Fringe, Reviewed: They Call Me Arethusa

[ theater ]

They Call Me Arethusa, by Colie McClellan and Mark Kennedy

Attended: Mon., Sept. 15, 9 p.m.; Closes Sept. 20, 8 p.m.

How do you know if you know a woman who's survived abuse? The answer is: you do. Arethusa guides you spoken-word-style through the stories of her Greek mythological sisters and the true testimonials of modern women. "O Brother Where Art Thou" performance poetry meets the docudrama power of "Fires in the Mirror."

WE THINK: 

Here’s what to expect from the two-person produced They Call Me Arethusa: You’ll be one of a very small audience (I was one of five). You’ll watch one woman, McClellan, take on the characteristics of many (not in a gimmicky way, I assure you). You’ll learn jarring statistics about domestic and partner violence (but McClellan frames them in clever ways, like when she takes on a rah-rah but sarcastic spokesperson persona that starkly contrasts facts about useless government mandates and “awareness” campaigns — you can imagine the pats on the back officials gave themselves about this stuff, which doesn’t do nearly enough). 

Here’s what’s not to expect: Preachiness. Guilt-inducing, demanding calls to action. Boredom. Awkwardness. Haughtiness. Pretentious, "armchair activism” type of stuff. Bad acting. Overwhelming sadness in dealing with a sad subject.

McClellan, along with her partner and director Kennedy, interviewed women she knew personally and through others about their experiences with intimate partner violence. She’s turned their stories into this gripping performance.

Employing smart tricks like a dress she can easily manipulate into new styles, as well as wearing her hair in different ways each scene, McClellan “becomes” each woman every few minutes, telling of their troubling experiences in a variety of intonations and with unique mannerisms. It might sound like she’s made them into cartoonish characters, but that’s not it, it’s hardly an appropriation  — it’s to McClellan’s great credit that each of these stories comes through so vividly by how she speaks, quietly or loudly, how she moves around the space (which includes just a few props she deftly poses) and how she punctuates these stories. All the while, she’ll switch into mythology mode, dropping her voice into a low, southern drawl or Greek oratory bellow, telling of how Medusa or Persephone could have all too much in common with modern women who’ve been through such pain.

In such a small space, with only herself and the voices of survivors, and with so few elements of flash, McClellan manages to captivate, inform and subtly provoke the audience to consider. It’s a subject that could easily go astray, but McClellan’s got the right idea: take something painful, and express it truthfully and without conceit. The rest is up to the viewer.

Stay for the informal talkback if you have the time — McClellan and Kennedy so humbly share their inspiration and future hopes for the project, but their insight and earnestness is contagious. It's the perfect show to soak in and mull over with fellow audience members and creators.