Alessandra Baldacchino, Pierson Salvador and Lennon Nate Hammond advertise their family’s funeral home in “Fun Home.” © Joan Marcus

GROWING UP GAY IN A FUNERAL HOME IN THE STICKS—REALLY!

Fun Home

Music by Jeanine Tesori

Book and Lyrics by Lisa Kron

Based on a graphic novel by Alison Bechdel

The Curran Theater, after a two-year makeover, reopened in January with the Tony Award–winning musical “Fun Home,” based on the controversial graphic novel of the same name by Alison Bechdel. The novel caused some controversy several years ago when it was placed on the syllabus of a public school English class and objected to by a few parents. A San Francisco audience will probably wonder what the fuss was all about.

The novel is presented as a memoir of the author’s childhood, growing up in a small town in Pennsylvania as the daughter of two school teachers. Her father’s hobby is fixing up the old family home, returning it to what he sees as its original elegance. The father also runs the family business, on the side. This happens to be a funeral home—referred to by the children with insouciant sangfroid as “fun home.”

The father has a secret; so does the daughter, which, she discovers, under macabre and tragic circumstances, is in exact parallel to her father’s. They are both gay. Later (no spoiler here, as the show lets us know early on exactly where we are headed) the father is killed in a road accident not long after his daughter tells him she is a lesbian, and there is some question whether or not his death was a suicide. The story takes a few weak stabs, none convincing, at exploring whether or not it was.

From this not always sharply focused material (there are at least three storylines that clash as often as they cohere), a musical has been made that is about what one might expect: a sometimes strained attempt to find a universal core in a sometimes distractingly bizarre complex of situations by forcing perfectly nice people to break into soaring if sometimes shapeless melodies, boisterous but sometimes unconvincing ensembles, set pieces that come out of nowhere and then return there, scenes of revelation, love and despair (and vice versa), and question-begging speeches and storylines that can only be based on fact as no fiction writer would have left us caught so inescapably in reality’s stubborn refusal to make sense.

Yet the show is more than worth a visit, if only because the situation it depicts, as messy as reality, is close to what many gays in this country have had to confront for a very long time indeed, even as homosexuality has become more accepted as a natural and valuable part of the human condition. This musical helps mark how far at least our urban culture has come over the last generation, and as a moral, if not always artistic, triumph, it is to be encouraged and its creators and performers applauded.

The daughter, Alison, is performed by three “actors.” (May I interrupt our show at this point to make a plea that we call female actors actresses once again? Calling women by masculine cognomens is, I submit, sexist; speaking personally, I disapprove of any form of sexism, including feminist sexism. Differences, I believe, should be honored and not erased, but they can only be honored if they are named.) These are Grown-up Alison, a cartoon artist who narrates the story, played persuasively by Kate Shindle; Youngest Alison, played (on the evening I saw the show) with bouncy vim by Alessandra Baldacchino; and College Girl Alison, played, in the best performance of the night, by a pitch-perfect Abby Corrigan, who looks like she walked out of an updated Archie comic with wondering eyebrows and an expression of perpetual innocent shock. These three share one of the show’s best moments, in a trio near the end that nicely captures the confusion of identities that lies at the heart of being human at the best of times.

One other performer was especially impressive, though her part is comparatively small and she is spared having to break into song. This was Karen Eilbacher, who plays Joan, revealer to the sexually uncertain Alison of her own gayness in a sweet and funny scene with Abby that is one of the show’s loveliest and most touching moments.  Eilbacher does a great deal with a cool mien and perfectly gauged body language, to say nothing of a killing Mohawk.

The weakest link in the story is the depiction of the father (played by a game Robert Petkoff), who is never explored in sufficient depth by the script; he is kept at a distance as a nerdy, controlling, self-deceiving, closeted Log Cabin Republican−type gay man who we remain maddeningly outside of; a shell without an interior, unless the over-controlled, airless, funereal tastelessness of his home (revealed in a brilliant move of stagecraft in the middle of the show) is in fact his interior. The glasses he wears are both a sign of his inability to see the world on his own, and of our inability to see him, read his face and thus the man. Keeping him hidden behind his prosthesis for most of two hours hobbles an actor’s ability to give his expressions much nuance. (The same might be said of Grownup Alison, though to less untoward effect.)

Alison’s mother is played by Susan Moniz; it is a bit of a thankless role, as the mother’s motivations for staying with Alison’s father remain as murky as the man himself is. Alison’s younger brothers are played with energy and charm by Pierson Salvador and Lennon Nate Hammond, and with Baldacchino have one of the show’s best moments: a whacky ensemble in which they act out a make-believe TV commercial for their “fun home.” Too bad I couldn’t hear all the lyrics in an otherwise well-mic’d show; the ones I could hear were some of the show’s funniest lines.

The objects of the father’s interest down the years are nicely played by Robert Hager.

The instrumentals were performed onstage by the Fun Home Orchestra; John Doing’s percussion and Philip Varricchio’s clarinet made especially memorable contributions.

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Christopher Bernard is co-editor of the webzine Caveat Lector. His novel Voyage to a Phantom City came out in 2016; his new book—a collection of poetry called Chien Lunatique—will be published in May.

The News from Trumplandia

(Adapted from the Work of Basho, John Milton, Emily Dickinson, and T. S. Eliot)

Mauled, marred, and mutilated by Christopher Bernard

Mr. Trumpollinax

When Mr. Trumpollinax walked across the United States

His laughter fell like a bull’s cock among the teacups.

I thought of W., now a shy figure in the manzanita,

And of H.W. in the shrubbery

Slobbering over the hottie on the swing.

In the palace of Mrs. Flaccus at Professor Ernest Doolittle’s

He laughed like a psychotic poodle.

His laughter was quite subversive, though renowned,

Like the old man’s demented tittering

Hidden under the dying coral reefs.

I looked for the head of Mr. Trumpollinax rolling under his limo,

Or grinning on a screen

Of a topless bar in Dubuque or Sioux Falls,

With tar sand in its hair.

I heard the beat of a satyr’s goat-like hooves over Manhattan cement

As his acrid insults devoured the afternoon.

“He is a charming man, when you get to know him.” “But after all what did he mean?”

“His pointed ears, his half-eaten eyes . . . he must be unbalanced.”

“There was something he said I might have challenged—

A thousand things, but now—”

Of the dowager Mrs. Flaccus and Professor and Mrs. Doolittle

I remember only this: a piece of toast.

And of Mr. Trumpollinax his smiling, munching teeth.

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The following poems have been mauled, marred and mutilated by Christopher Bernard

Trump Chaucer

(Adapted from Geoffrey Chaucer)

Whan that Novembre with his shoures sote                                                 The drought of sumer hath perced to the rote,                                           And bathed every veyne in swich liquor                                                         That wine must come out of its every flour,                                              Whan Fox News eek with its bitterr breeth                                   Depressed hath in every holt and heeth                                                         The rotting croppes, and the ageing sonne                                                   Hath in the his last halve cours yronne,                                                           And smale foweles maken threnodye,                                                             That slepen al the nyght with open ye                                                         Acause they cannot sleep, for comes the snowe,                                       And all must end that we will ever knowe,                                                   Then voters con to go to polling places                                                                   To cast thir votes in the correct spaces.

And so they came this yeere and voted dead                                               The world that made them, and us buriéd.

*

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Zach Fischer and Jenny McAllister

Photos: Robbie Sweeny and Pak Han

ELEVATOR TO HELL AND BACK

Next Time I’ll Take the Stairs

13th Floor

Joe Goode Annex

San Francisco

A review by Christopher Bernard

I saw an earlier version of this piece – equal parts poetry, family drama, circus act and dance by 13^th Floor, once a dance company, now doing theater as well – as a work in progress at the FURY Factory Festival of Ensemble and Devised Theater in June of this year, and so I’ll begin my review with what I said then:

“[‘Next Time I’ll Take the Stairs’ is] an elevator play, but with a difference, . . . depicting a ride to hell in the belly of the Otis Company’s most famous product. I say ‘to hell,’ but that may be over-simplifying just a hair; as 13th Floor tells it, it’s a ride to ‘a multi-storied world, inhabited by the shades of previous riders. Down is up, up is nowhere, and the memories of who you were can be re-formed by the stranger standing next to you.’ The show follows the adventures of brothers Arthur and Norris, their sister Rabbit, a lasciviously sadistic, compulsively inquisitive lady named Ivy and a disingenuous lug with a big wrench and the suspicious name of Otis, after all five crowd into an elevator that crashes into an alternative universe that is both unforgivingly absurd and weirdly sweet.

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The Genesis of Trumplandia

In the beginning Donald remodeled the heavens and the earth. And the heavens were sublimely beautiful and the earth was a pleasing place, but Donald was without form and void, and he hovered like a shapeless cloud over the deep.

And Donald said, Let there be Darkness. And there was darkness.

And Donald saw the darkness, that it was bad, real bad, and Donald divided the darkness from the light.

And he called the darkness day and the light he called the night. And evening and midnight were the first day.

And Donald said let there be a really classy casino town on an island, like Atlantic City, but one that doesn’t go bankrupt this time, in the midst of the waters, and let it divide the waters from the waters, you know like a martini before you shake it.

And Donald made the really classy casino island town and divided the waters which were under the island from those which were above, where Donald of course would be living in the penthouse.

And he called the really classy casino island Heaven. And evening and midnight were the second day.

And Donald said, Let all of the waters that were under the casino island be gathered together into one place: it will make Mar-a-Lago the coolest resort ever.

And Donald called the dry land Trumplandia and the gathering together of the waters he called the Largest Swimming Pool in Florida.

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The Present Emergency

By Christopher Bernard

On November 8, 2016, we witnessed a kind of political 9/11, a Brexit as nuclear bomb. It felt like being given a diagnosis of terminal cancer for our society, our civilization, our way of life, or witnessing the sack of Rome by Alaric.

It isn’t the first time many of us have seen the barbarians swarm over American society: we saw it during the years of George W. Bush, of Reagan, of Nixon, when it came from the right, and during the sixties when it came, for the most part, from the left. It is one reason that, from a very early age, I grew to feel a growing alarm and fear regarding a certain strain in American culture that cultivates and breeds, preens and admires, some of the worst aspects of human nature, in the name of “freedom” to the point of license, of “personal expression” to the point of mutual contempt, of “the common man” at the expense of uncommon honesty and decency—of what I eventually came to see was a hyper, paranoid, poisonous white masculinity that would gladly rip up the restraints and norms of civilization and culture if it felt its privileges, illegitimately labeled “rights,” were threatened.

The howling Yahoo (I think it is safe to call him) who will now lead our country will be such an exact emblem of the dark side of the soul of American culture that it will effectively terminate our reputation in the world for a long time to come, if it does not terminate the world itself. I am embarrassed (though also, being human, a little proud) of the fact that I predicted this outcome, in the middle of George W. Bush’s administration: that the next successful Republican president would be a populist, know-nothing authoritarian, an out-and-out “fascist.” But it is almost shameful to be right about such things.

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