Richard Carnahan
2008-04-11 15:22:38 UTC
THEATER REVIEW
'Aurelia's Oratorio'
By Sean Mitchell, Special to The Times
April 11, 2008
A touch of magic, the legacy of the circus, childhood whimsy and the
granddaughter of Charlie Chaplin all combine to form the unusual
"Aurelia's Oratorio" at UCLA's Freud Playhouse. It's an evening that
lacks an obvious story or headline but showcases the considerable
physical talents of Aurelia Thierrée, Chaplin's big-eyed descendant,
who climbs curtains, dangles by her ankles from scary heights and
creates scene after scene of gentle irony, ably assisted by Broadway
dancer Julio Monge.
Under the direction of her mother, Victoria Thierrée Chaplin, who
created the show for her, Thierrée hurls herself into physical jokes,
many based on a simple (though not simply executed) reversal of the
familiar. In the show's opening moments, legs, feet and fingers pop
out from the drawers of a chest, playing peekaboo with the audience.
No words are spoken.
In another, Thierrée takes flight above the stage, tethered to a kite
that appears to be flying her. When two people bearing a litter arrive
and the passenger seat appears to be upside down, she boards it
sitting upside down and is carried off in this gravity-defying
posture.
The show's charm derives from such amusing and artfully staged
illusions pieced together in a desultory procession that appears to be
going nowhere in particular except from one childish or surreal notion
to the next, scored with recorded jazz, electronic music and
percussion.
Monge, a taut and mutable presence, suavely delivers clownish sketches
in which he manages to animate a hand-held coat and trousers with the
illusion that another man is inside. Thierrée and Monge together
inhabit a pair of pants and a jacket, forming a cartoon-like creature
that vaults into the air.
Throughout, Thierrée impresses with an athleticism that seems
surprising when coupled with her fine-featured face and the eyes of a
1920s screen siren. Her pale and lovely countenance seems to have been
peeled from a vintage poster.
Meanwhile, she muscles up the scenery rigging like a Marine and flies
through the air like an acrobat, then returns to the stage for a
comedic or poignant vignette with oversized puppets and props.
It is quite a display of something that is even hard to describe. She
is not so much playing a single character or characters but a woman
intoxicated by wild dreams who also has the ability to act them out
with élan and circus training.
In one of the evening's most striking scenes of turning the world on
its head, her luminous eyes and cheeks fill the frame of a miniature
proscenium as she entertains an audience of humorously designed
puppets seated before her.
The knowledge that she is Chaplin's granddaughter is both fitting and
possibly a distraction as one searches her face and movement for
traces of the great silent film comedian.
It is too easy to say that she comes by her physical grace and
wordless comedic flair naturally but worth noting that she began
performing at 4 in the Cirque Imaginaire, created in Europe by her
parents, Victoria and Jean-Baptiste Thierrée, whose "new circus" ideas
influenced, among others, Cirque du Soleil.
"Aurelia's Oratorio," which might be rated G if theater had such
ratings, has its share of circus tricks but with a cast of two (five
if you count some walk-ons) doesn't attempt spectacle, preferring the
intimate encounter, the duet, the mimed interior monologue. Near the
end of the show, Thierrée becomes an hourglass with her body's sandy
essence running out the bottom.
Another nifty illusion has her magically reconstituting her body and
clothing so a hole appears in her midriff just large enough for a
model train to pass through after she fuses herself to the model
train's track. (Ever tried that at home?) It doesn't mean anything,
and yet the sight of the train's headlight chugging through her
"tunnel" is an image you won't likely soon forget.
This is theater as child's play but engineered with the ingenuity and
skill of adults. What fun.
'Aurelia's Oratorio'
By Sean Mitchell, Special to The Times
April 11, 2008
A touch of magic, the legacy of the circus, childhood whimsy and the
granddaughter of Charlie Chaplin all combine to form the unusual
"Aurelia's Oratorio" at UCLA's Freud Playhouse. It's an evening that
lacks an obvious story or headline but showcases the considerable
physical talents of Aurelia Thierrée, Chaplin's big-eyed descendant,
who climbs curtains, dangles by her ankles from scary heights and
creates scene after scene of gentle irony, ably assisted by Broadway
dancer Julio Monge.
Under the direction of her mother, Victoria Thierrée Chaplin, who
created the show for her, Thierrée hurls herself into physical jokes,
many based on a simple (though not simply executed) reversal of the
familiar. In the show's opening moments, legs, feet and fingers pop
out from the drawers of a chest, playing peekaboo with the audience.
No words are spoken.
In another, Thierrée takes flight above the stage, tethered to a kite
that appears to be flying her. When two people bearing a litter arrive
and the passenger seat appears to be upside down, she boards it
sitting upside down and is carried off in this gravity-defying
posture.
The show's charm derives from such amusing and artfully staged
illusions pieced together in a desultory procession that appears to be
going nowhere in particular except from one childish or surreal notion
to the next, scored with recorded jazz, electronic music and
percussion.
Monge, a taut and mutable presence, suavely delivers clownish sketches
in which he manages to animate a hand-held coat and trousers with the
illusion that another man is inside. Thierrée and Monge together
inhabit a pair of pants and a jacket, forming a cartoon-like creature
that vaults into the air.
Throughout, Thierrée impresses with an athleticism that seems
surprising when coupled with her fine-featured face and the eyes of a
1920s screen siren. Her pale and lovely countenance seems to have been
peeled from a vintage poster.
Meanwhile, she muscles up the scenery rigging like a Marine and flies
through the air like an acrobat, then returns to the stage for a
comedic or poignant vignette with oversized puppets and props.
It is quite a display of something that is even hard to describe. She
is not so much playing a single character or characters but a woman
intoxicated by wild dreams who also has the ability to act them out
with élan and circus training.
In one of the evening's most striking scenes of turning the world on
its head, her luminous eyes and cheeks fill the frame of a miniature
proscenium as she entertains an audience of humorously designed
puppets seated before her.
The knowledge that she is Chaplin's granddaughter is both fitting and
possibly a distraction as one searches her face and movement for
traces of the great silent film comedian.
It is too easy to say that she comes by her physical grace and
wordless comedic flair naturally but worth noting that she began
performing at 4 in the Cirque Imaginaire, created in Europe by her
parents, Victoria and Jean-Baptiste Thierrée, whose "new circus" ideas
influenced, among others, Cirque du Soleil.
"Aurelia's Oratorio," which might be rated G if theater had such
ratings, has its share of circus tricks but with a cast of two (five
if you count some walk-ons) doesn't attempt spectacle, preferring the
intimate encounter, the duet, the mimed interior monologue. Near the
end of the show, Thierrée becomes an hourglass with her body's sandy
essence running out the bottom.
Another nifty illusion has her magically reconstituting her body and
clothing so a hole appears in her midriff just large enough for a
model train to pass through after she fuses herself to the model
train's track. (Ever tried that at home?) It doesn't mean anything,
and yet the sight of the train's headlight chugging through her
"tunnel" is an image you won't likely soon forget.
This is theater as child's play but engineered with the ingenuity and
skill of adults. What fun.