TeenTix Blog Reviews

And the show had begun. Four women on a stage. Crawling on the floor under a blanket. Furniture suspended from the ceiling. A layer of something called scrim. A topless woman. They are dancing. No, they are singing. No, they are talking. Are they sisters? Strangers? A mother and daughter? Wait, now it’s a show about Oprah. There is a pulsing noise in the background. Two scenes are happening at the same time. They are repeating an entire segment. From above, the furniture looks like a normal room. Some of the stage is flipped, so when actors are lying down and they are shown in a camera from above they look like they are sitting. They ripped the scrim. One of the women is wearing a glittery suit. They are playing with a light. The lights turn off and the show is over.

To say that Okwui Okpokwasili’s Poor People’s TV Room at On the Boards’ contemporary performance center was abstract may be an understatement; the show itself was a hypnotic, metaphoric emulsion of dance, song, monologue, and conversation. Describing the show is quite a burdensome task, as it was such a unique and shocking performance. The four women in the performance were made up of a multigenerational team of African and African American women. However, each performer was not a distinct character. Instead, the character each woman played fluctuated and changed until each woman was the other three women. Not only was the lack of distinct character a unique choice for the production, but the dancing was as well. The dancing was high energy and abstract, as some women danced alone and some danced with each other—though these partner and solo dances often happened at the same time of course.

People have a hard time forgetting firsts. You’re going to remember events like your first concert for many years after the fact. If you or a loved one are looking to experience a musical for the first time, there isn’t a better choice than the 5th Avenue Theatre’s production of Annie.

Annie was actually the first musical I ever saw—my sister loved the 1982 version and we’d seen it performed everywhere from Youth Theater Northwest to the Paramount. As a result, I went into this production with a more critical eye than usual. I wasn’t expecting anything awful, but I expected to walk away confident that my previous experiences would reign superior.

Jimi Hendrix is a Seattle icon. Or so I'm told. Before going to see Bold as Love: Jimi Hendrix at Home at the Northwest African American Museum, I had never really gotten around to listening to his music. I'm also terrible at museums; I expect them to be stagnant and awkwardly informational. So the combination of a museum with a Seattle superstar I knew next to nothing about was mildly terrifying. I slunk into the exhibit with my head down, afraid all the fans would see the Hendrix-ignorance in my eyes, and prepared to be bombarded with trying-too-hard inspirational quotes.

The exhibit, guest curated by Jackie Peterson, is set up like a timeline, snaking chronologically around the edges of the room. Photographs and glass-encased objects—postcards, the sofa Hendrix slept on while home from tour, his grandmother's hats—drew me in with their quiet connection to this icon. I ended up learning about Hendrix's history almost accidentally: from Seattle, where he was born and spent his childhood, drawing comics and pretending to play guitar on a broom, to mid-60s London, where he almost immediately became a guitar star.

The recent MOHAI sponsored event, Engage: The Art of Protest, cultivated artistic empowerment throughout the Seattle community.

Walking through the glass doors of the MOHAI, we were greeted by plaisc covered tables strewn with photographs of powerful and historic street protests: women with chains around their necks fighting for the Equal Rights Amendment in the 1960s, workers picketing outside Pike Place Market, elderly women with fire in their eyes holding wooden crosses to commemorate those killed during a protest in Nicaragua. We were asked to sit at a table with a picture that resonated with us, giving everyone there an icebreaker and reason to interact with the strangers and friendly faces that surrounded them.

While it may be controversial to begin the Christmas season so early, I began mine the evening of November 23rd, opening night of Pacific Northwest Ballet’s The Nutcracker. The result of which was a distinct and familiar feeling of jovial warmth—a near impossible emotion to leave McCaw Hall without.

Various candy-inspired photo booths and guests dressed in formalities, ranging from hipster-dressy to black tie, paraded the lobby anticipating the show. The show is inherently a family event, as evidenced by the many children wandering about. It is certainly the least intimidating ballet for new viewers due to its palatable familial storyline; an excellent way to scratch the surface of what can often feel like an inaccessible art form.

Muhammad Ali is one of those historical figures whose titanic cultural presence often overshadows the nuances of his life. Playwright Idris Goodwin aims to find the man behind the legend in his new work, And in This Corner: Cassius Clay, presented by Seattle Children’s Theatre. The result, as directed by Malika Oyetimein, is a lively and thoroughly original piece of theatre.

The story unfolds as if out of a pop-up-book on scenic designer Shawn Ketchum Johnson’s endlessly inventive whirligig of a set. The stage is styled after an old-school gym, with boxing equipment doubling as minimalistic, but instantly recognizable indicators of time and place. We first meet Ali (André G. Brown) in narrator form, speaking one of the many rhyming interludes that tie the narrative together (a tribute to Ali’s famous rhyme-heavy rebuttals that would remain a constant throughout his career). We are then transported to Jim Crow-era Louisville, Kentucky, where Ali remerges as a 12-year-old, then known by his birth name of Cassius Clay. There we are introduced to his mother Odessa (Bria Samoné Henderson) and younger brother Rudy (Chip Sherman), who have just left a Sunday church service. It soon becomes apparent that the realities of segregation dictate the way they behave in public and their freedom as individuals. These struggles are not lost on the Clay brothers, who, along with their friend Eddie (Lamar Legend), often talk about the heated racial climate with both childlike innocence and the clarity of first-hand experience. It is clear that Cassius is the natural leader of the pack, full of the spitfire force, pre-adolescent energy and unformed talent.

The opening scene in the theatrical adaptation of A Thousand Splendid Suns, by Ursula Rani Sarma, contrasts the entire play with the eerie stillness it sets the audience in. By piercing the quiet atmosphere with sharp, lingering notes, this scene stills the air and makes the audience pause for breath. From the next scene onwards, the audience is kept in silence not by the moving musical accompaniment, but by the paralyzing horror with which the play unfolds. The first scene wraps around the audience with the unnervingly gentle, yet strong, sound of David Coulter’s original score performed live. As he is slowly pulled across the stage on a lengthy sheet of fabric, we are introduced to the sole man who effectively ties novel instruments—including a violin, thunder sheets, and even a saw—to the emotional landscape that the characters traverse. We first meet one of the main characters, Laila (a role that is passionately performed by Rinabeth Apostol), with her father (performed thoughtfully by John Farrage) as they read poetry together. This innocent scene does nothing to prepare the audience for the further torment Laila will endure. For the time being though, it beautifully shows the deep connection between the father, Babi, and his daughter. Their connection contrasts the future of ruins with the perfect present, and its perfection hints at a greater danger to come. As the two characters read poems of Kabul, they not only sing the praises of their beautiful city but intertwine their love with profound anguish. Their pain stems from the loss of their city, the very place they hold dear, due to the dangers of a war-torn country that forces them to leave.

Art has one true purpose, to evoke feeling, to cause a reaction within someone.

The enigmatic art exhibit entitled "Between Bodies" conjures up complex, even contradictory, responses. At times the immersive installations made me feel as if I was both in our recognizable world and beyond it, leading me to reconsider ideas about representation, humanity, and the environment.

Imagine you’re standing in a dark room with mirrors scattered across it. TV screens hang from the walls and bubbles come across them every couple seconds. On one screen, a fisherman talks about his tradition of fishing. It’s very trippy, like you could be in "The Matrix." This mind-numbing experience is a work of art, “Glistening Troubles” by Susanne M. Winterling, just one part of the exhibition “Between Bodies” at the Henry Art Gallery.

The entirety of the exhibit felt like this. It didn’t seem to fit with other art exhibits. It stood out for its differences, mostly because of its tackling of environmental, social, economic and political issues from a perspective we don’t always see get a voice. Many of the artists use their experiences as members of LGBTQ communities to present these global issues in alternative ways, ways that promote collaboration and unity. It left the viewer thinking long after seeing it, trying to figure it out.

Lucia and Abel don’t meet-cute: she’s a struggling T.V. writer; he’s the janitor for her office building. Their first interaction is when she thanks him for cleaning her room while scrolling through her phone.

Lucia, a compulsive, lonely oversharer in the new city of L.A. quickly spills her life story and problems to Abel. At first Abel, played with gentle firmness by Marco Adiak Voli, is resistant to participate in these conversations. Yet, you can tell from his crinkly-eyed smile that he enjoys her company.

“Oh my god,” I said, turning in my seat. “Oh my god.” Such was my reaction at the end of FADE, a small production by Seattle Public Theater at the Bathhouse Theatre. The show used two actors, and one set. FADE is an unapologetically Latinx play about how people bond and change over time.

Lucia (Pronounced Loo-see-uh, never loo-sha) arrives late at night, and meets after-hours custodian Abel (A-bell, not able). When Abel arrives to clean, Lucia ignores him, that is until she needs help. Yet, Lucia needs more than someone to fix her shelving. She needs someone to whom she can vent to. Lucia tells Abel that the straight, white, cis, male writing staff sees her merely as a token, and her boss sees her as a translator for when he needs to scold his Latina maid. From the beginning she knows she’s on shaky ground. Her writing resume is thin, having only written one novel. She looks down on the show she’s writing for, which from the snippets heard is more like a program from another era. After she softens her spoiled and entitled attitude, she and Abel banter. They discuss who is more Mexican, the correct usage of Hispanic and Latino, and indignities suffered on them by the culturally uninformed and the resentment of being seen as a stereotype—while making plenty of assumptions and generalities about others, and each other.

The Atlas Theatre, where ComedySportz performs, creates a quirky and fun atmosphere by placing paintings by local artists (one depicts Edward Scissorhands giving Chewbacca a haircut) and odd trinkets, such as a ventriloquist dummy that stares down at the audience, around the theater. These purposefully placed objects effectively add a unique vibe to the already unusual space.

The referee, who controls the game and gives out points, comes onto the stage to begin the game. The chairs in the back are already full and the murmur of soft conversation was serving as background noise long before I walked into the room. People are relaxed before the referee begins his introduction, and the easy mood of the room sets the tone of the evening.

I have never been one for cliché expressions, but the phrase “a picture is worth a thousand words” has never been so applicable as when I had the opportunity to experience the photographic chronicle of President Obama’s time in office. With our current administration, it may be easy to lose the hope that we may ever have a leader capable of respect, empathy, and an unwavering resolve to make the world better for the people who inhabit it. But Pete Souza, official White House Photographer for Presidents Obama and Reagan, decided to remind us of the kind of leader we are capable of electing.

I had the pleasure of attending Pete Souza’s lecture on his newest book, "Shade: A Tale of Two Presidents" at Seattle’s Benaroya Hall. After a quick musical performance, Souza was introduced and started at the end, so to speak, by detailing his experience from the conclusion of Obama’s presidency up until the proceedings at Trump’s (or as Souza referred to him, “[President] 46 minus 1”) inauguration. This shade makes this lecture one that is best suitable for an audience whose beliefs align more with that of the Obama administration. The lecture itself had an undeniable political bias. Still, throughout his lecture, Souza kept pushing the people to vote for the leaders they thought capable of filling such a position.

“I think all women should feel free. Our bodies are vessels: it’s how we move through the world.”

“I think all women should feel free. Our bodies are vessels: it’s how we move through the world.”

"White Rabbit" centers around Sophia, a Korean American queer woman who immigrated to the US when she was seven and lives in Koreatown, Los Angeles. She is a performance artist who often speaks at significant places where Koreans and Korean Americans gather. As someone who lived in Koreantown, I recognized many of the locations where scenes of the movie were filmed such as the Koreatown Plaza, making use of authentic locations.

As a Korean American I was able to understand many of the cultural insights and I felt this special connection to the movie. I really enjoyed it. There were also parts of the movie that were in Korean. For every movie, there’s different levels of understanding and this is one of the reasons why I got to a deeper connection than other films I’ve seen.

The show 14/48:HS consisted of seven premier shows all written, produced, memorized, and performed in 24 hours, the next night they do it all again. All productions put on are by teenagers, and everything from the set design to the writing and even the band are all done in under 24 hours. I saw the first seven shows that the company was putting on throughout the weekend-long event and the drive and passion shown was astonishing.

The shows were created in teams and reached through several genres and topics. Some plays were comedies, such as “Finishing The Block” or the show “Spiral” which included a multitude of hilarious metaphors to describe the ridiculous plot of one of the characters not being able to stop spinning in circles. Others were mysterious or serious, such as “Onto the Carousel” that never quite gave an answer to the audience's questions about the story. The shows were focused on different topics and the writing style varied from writer to writer, but all shows had an element of comedy unique to each piece that enhanced the production such as situational irony or a hint of sarcasm in the dialogue. This was used quite often in an amusing play about twins called “Identical.” The plays also had a deeper hidden message, whether it was evident through the words and body language like the show “Deja Vu,” or hidden behind jokes and clever repartee. Two shows performed, “This Dance” and “Try This On For Size,” are brilliant examples of this doctrine; both began with a series of comical actions before coming to a profound ending that gave the show a strong moral philosophy. The writing of the shows was way above the standard for teenage writing, which further highlights the incredible dedication that the students participating have.

There is a reason teens don’t review grown up music, it makes us sleepy.

The church-like Fremont Abbey was beautiful on Friday, October 12, with its blue and green lighting and soft stained glass windows. Lighting was calming to watch the music. It was peaceful and so quiet.

As the flannel-clad audience slowly trickled into the Fremont Abbey Arts Center, it was immediately obvious what kind of show we were in for.

The concert-goers, mainly white couples over thirty who seem to have forgotten that most of us left being “hipster” in 2015, chatted under pretty string lights that zigzagged under the former church’s high ceilings. A lone pair of house speakers played indie rock, folk, and country music that gave further hints to the overall energy of the show to come.

If you’ve lived in Seattle long enough, at some point, you might have seen a poster for Twisted Flicks and wondered what Jet City Improv’s on-the-spot movie redubbing entails. The premise for the show is simple: an obscure black and white movie is played in its entirety while improv performers and musicians reimagine the dialogue and score. It’s been happening with a new film every month ever since the 1997 original, but, on October 25th, I saw the opening night performance of Ed Wood’s Bride of the Monster.

I immediately loved the mood of the venue from the moment I walked in. A large amount of attendees who seemed to be regulars were already seated and mingling with the cast, who were roaming the theater for suggestions. This atmosphere made the space feel like it hosted a community of people who cared about each other—comedians who love to perform and an audience eager to support them. Even with an established fan base, the environment was nothing but welcoming and not exclusionary in any capacity.