Fucked: An Evening of Theatrical Atrocities

Open Circle Theater

Through Sept 20.

It began with a screaming, blood-spattered pregnant woman and ended in a hideous tableau featuring the four major food groups: blood, piss, puke, and shit. No, it wasn't last Thanksgiving at my parents' house, but the seriously fucked-up Fucked at Open Circle Theater. This self-described "evening of theatrical atrocities" earns its name, with interest.

Director Matt Fontaine corralled six playwrights (including Derek Horton, Tommy Smith, Bret Fetzer, and Tamara Paris) to pen the nastiest tales they could imagine, then mounted the fetid results with a hardworking six-member cast. The results are harrowing but mostly predictable--revolting acts by revolting people involving pus, blood, and barf. Lots of barf.

While inarguably nasty, the production's horror was relatively shallow. The plays were sadistically thrilling to watch, but they lacked that haunting chill that lingers after more substantially disturbing spectacles. Nevertheless, Fucked is a ragged evening of wicked, insensitive, revolting fun. From war to fast-food joints to out-of-body-experiences, the playwrights ride roughshod over decency and good taste. Fluffy schlock relies on timing and surprises for its punch, and it would be unfair to spoil the plays by discussing their contents. In lieu of summaries, let the following sample of audience ejaculations be your guide: "fuck no," "fucking gross," and "please fucking stop."

A special thumbs-up to Paul Gude and Ben Laurance for their fine inter-act slapstick as sick janitors, gleefully mopping up all the bodily fluids lost during each segment. And a gold star to Ms. Paris for adding an unexpected twist to what might have been a predictable romp in necrophilia.

While stodgy killjoys posing as purists might cringe at the recent wealth of shitkicking theater, we should find the development heartening. A constantly highbrow medium is a dead medium, and performance events like the Satan's Bitch reading series, Point Break Live!, and Fucked promise to tempt fresh asses into theater seats. Of course we love and learn from the masters--let's not throw the Beckett out with the bathwater--but they can't all be Butoh versions of Tartuffe. Sometimes they've just got to be Fucked.