Americana arrives

Almost, Maine

No Child

Delilah Dix and Her Bag of Tricks

John Cariani's Almost, Maine takes its audience through the love-lives of nineteen inhabitants of one of the United States' most northern territories – an 'almost'-town where the banter sparkles and whimsy seeps into the crevices of everyday life.

While high-school productions aren't renowned for their tasteful subtlety, a dose of moderation would have worked beautifully with the quiet magical-realism woven through the nine vignettes. In the modest Pilrig Studio, ear-splitting projection from the young actors—all of whom appear to have been trained in musical theatre since in utero—distract from Cariani's quirky, poignant dialogue and what are intended to be startling outbursts of spontaneous affection.

But this shouldn't imply that the performers from Hilliard Davidson High School are entirely limited by their lack of professional experience. In particular, a performance by Lindsey Capritta as a string of addled ingenues leaves the impression that you're watching a future Glee actor on stage (whether or not this is a good thing is in the eye of the theatregoer), and while Carl Burgason and Adam White's portrayal of 'bros falling for each other' (literally) is steeped in gratuitous slapstick, any portrayal of homosexuality from male Midwestern high-school students should be commended.

In theatre, children playing adults often suffer an intriguing lose-lose dilemma: it's disappointing if they get it wrong, and creepy if they get it right. The cast of Almost, Maine manage to find a balance between these two pitfalls which, at the very least, will leave audiences with a smile on their faces.

High-school students remain in sharp focus in No Child, in which New Yorker Nilaja Sun tells a very human story – one of America's children, and the failings of society that culminate in our fear of them. This is ironic, because none of what Sun does on stage for an hour and five minutes appears entirely human. Benefitting from an almost otherworldly agility, Sun is able to transform herself from a Dominican teenager to a septuagenarian janitor to a Herculean Russian school teacher in a matter of seconds. Once Sun's audience gets used to the freakshow distraction that is Sun's transformative skill, her play-within-a-play-within-a-play proves itself to be immensely moving. When she received her standing ovation, the audience got the feeling that this had been a daily occurrence since the start of her run. 

Never have I witnessed a performance like Sun's -- a sensational, wide-sweeping statement, and one that is absolutely fitting of the artist who now finds a place on the shortlist for an Amnesty International Fringe Award.

Sun's fellow New Yorker Delilah Dix is the Xanax-addled lovechild of rummy lounge-singing icon Robert Goulet and Amy Sedaris' middle-aged ex-groupie Jerri Blank from Strangers With Candy. Part of the Free Fringe, one can't help but be apprehensive about Delilah Dix and Her Bag of Tricks. A 'raunchy afternoon of interactive lounge cabaret' has limited appeal at best. And indeed, Albert's first song 'Drink More' packs the least comic punch. But within minutes it becomes clear that the calculated wit which went into creating Amy Albert's drunken alter ego is considerable, and is only outshone by her flawless vocal ability. What better expression of humility than to break up a breathtaking, pitch-perfect rendition of 'All By Myself' by taking covetous swigs from a bottle of Listerine?

There is a dryness to Delilah Dix... that runs the risk of being overlooked by the genteel Frederick Street crowd at 4:20pm. You can only hope that this isn't Albert's last Fringe, and that when her pill-gobbling gem of a character returns she will benefit from some decent publicity and find her audience.