REVIEW: So Late Into the Night (Rorschach)
The title is a warning.
I didn't get home until about 11:30pm on a Tuesday after seeing So Late Into the Night down at Rorschach. Their new digs in Southwest, taking a page from Theater Alliance by setting up shop in an unused retail space by the water, is a little out of the way by DC standards at about 0.6 miles from either Waterfront or Navy Yard metro (but close to Audi Field). There exists an axial triumverate of commute, run time, and day-of-week that local theatres tend to skirt well. For So Late, however, the opening night performance broke all three rules: a long ride home, a two-act, 2h30 runtime, and on a school night? My, my.
But when has Rorschach been known for following the "rules"? These dark fantasists that lurk around the District thrive on the oddities of their work. It's why they're who they are, and it's why So Late Into the Night is often quite good. It's an experience, a removal from reality that keeps you away from the norms of the grind by whirling a hodgepodge of ideas around you in a twister of Halloween brood, for better or worse. And then it says: "Let's rock."
Book/Music
Have you ever thought what a multi-hour prog rock album about Mary Shelley would sound like?
Me neither, but there have been stranger projects put out. So Late into the Night is essentially this, and as the band leader Trillian puts it, "an album that tells a story." The story in question is one that has been described o'plenty before: the infamous night before Frankenstein was written, in which Mary Shelley and her close friends have a contest to decide who can write the scariest story. (This time via a seance, and adds a bit of flirty polyamory and tragic backstory for spice.) As toying with the supernatural often does, things go awry, and Mephistopheles appears to ruin everyone's mood with visceral recounts of their deaths. The question remains if each recount needed so much detail; the level of melodrama and epicness are tactically stunning yet bloat the experience. By the time Act I ends, it feels like it would have been possible to fit everyone's stories in or even just keep it a tight 2 hours, no intermission. In the background, "The Shelleys" offer their watchful gaze and commentary. This group is a punk band from Ohio who have time traveled to this point by supernatural means, which is a charming addition but not explored to its fullest extent. (They take a selfie with Mary at one point, who doesn't seem as phased as she should about this level of technology.) This doesn't mean they're not enjoyable, in fact far from it. They provide a lot of the heart of this piece via the contrast with the flowery doom-and-gloom at the kitchen table. They're loud, snarky, and impassioned, and have a generally great presence, even if the songs tend to muddle together. However, their Wizard of Oz-like arc is flat; they're here, somehow, and they leave, somehow. What is their purpose (what, to finish the album? That's it)? Their role in the storytelling seems to be superseded by the presence of the Devil, who does most of the development for them. As a backing band, they're incredible, and the gothic electricity is what keeps things afloat for the tiresome runtime, but the opportunities to make them feel more like real characters is squandered. 5/10
Acting
The unevenness of the book directly correlates to the performances, which is a shame because the ensemble is solid. By this I mean that much of the showtime is dedicated to the can't-keep-your-eyes-off-him energy of Adian Chapman's Devil, who is both fruity and haunting. But shouldn't this be Mary (Isabelle Jennings Pickering)'s show? Or is it of the band, led by an electric Lydia Gifford? That's what we're never truly sure of, at least until Act II, when out of nowhere Sydney Dionne's Claire Clairmont explodes with character and tremendous vocal authority. Nobody truly takes hold of the piece in the ways you expect, but nobody is lackluster, either. It just makes it hard to keep your eye on the ball. 8/10
Production
The overall direction by Jenny McConnell Frederick works, but it is not without its flaws. The good thing is that the vibes are immaculate. Gorgeous props surrond the audience, from crooked portraits and tattered linens to rugged punk ads. The costumes by Jessica Utz are are solidly composed, especially in the case of the Devill, whose wirey horns and peeps of fur create a Halloween Krampus full of style. The music direction, when it works and is not plagued by audio mixing issues, is a ragged mosh on the eardrums in (most of) the right ways. But I do concede that there could be caveats if you aren't sitting directly next to the speakers like I was, or are in the non-table seating on the flanks. The stage itself is a giant dinner table with candelabras and books on either end. Each seat at this round (rectangular?) table had a mask: a fancy, animalistic one for actors, and sweaty plastic ones for audience members. Actors jump up and off stage repeatedly, creating a pleasant intimacy with the piece, but the closeness is a double-edged sword as the direction expects one to have their palms on the table the entire time to "make" the magic happen. (It gets uncomfortable quickly; and yeah, nobody's forcing you, but the actors maintain it right next to you.) The sporadically zappy lighting by Dean Leong is used sparingly, for good measure, as is the booming sound design by Brandon Cook, frequently catching me off guard and building suspense. 7/10
Viz
The juxtaposition from its Impact-font marketing and very New surrounds -- The Stacks opened less than six months ago--is pretty funny, at first glance. But plenty of shows lean into that well, and So Late is no exception. Arriving at one of the swankiest districts in town, you wouldn't know that there's a monster mash happening across the street from $3,000+/month 1 bedrooms. But when you enter the concrete cavern of the unused retail space, blanketed projections and gothic iconography shut out the nouveau-riche surrounds in favor of old money swagger. After you meander through the slideshow, you arrive at a huge dinner table with masks at each seat, loosely flanked with portraiture and cheateauesque prop work. But look just a little further to find a staging area that appears to be inspired by the bathroom at Red Derby: think wrinkly zine posters and punk ads, often with Frankenstein or other horror icons. It works so well that you don't even think much of how it doesn’t really give you a story to expect; just a well-strung moodboard. 9/10
Verdict
So Late into the Night is a raucous jam seance that is a little rough around the edges — and much too long — but rewards those with the patience and will to stick through it. 29/40
