at the U of M Rarig Center Proscenium on Wednesday 8/11 8:30 p.m. and Friday 8/13 7:00 p.m. For more info and to purchase tickets click HERE.

Fringe Review: Bite Me Twilight!

By Robert Subiaga

Ah, social media. There's a lot of criticism of it; there always will be things worth criticizing. But it does prompt people to write. And at the same time it does rein in people like me who are often a little too...verbose.

Not everything that's good needs an encyclopedia to argue for it anyway. My Facebook status the other day? "More Fringe reviews to crank out! But the one for Bite Me Twilight! should be short and easy. Just how much elaboration does 'I and everyone else laughed our asses off the whole way through!' take?"

Well, that, and a little side of "Hell, with that much enjoyment it'd be a success even if it'd been a drama."

What? You'd like at least a little more?

Well, OK. Let's say the formula with this success starts with a smart choice: you can never go wrong with a parody of something that's wildly popular, especially if, despite its popularity, it splits the public into a love it/hate it dichotomy. This won't make most Twilight spoofs great by any means, since Twilight is one of those properties that's almost its own parody to begin with. But at least its an interesting start.


The next step is where it really gets interesting, however. A whole cast spoof is probably easy, since for any given character there's no shortage of talented young people wanting to give it a shot. Bella, Edward, Jacob...Between the people who love the character and try their hand at an impression, and the ones who hate that character and want to tear it down, a whole cast parody would be easy to put together. A single talented actor/comedian who can pull it off? AND give us that love-the-character/hate-the-character synthesis? Now you’re talking!
Not enough can be said about the sheer physical gifts Tom Reed has for an entire range of impressions and caricatures. The way he alters his face, his movement, his mannerisms, and his voice is astounding.

Still, that would all make a good parody, but what about more, what about something intelligent enough to be satire? The key factor piece here starts with something quite functional. Reed emphasizes that no one in the audience needs to have read the books or seen the movies, and he's right. He chooses which dialogue for his caricatures to use extremely wisely and ties these snippets together in a seamless narrative. Those who know the original might get a kick out of the comparison/contrast, those of us who don't might wonder on a detail if he's taking something literal from the storyline and parodying it, but everyone's happy. I even think those of us who don‘t know the original are better off by a little bit.

Finally, let's not forget the little embellishments. While this could have been a total one-man show, the addition of a keyboardist Jill James and the unobtrusive contribution she makes is very nice. Reed also will surprise you with twists like a physical prop to describe Edward's sparkliness, or ripping open his shirt, Jacob-like, with the abs he needs for the move and all the sweat that he's been building up from the intensity of his performance and the hot lights.

And...! Damn. "I and everyone else laughed our asses off the whole way through!" What more do you need?

Check out Bite Me Twilight! at the Mixed Blood Theatre on Monday 8/9 10:00 p.m., Saturday 8/14 7:00 p.m. Sunday 8/15 5:30 p.m. For more info or to purchase tickets click HERE.

Fringe Review: I Remember You

by Robert Subiaga

Funny thing about being a writer, people will ask the same questions all the time. Questions like “where do you get your ideas?” No one wants to admit that getting the ideas is the easy part. What really sucks is that you’ll never have the time or energy to get to all the ideas, even the ones you’ve put down in detail.

And since no one’s so brilliant that some of those ideas aren’t had by someone else, it can put you in a prickly spot. A no-win situation. And if the other people don’t do the idea justice, the originality of the high concept is lost--cat’s out of the bag.

But sometimes, just that rare sometimes, no-win becomes win-win.

Then a feeling like satori washes over you. What you’ve just seen is not only as good as you would have done, but better. Way better. Now the pressure is off. You get to be just another appreciative audience member. And as far as the idea goes, all you have to do is point to that other production and tell people: Go see that!

I Remember You. Go see that!


About twenty years ago, I was on the way to the supermarket when I had this odd vision. I anticipated running into a young woman I hadn’t seen in a while, one with whom I’d been very much in love, but we ended on a bad note. I never did run into her, but I had a weird inspiration about what could’ve been a quick cover: saying I’d been in an accident and memories going back many years (including, conveniently, of that instance of me speaking like a psycho) were gone. It led to a whole outline where a guy does that with an ex, only to have them reconnect and fall back in love, with the obligatory dilemma of whether he should fill her in on the truth eventually, and if so, how?

My story probably would’ve sucked. Possibly it would have been mediocre. I Remember You starts with much the same idea and makes it great.

It takes place at an end-of/just-after high school party, the natural place for powerful nostalgia to intersect with the white-hot energy of youth. This is what first caught my attention, knowing even a pedestrian treatment of the subject--which I expected--would still be mildly interesting.

Instead, I Remember You has unexpected depth. Depth that sounds natural. These aren’t characters “wise beyond their years” in that way that often comes across as unrealistic and forced, but dialogue with that wise-beyond-our-years insight we all actually had in those days. The kind where we might inadvertently expound on something that is corroborated in the words of Buddha, or Plato, or a discovery in modern science--except we hadn’t been exposed to them yet and didn’t know how to put them in a refined way, let alone to reason too many steps beyond.

Donny is one of the two leads, the young man with the memory loss. As the play opens he’s sitting on a couch conversing with Erica, his “old girlfriend” from sophomore year, a relationship he can’t recall. In the exchange, with side characters occasionally becoming part of for a few seconds, some questions pop up that are insightful (How is it that he has declarative memory of his school subjects and didn’t have to repeat grades? How can he clearly recall being in grade school with Erica--including things she had herself forgotten for a long time--but not sophomore year?) and doofusy (“Hey Donny, how many fingers am I holding up?”) Yet all the questions, even the idiotic ones are shockingly believable for anyone who’s experienced of that contradictory mix of erudition and immature idiocy at a drunken party.

Jeff Spoo as Donny

Even if nothing else were to work in this play (and it’s the opposite, everything does) Donny and Erica would carry the whole play. Jeff Spoo plays Donny like a down-to-earth, very real bodhisattva, whose situation has forced him into an intelligent but laid-back maturity--more mature for the very way he’s laid-back. You can sense the mental sighs of Donny at the people around them, but he’s not at all disdainful of them. Rather if anything he’s more empathetic, more an authentic friend, even if he’s not just going to go along with posturing or d-baggery. We can sense that somehow Erica was into him in the old days, but this “new” Donny built on the ashes of the old is even better. Donny‘s memory loss is both a curse and a wry blessing.

Victoria Nightingale’s portrayal of Erica is even more than perfect, her delivery and movement so natural and believable I was in shock. In fact, there was a litmus test against which to gauge it almost objectively. The portrayal of Erica reminded me of a very real young woman I also knew and loved (though not the one who inspired the memory-loss cover idea, one much later in my life). Smart but authentic, somewhere between sturdy and willowy the way that can rock jeans and sneakers and needs little makeup or accoutrements. The “tomboy” who’s inarguably feminine. It’d be easy to dismiss my reaction as over-personalized, but the truth is there are a significant number of women out there with just these qualities--most of us have known at least a few. For Nightingale to make Erica that realistic is sublime, and this is an actress to be on the lookout for--though big things to come wouldn’t be surprising for Spoo or much of the rest of the cast.

Victoria Nightingale as Erica

I will say I Remember You ends on a bittersweet note, but how much bitter, how much sweet, and how it ends is worth finding out for yourself.

The script is remarkable in its ability to sneak some really deep thematic treatments in without lengthy philosophical discourse. Functionalist questions of philosophy of mind? Questions about reality and illusion? How critical memory is or isn‘t to who we really are? Choice and second chances? It‘s in there.

But when and if you see it, it might be dense and profound, merely make you curious, or just seem quirky, depending on your background knowledge and experiences. Just know that whatever level you catch it, it’ll never interfere with the story or make you feel insulted for “missing” something.

Which just might be reflected itself in a party game Erica and Donny (occasionally others) play a little, to come up with statements that are simultaneously “literally and figuratively” true. Another weird reflection of reality, as I can think of any number of intelligent games I’ve played with intelligent people at drunken, down-to-earth debauches.

Talking as much as I have on Donny and Erica might give the impression that the supporting performances fade into the background. Au contraire. Not only is each and every supporting character written as very human and worthy of some empathy and understanding--even the crass ones--but the performances and timing and physical layout of the stage and blocking out of the movement are impeccable. Joy Dolo as Brooke is simply hilarious and charming.

I Remember You is the sleeper of the Fringe, a young crew, cast and creators who’ve nailed it. I staked out Fringe Central on Sunday night hoping that I’d run into them, and if I’m lucky at some point I will. To praise them in person, to ask a few questions--just something even better than just “Where do you get your ideas?”

Check out I Remember You at the Minneapolis Theater Garage: Thursday 8/12 10:00 p.m., Saturday 8/14 7:00 p.m., Sunday 8/15 2:30 p.m. Click HERE for more info or to purchase tickets.

Fringe Review: Couch Aliens vs. the False World

By Robert Subiaga

Some productions are born great (the source material is written so well even a stumbling attempt will come across as pretty good). Some productions are made great (the source material is pretty pedestrian but the performer really makes it shine).

Then there are productions where thinking about how "great" it is--how many stars, thumbs, kitties, whatever--is just wrongheaded.

That's any easy truth to lose as we age and get used to the arts. As an example, when I was a kid I was a huge Marvel Comics fan. In those days--the end of the Silver Age--nobody was trying to make comics "serious" (let alone super-dark) "literature" yet, nor target them to adults. But hordes of kids like me read the comics and our development was bootstrapped by how creators like Stan Lee wove in mature literary features here and there along the way, happily keeping it kids' lit.


Couch Aliens vs. the False World isn’t quite kids’ lit, it is a little too profane for that (though not too bad and kids are more stable than we often give them credit for.) But Duck Washington, already known in the local sci-fi and performance scenes for working with the fantastical, pulls off the same kind of synthesis my boyhood comics did.

The play centers around Gordon, a couch potato holed up at home like an agoraphobic while he mopes over his lost girlfriend, Tracey. While Gordon isn't looking, a multidimensional alien climbs right out from under one of the cushions of the couch and makes himself at home, just wanting to vegetate on human TV. The alien is supposed be studying humanity, and/or on the run from obligations to his family back on his homeworld, but claims that we're just so damned boring that TV is preferable.

The snarky alien and the slobby, melancholy Gordon have one thing in common: withdrawl. But they also can't help but grate just enough on each other that they each draw each other of their shells, as the alien takes Gordon through various dimensions of the "multiverse" and back again. They encounter even more alien creatures, including a piscean magician and a red-robed "Inquisitor" who's job is mysterious even to the alien, but has something to do with protecting the “secret” of the multiverse. As Gordon and the alien go back and forth, a couple of Gordon's human associates--a douchebaggy friend and a pizza girl--get drawn into the mix too.


With too many plays, being experimental or fantastical would stop with just weaving disparate elements together; showing a lack of understanding of how important good writing is for the stage. Here though all the loose ends are brought together to make the plot tight. There is a moral to the story or two that are timeless, and have been explored thousands of times in other stories--but of course never in this exact way.

That novelty really shines here, with creativity in characters and costumes worthy of Red Dwarf, Doctor Who, and so on. The production works well enough within the limitations of theatre in general and budget. The alien magician is in an unusually nice full-face rubber mask that is nevertheless a mask, and Jesse Corder as MAX the alien works a look that calls to mind a David Bowie glam rocker. The costuming is not super-professional, nor does it go for the opposite of pushing the campy on us. Supposedly this is a mistake; a "serious" attempt at production would try to go one way or the other. Then again, those childhood comics of mine valued representational art without worrying that the colors were a little washed out or simple. Or that the characters were dressed in Spandex. Or that everyone--even normal people--were just a little more muscular than normal. Sometimes a mixed tone just works.


Other creative touches also come across well, like a simmering "prologue" with music playing and Gordon glumly pacing in his bathrobe, playing darts, as the audience is being seated. And the way MAX crawls out of the sofa at the beginning is freaky and funny. When America's "Horse with No Name" suddenly pipes in to signal a flashback and the tone shifts from funny to nostalgic the transition is seamless.

Of course, some of the attempts at staging creatively didn't work as well for me. As Gordon and Max are holed up at home there are phone conversations to outside parties like Tracey. These are done with a live actor on a sidestage, but I found it distracting from the good claustrophobic quality of the main characters in Gordon's apartment. (On the other hand, use of the sidestage to "show" cheesy infomercials that are supposed to be playing on Gordon's TV work hilariously well.)

I also would have liked the story between MAX and Gordon to start in media res, with MAX already on the sofa and their original meeting being in the past. We don’t need Gordon’s shock at their meeting and him being won over to semi-credulity; his life is already surreal enough to buy it.

The most notable "flaw"--common to writers and poets everywhere--is that the ending runs too long trying to make “what it all means” clear. In this case too long by about two minutes. There's an exchange between Gordon and MAX, as they’re back on the sofa that captures it all, and the curtain should’ve gone down right there.

Here's a thought: Like those Silver Age Marvel Comics of my youth, sometimes good is good enough--not because we’re settling, but because art is never “perfect” and chilling about it can be the best way to sneak in the profound, here and there.

Check out Couch Aliens vs. the False World at the U of M Rarig Center Proscenium: Wednesday 8/11 10:00 p.m. Thursday 8/12 8:30 p.m. Saturday 8/14 5:30 p.m. Click HERE for more info and tickets.