Retrospective: Alone Together | The Village Voice
The Solonova Arts Festival seeks out the next wave of solo performers
In an 1896 review of monologuist Beatrice Herford, a critic declared, "You see, we have here the drama reduced to its simplest expression." The stuff of a solo show: A single actor, typically on a bare stage, with only scraps of costumes, props, or lighting effects—indeed, theater is rarely more basic. Or more complex. The solo show can embrace numberless characters or only one; it can include stark confessions or fanciful confections; it can contain song, dance, prose, spoken word, rant; and one actor all alone can summon a host of intellectual and emotional audience responses.
However, with the notable exception of Sarah Jones, the '00s have produced few new talents. Perhaps that owes to the continued careers of many of the artists mentioned above—even in a town with as many stages as New York, theaters only want to give so many slots to one-person shows. A rosy reading might suggest we've made sufficient social progress that the marginalized have other forms of expression—popular music, the Internet. A more jaded interpretation: Despite the title of the current Spalding Gray tribute, we've run out of one-person stories left to tell.
The producers of the Solonova Arts Festival disagree, though based on my attendance, they don't offer the most convincing contrarian arguments. The ongoing three-week festival at P.S.122 includes shows by 12 solo musicians, dancers, spoken word–ers, and actors, as well as late-night cabarets at Mo Pitkin's House of Satisfaction. A recent Saturday featured four separate performances, all by women. While each proved tolerable, only one made a case for the distinct joys of the solo genre....
The festival's hit, so far, is Madi Distefano's Popsicle's Departure, 1989. Unfortunate title aside, the production displays few missteps, and Distefano, like Bogosian before her, impresses with her writing and performance of angry, injured characters. She plays two: 27-year-old rocker Jeremy and his 19-year-old girlfriend Dido. They share an unheated warehouse space in Boston, work bullshit jobs to pay the rent, and do drugs to stave off boredom. Lines from the piece don't really bear repeating, as neither character is particularly articulate (Jeremy's words of endearment? "Sweet, slutty little player"). But Distefano performs them eloquently. She lowers her ski cap a bit further down on her head to indicate Jeremy, but otherwise she works the change internally. The piece covers the last day of the couple's relationship. Dido and Jeremy's versions dovetail nicely until the play's—and the couple's—last minutes, when they shockingly diverge. That ending may smack a bit of melodrama, but Distefano makes it work—as a performer, she's a "sweet little player" herself.