The Prague Fringe Festival: Day 7 (May 28)

Dr. Brown Behaves Dr. Brown behaves admirably, at first, considering that he has just left his opium pipe to find his parlor mobbed by paying guests. No, perhaps that's wrong. Yes. Imagine Dr. Brown's subdued surprise to find visitors in his padded salon, in the very asylum where he once ruled (the barred windows at Kavárna 3+1 aid this particular scenario). Or, perhaps Dr. Brown has just left his bedroom, where he has celebrated his 28th straight day of insomnia, or has Dr. Brown been introduced to a blunt instrument offstage by his unseen tech wizard (whom we later learn is dead, and for whom we observe a moment of noise)? Some nominal aphasia has taken hold of Dr. Brown, as his eyes, like an infant's, goggle his surroundings, as if to create a stunningly new sensory inventory. Regardless of causes, Dr. Brown obviously still possesses a vague memory of hospitality's dictates. If a guest does not care for a glass of murky liquid crowned with whipped cream, offer them a nibble of a raw frankfurter, which seemingly stirs toward tumescence at the end of a fork. So, yes, please know that most habits sanctioned by society are slightly altered in Dr. Brown's rooms, but that he does behave himself - at first. He is a gracious host, Dr. Brown is. There are stale biscuits if you correctly answer questions pertaining to a children's book, and there are magic acts and acts with a banana - the latter highly correct, considering the options available to one. There are opportunities for improvisation, and you may be fortunate enough to don a wig that's seen more comely days to play Dr. Brown's wife. What Dr. Brown does when his visitors are unable to make the leap into his world is unknown and, quite frankly, not worth knowing. What rude guests! Still, a word to the overly cautious or, equally, to the hopeful lonely: If you sit in the front of Dr. Brown's parlor, you may find yourself oiling his fair flesh, so susceptible is he to the sun's mercilessness. And, like any proper host should, Dr. Brown will naturally offer to oil you, too. Obviously, there are worse fates - I know, I've seen a lot of Fringe shows. But I've seen nothing like Dr. Brown Behaves. Never, in fact. What must Dr. Brown be like when he misbehaves? I wouldn't mind buying the tickets to find out. Kavárna 3+1  

Waiting for André There is much that John Arthur Sweet's Waiting for André shares in common with Kurt Hartwig's very fine Decaffeinated Tragedy. They are both stories of young men whose lives are irrevocably changed by encountering a slightly older friend, one who brings the gift of love into the relationship. There are other kindred threads connecting the two, and, structurally, both pieces are nonlinear, moving back and forth between time past and time present. Sweet's story is less tragic, a beautifully crafted coming of age piece where a young actor, Chris, is reawakened to life in a chance encounter with his beloved André. That this epiphanic moment occurs as Chris is marooned on a small platform stage, where he has been sentenced to wait by a local theater group, as part of an advertising campaign for its production of Waiting for Godot, is a rich image. If Hartwig's friend, the tragic artist Jennifer, is never fully realized in our minds, through the performer's reticence, Sweet's André is a vivid presence: an ethereal boy, whose life is lead, wholly and organically, as an outsider - one clothed in the rumors and fantasies of others. André is one of the earth's natural catalysts, a young man who cannot help but turn a common day into something singular, something that Chris discovers on three important occasions. Sweet is a wonderful storyteller, sharing alike Hartwig's personableness. They obviously make fine company for people outside the confines of the theater. If there's a criticism, it's that Sweet now and again gets lost in the siren song of his own voice, meaning that the odd line or word, here and there, is more clever than felt. That aside, one needn't wait for André with Sweet in town. Kavárna 3+1  

The New Victorian Manifesto Yes. Well. Hmm. A curio, Victorian or otherwise. The blurbs seem to promise something that was seldom seen in this evening, which was in equal parts frustrating, unique and, at times, unintentionally entertaining. What is this new Victorian manifesto? Not a clue, unless it was vocalist-keyboardist Nick Pagan's dictum that true poets and artists must continue to aspire in the face of adversity - something he banged on a bit more than his Casio. I went expecting this singular soul, who speaks in an accent somewhere between Mid-Atlantic and Liberace, and who has worked with Siouxsie and the Banshees, to meld contemporary music with the verse of Thomas Hardy, Emily Bronte, Matthew Arnold, et al. And, while there were two examples of this at the top of the program, the rest of the hour was spent being forced to acknowledge Pagan's own versifying (a song about Prozac was particularly forgettable) or find him creatively trying to shoe-horn the Beatles and John Cale into this vague Victorian manifesto. The oddity of the evening was enhanced by a startling time-warp in the room. There was Pagan, mop-topped and passionately attacking his keyboard, as if still auditioning three decades ago for a chance to open for Spandau Ballet. But to his left were two sleek, elegant French musicians (Catherine Lubatti on electric violin and Damien Soupizet on eclectic [sic] guitar), both brilliant, and both seemingly visitors from a more promising future. Under what circumstances did these people meet? It's one of the hour's greatest questions. Still, STILL, Pagan is unlike anyone else. He is his own man, complete with his own loves and manias, and more power to him. He's a true original, and, in this dull age of stifling conformity, I salute him. Kavárna 3+1    

Top 5 Fringe picks: 1. In a Thousand Pieces 2. The Crying Cherry 3. Backward Glance 4. Canarsie Suite 5. Dr. Brown Behaves  

Steffen Silvis can be reached at
ssilvis@praguepost.com