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A CurtainUp Review
Wake Up!
But the Karen Finley who is performing downstairs at The Green Room, at 45 Bleecker Street (formerly the home of the Culture Project), is less angry than one might expect or hope. Certainly these new pieces have only a modicum of the fury that, in the 1990s, generated A Certain Level of Denial and We Keep Our Victims Ready. Nor do they have the satiric complexity of a later creation such as The American Chestnut. Despite the overall title, Wake Up!, only "Terri Schiavo," the stronger of the entries, rouses Finley to the kind of raw emotional commitment we associate with her most dynamic performances. As always with Finley, the space is her workshop. Upstage is a moderate-sized film screen, and nearby is a high table with a high stool behind it; above both lurks a camera, aimed at the table and transmitting images to the movie screen. Downstage center is a music stand, and there Finley plants herself at first. Wearing a black, sleeveless, deeply V-necked dress, and high-heeled sandals, she reads a "Prologue", a brief rant involving a woman who seems to be turned on by war and by men trained to die. Leaving the music stand, Finley moves to the high table, where, in effect, she channels a dreaming Laura Bush, complete with an "illustrated dream journal" of informal drawings that the camera relays to the screen. As Finley explains, she wants to look "at the feminine," and explore "how are we Laura, how are we Terri." Not surprisingly, Laura's dream-life, as imagined by Finley, is that of a repressed conservative. Finley's Laura Bush dreams about an independent film festival in Crawford, Texas; about having sex with the ambassador to Iraq; being in bed with Frank Sinatra and George Bush, who "slept right through it." Some of this is amusing, but none of it is particularly inventive. At this moment in time, there's something tired about the idea that Laura Bush, or indeed any Republican, is really a sex maniac disguised as a tailored suit. The president's wife is a soft target, and there's little danger, theatrical or otherwise, in Finley taking aim. Schiavo is more fertile territory, as Finley's rise in energy, focus, and emotional intensity immediately conveys. Leaving the music stand, Finley moves to the high table, where, in effect, she channels a dreaming Laura Bush, complete with an "illustrated dream journal" of informal drawings that the camera relays to the screen. As Finley explains, she wants to look "at the feminine," and explore "how are we Laura, how are we Terri." Not surprisingly, Laura's dream-life, as imagined by Finley, is that of a repressed conservative. Finley's Laura Bush dreams about an independent film festival in Crawford, Texas; about having sex with the ambassador to Iraq; being in bed with Frank Sinatra and George Bush, who "slept right through it" being "in a shithole." Like Laura Bush, Terri Schiavo is, in some sense, yesterday's news. But in Schiavo's comatose state and eventual death, Finley sees the ultimate incarnation of woman as object. An object to be manipulated for ideological propaganda and capitalist gain—a metaphor for American culture as we've experienced it over the last decades. To be sure, "The Passion of Terri Schiavo" does not yet cause the shiver we experience from Finley's most risk-taking art. But these are still works in progress, and it is good to know that Finley is out there, creating.
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