Stinky Theatre

New York is home to some of the best theatre in the world. While the 40 theatres that make up “Broadway” (i.e. theatres with over 500 seats) are the most well known, there are hundreds, perhaps thousands of small theatres all over the city. I took in a production last week at one of them.

The Flea is located in TriBeca and is a quaint theatre that seats about 50. My friend and I were seeing “Sex and Mommyville,” a one-woman show that addressed the struggles of new mothers grappling with their new role in motherhood and their continued needs as sexual beings. The old Madonna and Whore archetype re-explored and whipped up for 2010, complete with references to “Sex and the City” and “the Bachelor”.

I’ve seen quite a bit of theater in the last six months. My friend’s former employment at BAM (Brooklyn Art Museum) gives me access to free – or nearly free – tickets at numerous theaters. I’ve also treated myself to one Broadway show a month, where I get dressed up and head to midtown after 8:00 PM. I’ve seen shows I’ve adored (Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson, the Scarborough Boys) and shows I don’t love so much (Falling for Eve, Lend me a Tenor), but one thing is consistent – the talent is always impeccable. From the musicians to the lighting guys to the actors on stage – the talent in New York is truly impressive. So it’s easy to take something like that for granted. After last week’s show, I will not do that again.

The star of this one-woman show descended the stairs in the middle of the stage and started her opening lines. At first, I thought it was a joke. I thought perhaps she was demonstrating how “life is a stage” or something Shakespearean with her blatant overacting and that perhaps she would snap out of it at a certain point and start acting, you know, for real. But she never did.

Instead, every line was delivered as a shout and gestures were overblown and exaggerated. In such a small theatre, these types of movements were comical. It was like my nine-year-old niece auditioning for a part in a Greek Chorus – chock full of big facial expressions and awkward gesticulations.

We knew ten minutes in that we had to leave. Unfortunately, there was no intermission and to exit, we would have to literally walk across the stage. There was no way to sneak out at this show. When I mentioned that to my friend, she later said she felt physically ill. She got that tickle one gets in the back of their throat right before a good vomit, but decided against it, swallowing hard and looking to the heavens. Getting physically ill in the theatre would have allowed her to leave, but the mess and clean-up and overall disruption just wasn’t worth it.

I went back and forth between daydreaming, zoning out, and planning my weekend. If I got pulled into what the actress was saying, I would immediately get a case of the “giggles” – which wasn’t good for anyone. At one point, she pretended her two breasts were two different people and they had a ten minute dialogue. I was giggling so much I had to turn away. Tears streamed down my cheeks. Ten minute breast talk? Come on….that’s ridiculous.

She moved around the stage, flipping between angry and whimsical like a freshly caught fish flipping on a dock. Every so often, she would make an attempt to have sex with her imaginary husband, which involved humping a stool in a way that was anything but sexy. She changed outfits, from shawls to combat boots, and provided the voices of her mother, her daughter, and her husband. Her daughter sounded like Elmo. Her mother like Stalin. At one point, I looked at my friends silver watch and wanted to cry when I realized we were only 45 minutes in. It felt like we had been there three days.

Mercifully, the show came to an end 15 minutes early. I honestly think she forgot some of her dialogue, because there were some big pauses and some of the thoughts didn’t really flow, but I didn’t care. My friend and I nearly ran out of the theatre into the refreshing reprieve of the city. It felt as though we were on a prison break. We breathed in the night air and laughed with joy as we almost skipped away from the theatre, agreeing it was the worst thing either of us had ever seen.

On my subway ride home, I saw the actress hadn’t done any acting since age 10. That explained a lot.

From now on, I will not take an actor’s talent for granted. A show with bad acting is like pouring a pound of salt on a beautiful plate of food. No matter how fresh the ingredients, everything tastes terrible.