Dr. Zhivago in Greasepaint

Clowns - amusing, tragic, annoying, frightening, insipid, talented and inane. Frequently exhibiting all these qualities at once. No better example can be provided than "Slava's Snowshow", now appearing at the Union Square Theatre (once a stronghold of NYC's own Tammany Tigers).

Spoiler Alert: I will be revealing a bit of storyline here (or what could loosely refered to as such), so if you intend to see this show and think it'll be ruined by knowing any details of it beforehand, click here.

waits....

waits...


Ok, now that we're alone, here's a simplistic version of the storyline as best as the Flaneur could wrap his mind around it:

Show opens to Yellow Clown contemplating suicide - Yellow Clown meets Green Clown, also contemplating suicide - they become hesitant comrades - they have a disagreement - Yellow Clown gets mad and sends Green Clown away - Yellow Clown goes to train station and makes imaginary friend with a Coat Rack - Coat Rack and Yellow Clown have a train platform parting scene that grabs the heartstrings and does macrame with them - Yellow Clown ends up alone in the wilderness somewhere - Yellow Clown is buried in a furious blizzard - curtain.

That's about it. Ha-Ha-Ha....silly clowns! Excuse me while I change the dressings on both of my slashed wrists.

To be fair, there is some brilliant clowning around, miming, physical theatre, and stagecraft. I'm also certain there are some depths of the story that I am just too simple a man to appreciate. The New York Times said it was life-affirming. I missed that bit, but who am I to doubt the Gray Lady?

The score is fabulous, though a bit loud sitting in the fifth row. And the grand finale of the blizzard, all 60 seconds of it or so, are worth the $60+ a pop for a seat. Brilliant lighting and special effects. Someone spent a long time snipping up little bits of paper to find the right dimensions to achieve the fluttering effect of snow so perfectly. Oh, and about those little bits of snow-cum-paper: you get more than a Playbill to keep as a souvenir, I'm still picking them out of my hair, my clothes, my cats, my keyboard....

To sum up, next time the Flaneur has a desire to see Russian Clowns, he'll just stay home in Sheepshead Bay and save himself the angst.