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Sandwich
Banana, Bag & Bodice
article by Silke Tudor in SF Weekly April 7, 2004
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A Bacon and Ants Sandwich, Please
A very small fan has been diabolically positioned in front of the hotplate to spread the smell of bacon throughout the Exit Theatre. I am hungry, and the smell is maddening. I try to pay attention to the buffalo, the one with the bad Russian accent, playing piano; or to the large black cat with the red crinoline, painted toenails, and half-lidded eyes cleaning herself at the front of the stage; or to the giant blue bunny sitting in the audience behind me with a fifth of Jack Daniels between his knees. But the buffoons from Banana, Bag & Bodice are making a sandwich and they are captivating -- with their tall red fezzes, their pale, lumpy bodies, and their bacon. Their bacon. They watch it fry, expectancy and buoyancy animating their limbs as they cut the bread, slice the tomato, and tear the lettuce in time with the piano man/buffalo who teases the ivories under a rickety latticework of cutlery. The knives aren't the only dubious objects hanging above the players' heads. There are bundles, large plastic bundles dangling from the ceiling like body bags. I wonder ... about bacon. Then the cat stirs.
"My friend was the pig/ The pig," she intones with a sympathetic tilt of her great feline head. "But the pig is gone/ Is gone/ Gone to the pan/ Gone to the sandwich/ The pig was my pal/ Now my pal is the pork/ Hairless and faceless/ Oinkless and charred."
"Bacon Bacon," chant the Bodice buffoons from behind their kitchen counter. "Thin meat fat treat/ Had a pound, sliced it down/ Thin meat that I eat."
"Listen to their songs/ Listen to their chatter/ Listen to their bellies/ As the bellies get fatter," sings the Russian buffalo as he pounds the piano keys.
Sandwich, the latest offering from BB&B's Barmecidal playwright, co-founder, and star, Jason Craig, is a surreal musical about meat, love, and birthday knives.
"We want a birthday knife for birthday sad cat," explains the lumpy, expertly odd Jessica Jelliffe after she and Craig realize that Cat, played by Parnell Klug, has no claws with which to shred her sweet birthday bunny.
"I have birthday knife for birthday sad cat," assures the oily, piano-playing buffalo/knife-man created by David Malloy.
Dressed in their Sunday best rubber bands, Jelliffe and Craig return home with the shiny, new birthday knife to lure sad Cat down from the top of a ladder where she has been sulking. Then things get strange. Cat guts her giant birthday rabbit and eats the unborn babies she finds in its belly; Jelliffe crawls inside the rabbit's skin and sings the story of its life before it is pulled into the rafters; Cat and Rabbit dance; Jelliffe and Craig kill bugs, eat lettuce heads, and consider cannibalism; Malloy threatens a carrot; Jelliffe tortures a butterfly; Craig is transformed into a giant armadillo; and all song and dance routines end in a sandwich.
"No more nasty piggie," assures Jelliffe. "Here, just birdie, nice birdie sandwich."
Despondent, Cat lets her head fall across her paws.
"Nope. Is fish," corrects Craig. "Dumb senseless fish without sleepers or feelers."
Cat is unmoved as Jelliffe makes a grand gesture to replace the contents of the sandwich.
"Oh, ho ho!!" she cries. "Bug sandwich! Yes. Yes?"
"Worm?" suggests Craig.
"Would you liken lichen?" asks Jelliffe with fading hope.
Grotesque, whimsical, and bone-achingly funny, the final scene is delivered with an absurdist staccato that nestles inside my skull like ... the smell of bacon clinging to my clothes.
Tiny tiny parameces?
Matato and lettuce?
Mushroom and griss-grass?
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