Audiences receive great in-flight entertainment with TMTC’s production “Catch Me If You Can” 

Back for another year, the TMTC recently performed their yearly musical production and it was nothing short of excellence

By Olivia Harbin

(Audrey Persaud/ TMTC)

Detective Hanratty and his group of detectives followed him out of the wings as he frantically discussed his mission to find the wanted criminal, Frank Abagnale Jr.. Detective Hanratty, holding a binder as he spoke, went to throw his prop to his onstage colleague, Detective Dollar, who fumbled to catch the binder and dropped it onstage. This mishap did anything but distract the actors from their scene, as Detective Hanratty sighed “Dollar” in an annoyed tone and picked up the binder, dropping it into the hands of his scene partner. Without a beat, the impromptu accident was overlooked as a purposeful and comedic part of the scene, leaving audiences giggling cluelessly as the slight mistake was brushed aside. 

Back for another year of showcasing the university’s talent, the Toronto Metropolitan Theatre Company (TMTC) recently performed on March 27 to 30 its production of the musical Catch Me If You Can. From upbeat numbers with top hats to emotionally moving performances of love and romance, this year’s production left me in awe of the amazing talent on and offstage.

Based on the 2002 film of the same name, the musical follows the chaotic life of Frank Abagnale Jr. as he steals identities and government money across the United States. FBI detective, Carl Hanratty, notices Frank’s illegal behaviour and makes it his life’s mission to track down Frank and arrest him. The chase for justice and happiness intertwined with the importance of love and friendship left the audience full of laughter and tears in this year's production.

This musical’s principal roles were filled by abundantly talented actors whose connection I found delightful throughout the performance. Frank Jr. was played by Isaac Van Deven, a second-year sports media student whose onstage presence and incredible voice were captivating throughout the show. Detective Hanratty was played by Cooper McCrory, a third-year creative industries student whose comedic timing and improvisation were some of my favourite moments of the production. The two’s enemies-to-friends trope was seamlessly portrayed, as the banter and energy between the two of them tied together the entire performance.

This flashy, upbeat show was also carried on the backs of the ensemble, who delivered an immaculate performance through their choreography and various solos. I could not take my eyes off of dance core member, Camille Griffiths, as she delivered an enticing and flawless performance during her solo in “Doctors Orders”. Her captivating stage presence alongside her sultry and smooth voice stood out to me throughout the show.

Second-year performance production student Grace Johnson (Carol Strong/Ensemble), was amusing throughout the show as her enthusiastic persona of an overbearing and secretly fun mom who is obsessed with her daughter's fiance. Alongside her onstage husband and dance partner, first-year media production student Kalon Young (Roger Strong/Ensemble), the two gave an entertaining performance that had me laughing. During the scene leading up to, “(Our) Family Tree”, the pair questions Frank Jr. over his intentions to marry their daughter, Brenda. Johnson’s slow flex of her arm muscle when asking Frank to be a part of their “strong” family and Young’s “serious dad” portrayal while interrogating Frank Jr. were the best comedic moments in the show. Their big, dazzling number “(Our) Family Tree” even featured the two growling at each other on their knees in a comical act of attraction before tearing away their conservative outfits to reveal colourful, fun costumes beneath. Their chemistry onstage and ability to not take themselves too seriously during this performance was my favourite part of the production.

Director Vienne Janssen chose “Catch Me If You Can” as a way of breaking their pattern of doing Renaissance shows like Something Rotten and Head Over Heels. Janssen said this year's production offered a chance to change the narrative and do a show that was more inclusive for everyone involved, as the show provided numerous roles for everyone to have a chance to shine.

“I think another thing about Catch Me If You Can in particular that really drew me was the amount of characters that come in and out and how fast the show moves. Everybody is involved in telling the story, even though it's centred around Frank. It's like you need every single person. If one ensemble member was sick, the entire thing falls apart,” said Janssen. 

For this year’s production, acting students at Toronto Metropolitan University (TMU) could receive creative practice hours for participating in the show, making the rehearsal process different from previous years. Because the students were already experienced and trained in their acting, Janssen was amazed by what the students were able to conjure up for their characters without her complete direction.

“I learned so much from watching them act and it was great even for everybody, acting program or not. While directing, I had the confidence to just step back and be like, you guys know what you're doing. I just want you to play with it and see what comes out from there,” said Janssen.

Gillian Bennett, a first-year acting student at TMU, was an incredible addition to the cast in her role as Brenda Strong. As Frank Jr’s love interest, Brenda’s character goes through an emotional rollercoaster when finding out her fiance is a highly-wanted criminal who is being chased by the FBI. Bennett captured the pure and innocent essence of Brenda onstage, and delivered an amazing performance during her solo, “Fly Fly Away.” With an angelic voice that received well-deserved applause from the audience, Bennett was truly the pinnacle of this production.

This year’s band was led by Deanna Mann, a first-time musical director who, although new at the role, was able to guide the band through a musically superb performance. 

Mann said one of her biggest challenges with this show was the little space the musicians had in their orchestra pit. Having changed theatre locations from the Al Green theatre to the Harbourfront Centre theatre, the small venue provided challenges for the band as there was a slim area on the front of the stage where they set up their musical stations. Aligned in rows of two going down the front of the stage, the nuisance of space did not distract the band from the amazing performance they put on.

“Each [musician] has to have their stands with all their instruments set up. They have to have the space to be able to take them off and put them back on. They're troopers. They're squeezing in there and they're making it work.” said Mann.

This year’s TMTC musical left me feeling like I could not only fly a plane if I wanted but left me with an immense appreciation of art, theatre and the TMTC. With an amazing cast and crew, this company did a fantastic job concerning this year's musical performance.

If you didn’t get to fly high with the wonderful cast of Catch Me If You Can this year, I urge you to keep a lookout for the announcement of their 2025 production.

Q&A with the co-directors of Italian Mime Suicide

“Why is a laugh similar to a cry?” asks Kari Pederson, who explores the idea with co-director Adam Paolozza in their mostly silent production at The Theatre Centre.

By: Rowan Flood

A scene from the production of  Italian Mime Suicide. (Courtesy of Andrew Jehan)

Named one of 2021’s top 10 shows in Montreal by the Montreal Gazette, Italian Mime Suicide came to Toronto this spring. The show, which remains silent for most of its duration, follows a mime who is deeply hurt when he believes his craft is not appreciated. Yet as an artistic endeavour, it holds much more. 

In an interview with CanCulture, the directors, Kari Pederson and Adam Paolozza, explain how the production examines the way we perceive and express sadness, laughter and ways to be silly. It also explores the hard question that has become even more demanding throughout the pandemic: “Why do I keep making the art that I make when it feels kind of hopeless or doesn't seem like anyone's interested?” said Paolozza. The questions that are explored throughout the show and the ones it asks the viewers make it a commanding piece of work.

It can be hard to detect emotions and energy through a screen, but Pederson's and Paolozza’s were unmistakable as we came together over Zoom. The two co-directors of the production Italian Mime Suicide felt much respect and admiration for each other as they spoke. Pederson entered the meeting first, smiling when she got a text from Paolozza saying he would be a couple of minutes late, and Paolozza came second with a cup of coffee ready in hand. As we began to talk, the two filled each other's sentences to add importance to the humbly spoken phrases and remind one another of missed points and achievements. The care they felt towards each other continued with their apparent devotion to their production. Paolozza emphasized how Pederson "lifted it up and made it what it was." Pederson reminded Paolozza of how his Italian heritage and time spent at l'Ecole Internationale de Theatre Jacques Lecoq impacted his desire to create the play.

Italian Mime Suicide was first formed in 2016 and showed in Montreal last year before arriving in Toronto. The show opened to the public on April 23 at The Theatre Center and welcomed an excited crowd. People hugged and greeted one another warmly yet tentatively. The feeling of coming to see a live show was unfamiliar to some after two years of an isolating pandemic. I overheard a woman ask her friend when she sat down, "Is this too close? Yet the atmosphere was hopeful, and he responded, "oh no," as she sat down close to catch up. The lobby and cafeteria quickly filled as the starting hour approached, and many people seemed to know each other as voices rose in recognition. 

A 2003 article about an Italian mime who died by suicide inspired this artistic project, explained Paolozza. Although the headline is dismal and going on twenty years old, it remains poignant and finds relevance to this day through Pederson and Paolozza's captivating show. When we spoke, our conversation covered how this show began, how beauty is found with and through sadness, and what this play means for the two directors.

The director and dramaturg Kari Pederson for the show Italian Mime Suicide. (Courtesy of Kari Pederson).

The artist director, creator and performer Adam Paolozza for the show Italian Mime Suicide. (Courtesy of Adam Paolozza)

What first sparked the interest to create Italian Mime Suicide?

Paolozza: When I got back from theatre school I really wanted to make a show about mime. I was looking for a subject matter and my friend sent me an article. It was a really short obituary. The headline was “Italian Mime Suicide,” and that’s where I got the title. I thought that was an intriguing title — kind of funny, kind of sad, this tragic comic thing. It stuck with me. Over the years I kept trying to think of a good context, a good way to expand on that and it really started to come together when Kari joined in 2015. I’ve always liked mime but I’m aware you get teased sometimes. There is a kind of cringe factor that Kari and I were interested in exploring as also part of the audience experience. 

Pederson: If I could expand, it wasn't just theatre school, it was Lecoq. It is a physical style of theatre but some people refer to it as “Mime School.” Adam is also half Italian and I think that's a little more context of why it rang a little more true at that time. I came in as a stand in and when we started working we tried to find the meat of the project. We realized the meat isn't necessarily the true story of a man, we didn't even know him. What rang true or what was interesting about this title was that tragic comic. There's this fine line, and why does mime sit on that fine line? How does that fine line live in us? Why is a laugh similar to a cry? Why is sadness sweet sometimes? With mime, in particular, it’s both. It's cringeworthy but I love it. 

Do you feel you found something you personally related to in this story?

Pederson: Yeah, even though on paper I don’t come from a circus or mime background, I do come from performance and dance. Even my thesis research is about performance. Specifically, how deep, internal, unconscious acts of mimesis actually shape who we are, how becoming is relational. We only become who we are through our relations to others. I think theatre does that. With research on kinesthesia they found that when audiences are watching dancers or performers, similar synapses are figuring in their own brains. That’s happening even in an audience of Italian Mime Suicide. What was really exciting to me was more so these deeper or esoteric hooks. On top of that we really had great performers.

Paolozza: I wanted to make a show that could put some of those things like Kari was saying, that are sweet but also sickly sweet, on stage. Similar to Kari, I’m interested in people's bodies and their personalities. For us, it was important to have the different body shapes in actors. Kari also has a background in visual arts studies. There is a sense of how the image is constructed, sculpturally, with light. That also really attracted me to the work.

I’m interested in this thing between clown and mime. We like to make people feel safe to be silly, and see what comes out of their personalities. I really want to find a way that silliness can be taken more seriously. When you have less words there's more space to relate to a piece in a different way. 

The performers, Rob Feetham, Erika Leobrera, Adam Paolozza and Nicholas Eddie on stage. (Courtesy of Andrew Jehan)

What makes bodily gestures so significant, specifically in performances with minimal speech?

Paolozza: One thing I really took away from school is, how do you create the space out of which text arises? All of the relations of the bodies and all that before language arises is a rich territory to explore for drama. In that grounding, the gestures have a slightly different meaning. I think we relate to that, if you’re waiting for the bus or waiting at a dentist office. It’s a very archaic way that we read each other, the way we move, the inclination of the head. We wanted to create more space to explore that. I also just love the expressive body. Something I’m interested in exploring is the invisible gesture. Every work proposes to an audience what it’s trying to do, maybe in an unspoken way. It's engaging with certain questions and I think that's the deeper gesture. It's not a physical gesture, it’s more the intention of the creators. The gesture for us is the relation between seemingly opposite things. Sadness or laughter.

Pederson: In this context the importance of gesture in live performance especially in Italian Mime Suicide, where there are words and narrative but it’s not so much spoken by the characters in the show, it doesn't run it. Our approach was more similar to visual arts, where we want to create an image, and then we want to live in the image. Rather than telling a story with our words the approach was more about bringing a living image.  A gesture is an embodiment of surroundings. I think that's the heartbeat of the show.

Was there a vision for what you hoped or wanted people to walk away with after seeing the production?

Pederson: I think we had hopes. Speaking of gesture, in some ways this show is our gesture for the audience. You can never know what someone is going to walk away with. Everybody has different tastes, different expectations. I think we wanted it to be sweet, even though it was funny, we wanted it to be something real, slightly reverent. We were unafraid of the absurd. If an idea came up as we were divising, if it made us laugh out loud and shake our heads we were like “”hmmmm?” 

Paolozza:  There's a hope there to get the audience in a space where they feel okay to enjoy things that are in some sense are childhood things. A lot of the clown work relies on that childlike naivete. You don't realize you look silly, and being comfortable in your own imbalance. That tender thing that Kari is talking about, it's trying to give that feeling to the audience. Giving them that assurance, that it's okay to laugh, if we are acting silly it creates more safety for that softness between people. 

How does the play or can the play have relevance to what's happening now in the world as we come out of a pandemic and things are opening up?

Paolozza: The questions in the show are the same: Why do I keep making the art that I make when it feels kind of hopeless or doesn't seem like anyones interested? All artists, probably all people, struggle with that existential question. Something about saying that now, after the pandemic — being in public, hearing live music, being able to laugh — I think it has given it a different poignancy. It's cool to see how a show changes. We're grateful that the searching and the questioning of the show is connecting to people. 

Pederson: I think the catharsis feels sharper now. We’ve collectively gone through this thing. Probably most people would say these past two years have been harder than others.

A scene being enacted by performers Rob Feetham, Erika Leobrera, Adam Paolozza and Nicholas Eddie on stage. (Courtesy of Andrew Jehan)

What have you learned or taken away through creating this show?

Paolozza: There was a lot of trusting or trying to trust that things would work out. Trusting that people know what they're doing, that they're going to bring their A-game, giving them agency. It's not a new thing that I’ve learned but an experience I’m grateful for. I’m really grateful to my collaborators. To make a show that can be silly and have laughter and create space for that — people need to feel like they have agency. Feel like they’re a part of something. That was a good lesson; the more you relax and trust that people are incredible in all different ways, you don't need to stress so much. 

Pederson: Something that this process of being in Montreal and Toronto offered post or within COVID is to remember to be real. Originally, our beginning piece with our musician was original hype-man stuff and because of some feedback we'd gotten, we talked and realized, “oh yeah, to ask someone how they are right now it's not as flippant or as passing as it used to be.” Now to ask someone how they're doing, we're actually asking because most of us have a really complicated answer. There is an air of feeling more genuine with one another.

Are there any final words you would like to add?

Pederson: I would say that this show has a spirit of care. That's something I would like to mention about it.

Opinion: Fatuma Adar’s She’s Not Special: Exploring your trauma, sort of

Blending stand-up comedy with music and theatre, a Toronto-based writer engages with ideas of Blackness, Muslim identity, trauma and Linkin Park 

By: Sophia de Guzman

Fatuma Adar for her show at the Next Stage Festival, She’s Not Special (Courtesy of Fringe Toronto)

Adapted to an online theatrical experience, Fatuma Adar’s She’s Not Special at Fringe Toronto’s Next Stage Festival sets out to tackle the myriad of contradictions and questions posed when a Black, Muslim writer must create for a white industry. Adar combines bare-boned stand-up comedy and earnest on-stage confessions with a variety of musical numbers into a 50-minute late-in-life coming-of-age that circles themes of identity-based trauma, self-worth, and self-actualization. 

The show opens by following Adar getting ready to perform the show we are all about to see. Supposed texts the writer receives as friends and family get ready to see her show appear on the screen and are read aloud; the words of encouragement get increasingly cacophonous until one phrase is repeated over and over: “Black excellence”.

Lights over a dark stage then ignite to reveal Adar, sitting on a stool, alone on stage. She begins a rap number to introduce the on-stage portion of her show, the lyrics hyping her and the audience up, reminiscent of popular “bad bitch” attitudes in 2010s millennial culture and popular artists of the time, such as Lizzo. A line that’s pretty summative of the number, “Be more like my bra / Be more supporting”.

Within the first 15 minutes of the show, it's clear that Adar’s satire and humour will be the vehicles through which she will reluctantly “explore her trauma,” which is also a central line in the musical number that follows.

 At this point, at the end of the first two of five musical numbers, it seems Adar has said most of what she intends to with this show. Adar does not want to explore her identity-based trauma, yet feels she is demanded to by her industry and, in a broader context, she fears much of what she wants has been shaped by white society. 

Whether these are “valid” things to base a show around is not a point of contention; obviously, they are. However, She’s Not Special, either intentionally or unintentionally, poses a grand question: When embarking on an artistic pursuit that is entirely based on your membership of marginalized communities, what is your responsibility to said communities? 

Ostensibly, the answer given by Adar is none. 

Before I proceed further in my review of the show, I should be clear — I’m not Black or Muslim, so my criticism can only be taken so seriously. There are aspects of Adar’s show and artistry that could have very well eluded me as a consequence of my ignorance. Still, as the show revolves around dealing with identity-based trauma as a creator who is also a woman of colour, I, along with many others that are not necessarily Black or Muslim, could identify with the issues at hand. 

Adar makes quick work to express plainly, “Black excellence is a scam”, touching on a sentiment shared by many Black women coming out of the now endlessly mocked “girl boss” era of feminism — why must Black people, women especially, be excellent to be celebrated? Recognized, even? 

She further points out that the desire she has to achieve the “excellence” defined by the white society that she lives in feels even more futile as she acknowledges the systemic disadvantages she faces. Many Black women and women of colour can likely relate to these disadvantages; however, Adar’s message on Black excellence is obscured by smaller, almost bitter, throwaway jokes. 

For instance, during the course of this bit, she uses her “3-minute attempt” at Beyoncé’s rather intense pre-Coachella diet, as a sort of analogy for how impossible the standard for Black excellence is. But poking fun at the “joyless” diet comes off as ignorant to the tremendous pressure Beyoncé has faced to fit in the white beauty standard. This is not to insinuate that billionaire Beyoncé has had a hard life, but it is no secret that commenting on women’s bodies, and by extension, the things they often must do to maintain them, seems a bit low. 

Moreover, for Adar to frame her show as a bid for understanding that, as a Black creative, there are countless undue obstacles to cross in order to be recognized for her talent, and in the same breath laugh at the almost cruel diet a Black pop star felt pressured to go on post-pregnancy to maintain her relevance is fundamentally contradicting the spirit of the original point. 

Again, this sounds like a small throwaway joke, and certainly not enough to sour a whole production. Yet, this is the first in a trend for Adar. Instead of pointing the finger at her obvious oppressors — the white creative industry and just plain, old racism — she distances herself from Blackness. This attitude shines through best during the most visually interesting and high production musical numbers in the show.

 It’s a parody of a grunge-rock music video from the early 2000s (think Evanescence), and the song centres around an argument that nine-year-old Adar had with a boy in her class named Devante. While Devante thought Ludacris to be the best lyricist of all time, Adar thought it was Linkin Park. Consequently, Devante called her an “Oreo”, a derogatory term used by Black people, to describe a Black person that they see as wishing to be a part of white society or establishment. 

The song that follows then discusses how what she likes is not “conventionally Black” and that she is, in a sense, resentful that young Black people (she’s 30) are now able to freely be “alternative.” She briefly reconciles with the greater point that one would think that the song is about: she worries that what she likes and what she thinks may be more influenced by whiteness than she can control. 

But then, against my sincerest wishes, she comes back to say that “they” called her “Oreo” and importantly, she doesn't know who “they” are. In the song, she doesn’t really allude to anyone calling her “Oreo” except for Devante. At no point in this song, or in the show really, does Adar directly point to whiteness as her oppressor, not even really at racism as the source of her issues. 

Of course, it's not very artistic to state things explicitly, but Adar does decide to make fun of, or in some way distance herself from trap music, rappers and her five-year-old self’s natural baby hairs. 

So all of this said, we return to the principal question I think was posed by this show: When embarking on an artistic pursuit that is entirely based on your membership of marginalized communities, what is your responsibility to said communities? 

Ultimately, I don’t think we can critique how someone expresses the pain that they felt as a consequence of racism, misogyny, or any other form of discrimination. But I wonder, like Adar states in her show, if we “use” our trauma, particularly that which is based on our identities, do we not have a responsibility to at least acknowledge the true perpetrator? To identify that while we have been hurt because of the communities we are a part of, it is not those communities that hurt us? 

These are questions that are, at the end of the day, up to everyone to answer on their own. She’s Not Special has received critical acclaim from multiple critics in publications like NOW Toronto and CBC, so it seems many resonate with Adar’s answers.

She’s Not Special was available to stream at the Next Stage Festival in February 2022.