 |
A performer furiously counts to a billion and beyond. A baby doll is dismembered of her arm and then decapitated. A woman desperately tries to pick up a scrap of paper with her feet. The best absurdist scenarios in this mildly antagonistic revue catch you off-guard with their ability to evoke, to shock, to disturb. (The worst will bore you to tears.) Lurching from leaden agit-prop to lighthearted nonsense, Soiree DADA does everything dada should do. It annoys. It tickles. It wearies. It delights. The German accents are terrible. The whiteface makeup and the suits with bowler hats feel equally indebted to Marcel Marceau as to the MC from Cabaret. Death to dada. Long live dada. You may not like the show but Tristan Tzara probably wouldn’t have it any other way.
Email
Print
Eight Year-End Films Vie for Oscar Contention
Sondheim and Lansbury on a Lifetime in Theater
The Black Keys Release Their Hip-hop Debut 
How the BQE Became an Artistic Muse
On Great Jones Street, Shopping Is Art 
Classic Fare, Old-world Charm at Le Caprice
Buy a Brownstone for Less Than $1 Million
Fifty of the City's Tastiest Soups
Reasons to Love New York 2009
New York Politicians Refuse to Quit
A-Rod Has Babe Ruth in His Sights
McCain Yields to the Party's Pressure
