Ethan Switch - Wednesday, April 20, 2005 - Print Version
Two hours before the crazy xylophones even start banging away, the man at the box office says that the Maria Bamford show is "pretty much sold out," as he spits out two tickets to The Studio. Back row, up on the side of the mezzanine. Down in the pit, with the chairs at the tables all taken to with drinks, rows of seats are on a toilet break. Holes here and there seriously rubbing doubtful gasps on the claim at capacity.
Nothing spectacular announces the performance, outside the booming voice, standard fare. Maria Bamford is a woman with an amazingly wild head of hair. So much so that at times it's not even certain if there is even a face underneath it all. Thoughts quickly taken outside with the rabid dog as her lips and eyes poke out at intervals and clears the way for certain characters from within.
Swiftly dropping and diving into various characters and voices, Bamford presents a myriad of reflections and recollections. With her own voice up against those of the mother to the supremely confident woman, it's very much soft and strange in comparison. Were it not for the constant beat she returns to, any chance to catch the real voice is hard work.
Watching Bamford rehash the same old lines on television seriously works against any enjoyment in the live show. Most of the material thrown up on stage is dead on arrival. Familiarity in their wrinkles doing no favour and bleeding any chance of new found charm for the night. Dragging out the temping stage of her life, the one about the "burning bridges" tour, ushers a comfy rest period. A chance to nod off even.
Over not more than a few seats is a man whose laugh is deep and resonant, with the sounds of a mock gesture. Faking it would be easy, as is taking out the offending lung and giving it a good whack to clear out whatever congestion rides up the lining of the organ. Staffers standing behind are flicking their torches on and off, closing and opening the doors and generally making their presence known. Softly, softly as it goes.
There is no sense of rhythm to the show. A heavy staccato keeping its head alive with a moderate wave of laughter. There isn't even a hint of a continual punch in the melody of the jokes, empty pockets dropping coins all over the floor. Flat in large parts with peaks of brilliance dying of thirst from the distance between.
It's not until the end, with the non-sequitur phone messages from her mother and a short song to close out the show, that it starts to pick up the game with really sharp and searing imagery. But by then it's too late and the show is over.
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