Witty time-travel fantasy light years ahead of sci-fi
By HENRY MIETKIEWIC, TORONTO STAR (CANADA)
January 4, 1989
The future, sad to say, isn't what it used to be. Around every turn lurk harbingers of doom, from global annihilation in a nuclear fireball to the personal agony of AIDS.
Ah, for the blissful naivete of the Victorian age, when science promised nothing but solutions, and "future" was very nearly synonymous with "paradise".
That guileless optimism is delicately captured in an enchanting production of On The Verge, which opened last night at Tarragon Theatre.
The style embraced by American writer Eric Overmyer is anti-realism laced with generous dollops of absurdity, unexpected in a comedy rooted in the literal-mindedness of the late 19th century.
But this is, after all, a time-travel fantasy whose sprightly wit is light years removed from the straight-ahead adventures of Jules Verne or H.G. Wells. Unnatural force
The year is 1888, as Mary (Deborah Kipp), Fanny (Susan Coyne), and Alexandra (Catherine Disher) embark on an expedition on behalf of a Bostonian geographical society to a land known only as Terra Incognita.
Soon, however, an array of unfamiliar phrases and visions - Nixon in China, dirigibles, an abominable snowman (Stuart Hughes), "I like Ike" buttons - assault their senses.
Sensibly, they conclude they have stumbled upon some unnatural force that enables them to progress in time instead of space, leaving no option but to investigate.
Much of the delight in Overmyer's script - bolstered by JoAnn McIntyre's controlled but free-flowing direction - stems from the comedy of misunderstanding.
Alexandra, for instance, becomes inexplicably obsessed with advertising jingles, while Fanny longs to taste the elusive elixir known as Cool Whip. All three even come to regard the egg-beater as some sort of mystical icon. Near-poetic
Another source of pleasure is Overmyer's near-poetic wordplay which surfaces in all manner of puns, rhymes, non sequiturs and twisted mottos.
At times, he lapses into ornate, Victorian constructions ("Whenever I palaver with pasha or poobah . . ."), only to slide into alliteration ("I would sooner saunter across the Sahara sans sandals") or a neat turn of phrase ("jaundiced yellow journalism").
But his real aim is to happily infect us with the joyous awe that a dazzled Victorian might experience in modern times. To such a mind, even the term "Saturday night special" has the ring of grandeur, and we can't help but indulge in the sweet simplicty of Overmyer's optimism.
At first there's no telling the three women apart. But, with unhurried ease, Kipp brings out Mary's proud, ambitious curiosity, while Coyne permits Fanny to revel in the pleasures of suburbia.
Topping them both is Disher's endearingly girlish Alexandra, whose spontaneity is as likely to result in dizzying malapropisms as piercing shrieks of amazement.
On The Verge offers no epic revelations to complement its exhilarating sense of wonder. But no matter. As the slogan-spewing Alexandra might say, "Getting there is half the fun."
Written by Eric Overmyer. Directed by JoAnn McIntyre. Set and lighting by Graeme S. Thomson. Costumes by Halyna Kuzmyn. Until Feb. 5 at Tarragon Theatre, 30 Bridgman Ave., 536-5018.