Amy Bodossian. Saldechin, Feb 20 to Feb 27
The mind boggles as to why the Saldechin thought it necessary to force patrons to lineup on entry, staring at a half empty venue full of available seating whilst a lone usher escorts people one at a time at her whim, which didn't seem to come very often. Ironically the process of "seating" people involved them picking their own location and then being escorted there completely unnecessarily, making the exercise an awkward and fruitless one, only serving to confuse and frustrate the audience.
This aside, one settled in with some anticipation to experience a show from a Green Room award nominee and 'Spicks and Specks' guest performer. Alas, the show was not to reflect such accolades.
Opening with lap of the audience, wiping her nose and derriere with tissues that she then forced on audience members, Bodossian set the bar for the rest of the performance and it couldn't get much lower. When she said she wasn't like TS Elliot, she wasn't kidding. He's been published.
You might well doubt that one person could write a whole show around mucosal expulsions, but Bodossian achieved this and not much else. Phlegm Fatale is full of poorly written poetry, spoken word monologues and the artist's own set of songs no one would ever record, including one that featured snot, waking in a gutter, pissing yourself, and Margaret Thatcher's pussy. It is reminiscent of what happens when you get drunk at home alone and record yourself in front of the mirror; and that's where it should stay. Another example that abstract doesn't equal art. Not even when you add a jazz musician.
No class here folks. This show disappoints on all fronts.
Nicole Russo
