I’M SWEATING UNDER MY BREASTS
The show’s structure is simple enough: each actor gets up at Voltaire’s stripped-down cabaret space and performs an original piece, which may or may not be autobiographical (they all sound as if they were). Each monologue is introduced by an image projected onto the back wall showing the performer with a sign announcing her name and the title of her piece. The props are minimal (a chair, a leather jacket); lighting is basic; and because the show has built a surprisingly steady following, foam pads and blankets are laid out on the floor at the foot of the stage, putting audience members even closer to the performers than usual. The night I attended, the show lasted about two hours and was practically sold-out.
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Another standout is Rose Abdoo, who deadpans her way through her meditation on food and dieting. Probably the evening’s most straightforwardly comedic piece, it is also the lightest and most effervescent. Yet Abdoo is the least theatrical performer of the bunch: like Milne, she seems to be talking directly to the audience, responding to their laughter and moods. She makes her piece seem more like a conversation with an old friend than a performance.
