Sunday, January 11, 2009

A Word From Captain Kirk; or What You Will

Good evening ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls. My name is Kirk. I was previousomely the captain of an intergalactic, time traveling pirate ship, when, foolishly, I crossed the NeoClassical Kingsmen. An epic battle ensued, and on the climactic twelfth night (in the midst of a torrential storm of space debris) I was overtaken and punish├ęd via transformation from the unsung predecessor of the now infamous Oscar into a New York City Theatre. I fulfill my indefinite chastisement on 410 West 42nd Street. I now break my some-odd forty earth-years of silencement, with illimitable gratitude to the Monthly Manifesto, to transport news of a recent unsettlement within the confines of my bowels, brought on undoubtedly by the spirit that first captured me.

It all began as my entrails bubbled with the noisome feeling that I could only imagine were the earthly equivalent to the Galactically (and tragically) Renowned Nebulousossitisissus Yuppyoureverence Ubuntus (which, due to the extensive appellation and incredulous omnipresents, I shall thusforwardly refer to them as N.Y.U.’s): a cast of characters, an emetic PostClassical group of awkwardly immobile Minstrels, and the handy-work of a pre-non-post-structuralist that I first thought (and somewhat still think) was somesorta neonically-glowing parasite, eating away at the Artistry that beist myself (trapped, again, in Midtown Manhattan) and excreting chalk-lines, paint-tape, and frilly-laced PVC pipe. To my consternation, my seats slowly swelled with other, non-theatrically committed N.Y.U.’s. O, the Horror!

Inevitably, there be instances that I must now account to you posthaste. As the poor usher maladroitly held back the portal gates to my cavern reserved (once respectably) for performative acts, the tumoric audience proliferated prolifically. So much, as my luck would have it, that the eldliest of them all (surely once a part of, and now supporting and perpetuating the N.Y.U.’s) found there way to the front of the cluster, claustrophobing both themselves and my smallest of arteries - only to then fall fast asleep as soon as they plodded and deposited their bodies upon the seatation devices. Those who remained conscious (the younger, surlier folk that were in their ripest age to be members of that gang) showed their respect for the players in a most startling manner: heaping personal belongings, including appendages, atop my apron, committing overzealous salutations, and allotting intergalactic communication devices to remain on, and sing, during performance. In the front row, no less. Which then brings me to the palavormance.

The performing N.Y.U.’s (who were ironically costumed to look like N.Y.U.’s) cosmetically used the basest of physical gestures to aid their peers in an understanding of Shakespeare’s blatant and abundant sexual references, opposed to aiming their mission towards greater (though certainly pre-Postmodern), intergalactic importance. And the few chanteys interrupting all the sex jokes sounded not unlike any popular tune one could find broadcasted on even iAmbicPods of the gigliest bites - the actors thrusted, and the audience throbbed.

The production was intergalactically worshipped, by audience and actor alike. And my regurgitation of them all could not have been more anticipated.

I choose to run the risk of furtherworse punishment through my breech of silence because I can take it no longer. “It” being this incessant self-indulgence that the N.Y.U.’s here in this production, deep in the recesses of my digestive tract, have used to conquer the indefensible value of that whicheth theater can create. Why let this go on? Why insist on perturbing us immortals?

Your mission,  should you choose to accept it, is to consider yourselves, thou peers, and those unforeseen spectators (those non-participants of these gangly actions) next time thou mountest a production. And please, in such a symbiotic relationship, consider the health and well-beingness of your host performance space.



... The Monthly Manifesto would like to thank the genre of Satire for being so apposite to the playful fictionalization of a night out, as well as our reader's ability to recognize when we make a flagrant generalization for the purpose of both humor and (we hope) poignancy. We would also like to thank the production team and performers of Twelfth Night for an evening of entertainment - no matter the form we took it in. This is an exaggeration of behavior we have, with sincere sorrow and frustration, come to expect. Being witness to an evening such as this, we couldn’t resist making light of what is a very real concern to us. That being said, there were a handful of engaging, spectacular, and truthful moments in a whole which otherwise fell short of its ambitious possibilities.

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