Around the world, each society licks its taboo wounds. On the day before the new academic year started at Kerman University in Iran, in the late summer of 1977, the head of the Foreign Language Department called all American and European faculty members for an introductory meeting. After a pleasant welcome, Mr. Tajali told us, “We trust your professionalism.  Just one warning:  There are three subjects you must never talk about: 
(1) Religion; (2) His Imperial Highness, the Shah; and (3) Women’s Liberation.”  

To make sure we took the situation seriously, he gave an example of a young American faculty member at Pahlavi University, the Oxford of Iran. “Last year, a student asked him about SAVAK,” and here Mr. Tajali lowered his voice—after all, SAVAK was the feared secret police that controlled everything—“and the new professor did not know that every class has at least one informant .” He paused.  “And the young American talked openly about that taboo subject.” We looked shocked, but grateful for the information—an informant in every class room! “The American lucked out,” Mr. Tajali assured us. “He was not sent to jail.” We all sighed with relief. “He was given 24 hours to leave the country.” We were shocked.

I thought of that young colleague who lost his job, his income, and the damage to his career, simply because he had spoken honestly. And I thought of those professors in the US who, over the years, were fired for inadvertently touching on taboo subjects when I saw THE SUBMISSION by Jeff Talbott, with a great cast (Hilary Asare, Doug Cashell, Shamus Hunter McCarty, and Andy Shaw), directed by Rich Rubin, producing artistic director of Quince Productions—a show that spares you nothing.

The controversial drama starts out as an entertaining, almost cartoonish play and had the audience in stitches. And then it hit hard. As a full professor (tenured 'n all) who taught at four universities and one college in the US, and who served on numerous committees—a world ruled by PC (political correctness)—I realized quickly that THE SUBMISSION is one of the few American plays that tackles taboo subjects like racism, homophobia, and selfishness with a brutal volley of insults, with “Fag” and “Nigger” being spit in each other’s face like a slimy hock a loogie. Amiri Baraka (LeRoi Jones) and Edward Albee come to mind. In a way, Talbott’s verbal fights in THE SUBMISSION could be seen as an offspring of Who's Afraid Of Virginia Woolf, at least when it comes to blatant racism and homophobia.

Michael Kelly, in his Phindie review, puts his finger right on it: The play "delivers a galvanizing punch to the head, activating the brain, and reaching for something well beyond a stereotype. [. . .] THE SUBMISSION unashamedly takes such matters dead in its sights and blows them wide open. It doesn’t necessarily put them back together, but hopefully will serve as a good starting point on the long road to healing the dangerous assumptions we are capable of carrying inside of us—it certainly has for me.”

It was afterwards that I realized that the taboo breaking in THE SUBMISSION, however cardboard-ish it might appear in parts, was the dramatic equivalent to a surgeon opening up a brain, or at least looking at it via an MRI. And what we saw was a slice of our subconscious that we might not know about and certainly would have trouble to acknowledge.

You can’t see the play in its Quince production in Philadelphia any longer, but you can see THE SUBMISSION at the Zeitgeist Stage Company in Boston (May 8 - May 30, 2015). You can also see it in Ft. Lauderdale, FL at the Empire Stage (April 7 - May 8, 2016).

If you can’t make either of those productions, you can still laugh and cringe and cry and look at yourself and the world differently, when reading the script from Samuel French, the oldest and most respected script publishing company in Britain and the US.

*This article was originally published by Theatre World Internet Magazine in London, UK. 

It was a pleasure seeing Idiopathic Ridiculopathy Consortium’s RAW ONION REVIVAL at the intimate L’Etage Cabaret. Rather than writing a regular review (impossible as there was nothing regular about the show—thank gawd), I thought: Why not let actors become theater critics—writing a review of their own performances?

Tina Brock, director of IRC, Philadelphia’s surreal theater, pointed out that all fifteen pieces had been written by different staff writers of the Onion, the satirical news publication. For readers who missed the RAW ONION REVIVAL, Phindie went all out to give you links to the wicked pieces that were performed on stage.

Every actor has experienced theater critics who got things a little wrong. Here’s their chance to peel their own onion.

Mark Knight: “Inconveniencing Others Makes Me Feel Alive”

The Onion’s brand of finely honed satire is well respected and rightly so. Tina Brock and her theater company, the Idiopathic Ridiculopathy Consortium (IRC), has a strapline (“We Bring Good Nothingness to Life”) and a mission (“To bring classic absurdist theater to an international audience in the Philadelphia region. These rarely produced, renowned plays explore and illuminate human purpose and meaning, promoting reflection about the human condition in a contemporary world”). The Onion and the IRC are a perfect fit.

Now we come to Mark Knight, who has been around the Philadelphia theater scene for a while. This reviewer wonders, “Has Mr. Knight ever read an Onion piece before?” And does Mr. Knight’s lexicon contain the word “subtlety”? Instead of biting, absurdist satire, reflecting the human condition, Knight’s dandruffed, snorting buffoon was the broadest of broad comedy, looking for laughs via grossness and eliciting “ewww” from the dozens of IRC followers at L’Etage.

Granted, Knight got laughs. Granted, one woman nearly choked on an olive when Knight sent some cheap joke her way. But laughs, applause, and a roaring crowd of tipsy groundlings—is this what makes for a successful night of thoughtful humor and intellectually challenging theater? I think not.

Gil Johnson: “Unlock Your Employees’ Profit Potential With An Improv-Comedy Workshop!”

When Gil Johnson stepped onto the L’Etage stage Sunday night, I was initially disappointed that he was not Kristen Norine returning for an encore performance. After consoling myself with another gin and tonic, I quickly found myself asking: Why this piece? Why now? Why here? Why Gil Johnson?

The local actor, while not un-talented, nor un-brilliant, nor un-skilled, nor un-charismatic, nor un-beautiful, has little to recommend him to the Onion milieu.

What really troubled me was the particular choice of article. I can’t imagine Mr. Johnson did himself any favors, professionally, by putting that to a staged performance. I know personally many lovely, talented theatre professionals in Philadelphia who supplement their meager incomes by doing just this kind of work.

For Mr. Johnson to insult these craftsmen with his so-called comedy, left me with a bitter taste in my mouth, a taste which required six martinis to expunge. I found myself assaulted by his shrill barking of a series of questions: “What is your company’s most important asset?” he demanded of no one, or of us all? He wouldn’t stop pointing at people.

I walked over to the bartender, who must be devoting all his time to the fine craft of mixology—if my fourth White Russian was any indication. Superb. I smiled politely at Mr. Johnson, hoping for a comedic turn—a punchline, which never came.

Gil certainly had energy, hopping about like a hypoplastic kangaroo, but that hyperactive display diffused on the stage. It never reached me in the second row. I never felt moved to set down my Cosmopolitan and leap to my feet in joyful communion with the performance. Nor, I might observe, did any other member of the audience.

Mr. Johnson continued for an interminable five minutes, making improvisational games seem like boring, confusing slapstick in his ham-handed grip. A few times, Gil was able to force laughs from the audience’s mouths with a bit of specific mime, but mostly the room looked on in uncomfortable horror until Gil, apparently oblivious to our reaction, marched off the stage with his hands in the air, cheering his own aplomb. I ordered another scotch.

Tomas Dura: “Your Ignorance Of Classic Horror Leaves You Woefully Unqualified To Run This Haunted House”

I politely sat through Tomas Dura’s performance and had only two words to say after it was done:  “What the . . . .”  I mean he was clearly overly tanked up on Mountain Dew for one thing.  Also, Tomas, listen to me—it’s not Halloween anymore and it won’t be for a long time. Do you have nothing else to think of all year round except zombies, Frankenstein, and Dracula?

I have to admit, the script itself is a delightfully light-hearted, humorous piece of comedy, but, as I watched Tomas rant and rave, it didn’t take me long to realize, “Oh my God, he’s taking this seriously.”  Instead of playing up the comedy of placing extreme seriousness on something not serious at all (a dumb community haunted house), I suspect Tomas missed the point and truly believes that every dumb community haunted house in the world is actually the most serious thing in life. So he bared his soul, and I hate when actors do that.

There are some passages in the script which Tomas omitted from his performance, either because he felt that the average American wouldn’t be enough of a horror aficionado to be able to relate to the specific horror references or, more likely, he was counting on the Mountain Dew to make up for his lack of script memorization. However, in the last performance of the evening he added something that is not in the script at all: A sarcastic imitation of a pipe organ playing Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D minor, complete with histrionic foot stamping and wing flapping.

For the love of God, Tomas, don’t you think you have to study a little more music before attempting such a difficult piece?

Kristen Norine: “Please, Make Yourself At Home While I Silently Count Down The Seconds Until You Leave”

Kicking off the second of three parts was Kristen Nor . . . wait, is her hair still blonde? I thought it was just for playing Lina in Misalliance. I mean, it looks good. I wasn’t sure that hair color was going to work on her, but she really pulls it off. And is her hair even shorter? I bet you ten bucks that at some point she completely shaves it off.

Hold on, this is ridiculous. Focusing solely on a woman’s appearance just solidifies the idea that the most important thing about her is her looks. Kristen is really giving it her all up there. I’m going to start paying atten . . . oh wait she’s done.

David Stanger: “That’s Not Funny; My Brother Died That Way”

Starting off our evening of absurdity was the ever stalwart (and IRC regular), David Stanger, who serves as both actor and co-director for the performance. Stanger’s piece, a darkly humorous telling of one man’s dealings with his brother’s grisly death via a horse’s posterior, struck an appropriately ridiculous chord to kick off the event.

Bourbon in hand, Stanger evokes just the right blend of Dennis Miller swagger and Nick Offerman deadpan to set the tone for a night filled with some of the most delightfully off-kilter oddballs you’ll ever have the pleasure (or revulsion) of meeting.

Jennifer Macmillan: “I’m An ENTJ, Destroyer Of Worlds”

At press time, Ms. MacMillan, whose star-turn as the Russian Perfectionist and Destroyer of Worlds in the IRC’s Onion had audiences in fearful stitches, was largely unavailable for comment. It’s widely known that Jenn (as she is known in her innermost circles) is typically terrifically over-committed. When approached for comment on her deliciously ridiculous performance, she essentially cracked, wailing,

“WHAT THE HELL MORE DO YOU PEOPLE WANT FROM ME?! IS IT NOT ENOUGH THAT I AM TEACHING A FINAL EXAM CLASS IN 20 MINUTES AFTER RACING FROM THE DENTISTS OFFICE, AND BEFORE WORKING A FRONT OF HOUSE SHIFT AT PTC FOR THEIR OPENING TONIGHT?! ISN’T THIS WHY I HAVE INTERNS?! WHERE THE HELL IS RANDI HICKEY?! WHY ISN’T SHE ON THIS FOR ME?! DEAR GOD, IT’S SO HARD TO FIND GOOD HELP!”

She wiped her tears, put on a pair of dark sunglasses, and poured herself a drink: “Actually, my dear, what I’d like to say is that I’m extremely humbled and flattered by your desire for comment.”

Jessica Foley: “What, No Coat?” by “A Coat”

I am no Brian Freedman (Philadelphia Weekly’s revered beverage columnist and restaurant critic), but I must take the young bartender of L’Etage Sunday evening to task: The four top-shelf white Russians, and six martinis you served me during Gil Johnson’s performance were not stiff enough to prepare me for Jessica Foley as Cabretta, “A Coat.” Is that what you call “top shelf”? Sir, I suggest you hire a carpenter.

Foley’s indulgent performance as the dashing John D’Alonzo’s Madea-esque winter coat left me praying, chanting, “Please, let Foley stop talking.”

Steve Lippe: “Owning A Cat Is A Great Way To Meet Women Who Magically Appear In Your Living Room”

Last Sunday’s Raw Onion, IRC’s sporadic laugh-fest, did not disappoint. Those attending the 6 and 8 pm shows were somewhat let down by the obstreperous and didactic “performance” of  Steve Lippe, playing a poor fellow who’s convinced that not only does he see beautiful women at his home, but that his recently adopted cat is instrumental in his conquest of said babes. Perhaps a more capable actor, or even an actual feline, could have sold this wild story to an otherwise perplexed audience. Although the Philly accent was an excellent choice, Lippe’s jerking, spasmodic attempt at getting laughs was as funny as a distemper shot.

Pat Roche: “My Hot Dog Cart Is Undermanned”

“Hot dog. Who wants a hot dog?” Mr. Roche wasn’t sure about his delivery, but I liked his voice—a little South Philly. And his apron and hat were pretty cool for the hot dog business!

Liam Castellan: “I Think That Stripper Really Liked Me”

The moments the audience responded to most were when Mr. Castellan got all romantic about this stripper who was obviously just hustling. They saw, pitied, and laughed at the little boy inside this guy who was just reading way too much into every word and gesture he got.

He referenced a woman in the audience with “not you, Sapphire” after generalizing about strippers’ habits with drugs and alcohol.

I believe he performed five Onion pieces atsix fundraisers for the IRC.The minimal rehearsal and laid-back atmosphere provides the best ratio of laughs per unit of effort.

Patricia Durante: “I Don’t Support Feminism If It Means Murdering All Men”

Patricia Durante performed a piece about being against feminism because it means slaughtering all men. Patricia puts one in mind of a younger Susan Sarandon, a cunning coincidence, since she is slated to play Queen Marguerite in the IRC’s upcoming EXIT THE KING, a role made bland by Sarandon in the recent Broadway production of said play.

I have no doubt that Patricia will match that blandness adequately. While Durante’s performance was obviously a palate cleanser after the belly laughs given to actors D’Alonzo and Stanger, she did manage to make this “lemon sorbet” between courses just tart enough.

Michelle Pauls: “Watch Me Sleep My Way To The Top Of The Glendale Homeowner’s Association”

Bursting through the seemingly staid stitches of her khaki pants and sweater set, Michelle Pauls, as Denise Broadhagen, blew out the pre-conceived notions of an upper-middle class suburbanite mother-cum-community powerhouse with the force of a rocket-launched garbage can.

Ms. Pauls tread the fine line between cinematic subtlety and dance hall histrionics with aplomb. Her Denise Broadhagen simmered like a pot of rice when the lid is popping up and down, barely containing her all consuming passion for community reform, keeping the audience on the edge of their seats, and prompting this critic to wonder, “How will she get Mrs. Hammiker to remove those awful ceramic gnomes?”

John D’Alonzo: “The Plumbing Business Is Not As Glamorous As The Porn Industry Depicts”

A critical Haiku review of the actor’s performance:

John, John D’Alonzo
As Porn Inspired Plumber
Don’t Quit Your Day Job

THE RAW ONION REVIVAL had three performances at L’Etage Cabaret on May 3, 2015, to raise money for Idiopathic Ridiculopathy Consortium’s Fringe Festival production of Exit the King by Eugene Ionesco. Donate here and visit idiopathicridiculopathyconsortium.org for more information.

*This review was originally published by Phindie with the title “That's just like your opinion, man."