April 9, 2014
By Nina Metz
Tribune Reporter
Staged as though it were a stand-up routine, with requisite brick-wall backdrop and mic stand center stage, this show from Minneapolis-based playwright Aditi Brennan Kapil and performed by the dynamic Chicago actress Fawzia Mirza presents a certain grammatical challenge. To paraphrase a line from the show: Who invented pronouns?
Gender, cultural identity and the pains of adolescence get a thorough filleting and grilling in this story of an American child of Indian immigrants who is born intersex, with both male and female genital characteristics.
When Brahman first takes the stage, in a leather jacket and hoodie, he identifies as male. (The show is a collaboration from Silk Road Rising and About Face.) "In my comedic stylings I'll be relying heavily on the whole just-being-Indian thing, as is my ethnocultural right" he says. "Frankly, you people are suckers for the funny accent. I could recite the damn phone book up in here."
But midway through, with a scarf tied at the waste and lipstick applied, Brahman/i identifies as female, a process set in motion (in part) after observing the allure of teenage girls: "I mean they're shining, and it's scary — they're scary and all-powerful."
By the show's end? Well, s/he is a bit of both genders: "I'm relying heavily on your lascivious curiosity about what's in my pants. My penis-slash-vagina." Of course, the story is about so much more.
Charismatic and flippant, though lacking a stand-up's knack for pacing, Mirza stalks the stage as if her blood ran with caffeine. Her delivery is fast and witty (she's especially sharp when analyzing slide images of the exuberant, oft-strange pornographic stone reliefs that decorate an ancient Hindu temple), but the performance is also invulnerable. What we see is an uncommonly unique character who comes across as a deeper thinker on the surface, but one moving too fast to stop for much reflection.
If a play like this is to fully work, it has to deliver on its conceit. As directed by Andrew Volkoff, it zooms along — through jokes, personal anecdotes and sardonic asides about Stonehenge — with unvarying velocity. But comedians are meticulous about timing and how they unfurl an act, and at 1 hour, 45 minutes, the minimal blocking options and uninterrupted tempo become cracks in the show's facade.