Stupid Fucking Bird (DC)
Opening Night: July 28, 2014
Closing: August 17, 2014
Theater: Woolly Mammoth Theater
In this irreverent, contemporary, and very funny remix of Chekhov’s The Seagull, award-winning playwright Aaron Posner wages a timeless battle between young and old, past and present, in search of the true meaning of it all. An aspiring young director rampages against the art created by his mother’s generation. A nubile young actress wrestles with an aging Hollywood star for the affections of a renowned novelist. And everyone discovers just how disappointing love, art, and growing up can be. Winner of the Helen Hayes Awards for Outstanding Resident Play and Outstanding New Play or Musical, Stupid Fucking Bird will tickle, tantalize, and incite you to consider how art, love, and revolution fuel your own pursuit of happiness.
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August 4, 2014
When asked about his play The Seagull, Russian dramatist Anton Chekhov described it as “a great deal of conversation about literature, little action, tons of love.” For Aaron Posner’s Stupid Fucking Bird–a “remix” of Seagull, which premiered at Woolly Mammoth Theatre Company last season and is currently enjoying its second run–the list might be expanded: A great deal of conversation about theatre, little action, tons of love, a splash of audience participation, as well as “fog, gun shots, smoking, brief nudity, and copious use of the word fuck.” Posner joins a prestigious and formidable list of playwrights who’ve tried their hand at adapting The Seagull–Tennessee Williams, Christopher Durang, and Tom Stoppard among them. And he holds his own among their ranks. Last season’s production received two of the most coveted Helen Hayes Awards–Outstanding Resident Play, and the Charles MacArthur Award for Outstanding New Play or Musical–and a handful of well-earned nominations. Developed at Woolly Mammoth over the course of a year, the original production was such a smash that only the smallest things have been tweaked in the remount. The entire original cast–a veritable lineup of DC favorites and fresh new faces–returned to do this risky, honest, and brutally clever play once more, again under the direction of Woolly Mammoth’s artistic director, Howard Shalwitz. It is a comedy. Let’s not overlook that fact, because it’s an important one. We can talk of Chekhov and his themes (and don’t worry, we’ll get there) and the show’s edgy innovation until dead seagulls drop from the sky, but the magic of Stupid Fucking Bird is how it balances the hilarious and the heartwrenching.
READ THE REVIEWAugust 1, 2014
Stupid Fucking Bird, Aaron Posner’s 2013 adaptation of Anton Chekhov’s late 19th century The Seagull, returns like the phoenix to Woolly Mammoth Theatre Company with its stellar cast and crisp direction. The production entertains with its tongue-through-cheek perspective, particularly if you aren’t too sensitive to suicide jokes and existential despair made light. Think extended Jerry Seinfeld episode with a curve toward the tragic. I didn’t see Stupid Fucking Bird the first time round: the play’s pretentious title steered me clear. Its success lured me for this second time around: the script’s adolescent perspective on life’s muddle did not win me over, however; some of its characters did, and that to me is Chekhov’s gift and original vision. In Chekhov, the human trumps over all things philosophical. Thus, if you are hoping for life to offer some great reward, you will be left wanting. If you accept the fact that the extent of life is the loving and living, then you won’t be disappointed. Now, there is also wealth and a deadening habit of mind, but in Stupid Fucking Bird if you are hoping for justice and economic fairness, you are an idealistic idiot and deserve your misery.
READ THE REVIEWAugust 3, 2014
Ladies and gentlemen, may I present a review of (if you haven’t guess it already) a show that is clearly meant for older audiences. They don’t have to be mature. The characters in it certainly aren’t. But they do have to be prepared for frequent use of the f word and existential considerations. But don’t worry. This show is hilarious, and it is excellent. Stupid Fucking Bird remixes Anton Chekhov’s The Seagull, bringing it into a time that has cell phones, electric guitar and Downton Abbey. At its dark, broken heart, the story is the same. Con, a writer (Brad Koed) searches for art while rebeling against the traditional theatre allure that has made his mother (Kate Eastwood Norris) famous. Those surrounding him struggle to understand the paths of their lives, whether it be love or just evaluating their memories (“What happened to my forties?”).There is a lot in this show that could be (and is) very heavy. And yet, despite the drinking and wailing, this play really moves. Aaron Posner’s script offers a tongue in cheek updated version of Chekhov. He makes you laugh, and in an instant, makes even the worst character relatable. His references are modern and witty, and he gives the audience a truly interactive show. The fourth wall is shattered nearly instantly, since the characters are all intently aware of where they exist. Cheers to this company of actors, who rolled with the audience’s responses parlously, and to Posner for one of the most unpredictable yet intriguing scripts you’ll see.
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August 4, 2014
The expletive smacked splat in the middle of the title indicates clearly that Aaron Posner will be playing fast and loose with the vaunted delicacies of Chekhov in his play Stupid ______ Bird, which is being remounted for a summer run at the Woolly Mammoth Theater after debuting there to acclaim last year and winning the Helen Hayes Award for best new play. And yet, for all its rowdiness, Mr. Posner’s bitingly funny, bruisingly sad “sort of” adaptation of The Seagull comes closer than many productions of the original to capturing the full complexity of feeling in the play. Mr. Posner turns a classic often treated with reverence into a mirror that shows in crisp detail what is new about unhappiness today (we obsess about it a lot more), and what is timeless (love screws you up, life’s a bitch, and then, well, you know). The stereotypical Chekhov is depicted as a gentle master of nuance with a compassionate vision of human foibles — and there is much truth in this assessment. But scratch a little deeper and you’ll see how desperate his characters can be to escape the constrictions of their existence, how violently they love (in vain, of course), how mercilessly they rend their own hearts in the anguish of disappointment. All of this comes through with piercing vitality in Mr. Posner’s adaptation, which moves between fidelity to the original and spasms of self-conscious theatricality with the ease of a competitive skateboarder.
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