2023 Fringe Festival has two shows about performers' self-definition

 "Being Rob Johansen" is an IndyFringe show designed to celebrate Defiance Comedy's sustainability

through the tensions generated by the celebrity of one of its veteran members. It opened Thursday at the District Theatre mainstage as the 2023 festival got under way. The title character (the word is chosen for its manifold resonance) is the well-known actor himself in a show written and directed by Defiance's Matt Kramer.

Johansen interacts with his colleagues in a manner that requires a maximum amount of self-exposure and manic, targeted teasing in a musical-comedy setting. It takes a strong man to play to many men's secret wish to be a public phallic symbol. But that's only one frame within which "Being Rob Johansen" is placed: the catalyst is the rehearsal process for a piece called "Dick Ninjas," soon to be jettisoned because of the putative Rob's huge ego. 

From there comes a significant segue into the cult hit film "Being John Malkovich," in which the actor's inner being is probed. In this wry adaptation, the effort stems from the Defianceistas' uneasy exploration of Rob Johansen's mind, during which he is forced to come to terms with his emotions. How difficult that is for an actor, especially when the hardest to manage is insecurity!  The audience chortles at the portal; from that point on, guffaws take over. 

And the frame for that is suggested at the start with a launch recalling "A Christmas Carol."  In that  Indiana Repertory Theatre production, Johansen plays Ebenezer Scrooge, a role that has made any actor taking it on a pop-culture star, since the show is seen by thousands here annually. 

In a manner recalling the 2015 animated hit "Inside Out," various emotional triggers are pressed to direct the interior amusement-park ride. The protagonist's private life (remember when we all had such a thing?) is yanked into view, especially his marriage and his love of dogs and tacos. 

Johansen, whose onstage face is often an amazing microcosm of his whole-body physical acting, is in his element throughout. The rapport-drenched cast gets listed in the program, tongue-in-cheek, as "extras," each represented by a quotation so offhand that the quotes constitute a mockery of sometimes overblown program biographies. The star, of course, gets a full page in the conventional manner. 

It's important to note that Emily Bohannon's sentence feistily claims credit for the choreography, which I'm happy to give her here.  (Her fellow zanies are Brittany Magee, Meg McLane, Clay Mabbitt, Milo Ellis, John Kern, and Ben Rockey.)

The dancing thoroughly suits the songs and their stylish energy. The song-and-dance element is superbly designed and brought off, almost worthy of being mentioned in the same breath as Eric Idle's "Spamalot." You can always understand the words, too. Rachelle Martin's props and costumes have an extraordinary capacity to match every demand of the story and the presentation — even the most outlandish.

The show defies fault-finding; there are no lapses in intensity as the fun stays dialed up to "11." In mock self-consciousness, Johansen notes the 50-minute mark aloud. Not to worry. "Being Rob Johansen" admirably meets the festival's required hour limit, richly filled out, and even the inside jokes strike paydirt.

Genie Cartier tells a balanced story in "The Curve." 

My other show Thursday evening was "The Curve," a one-woman production that carries coincidental echoes of "Being Rob Johansen" insofar as it is both lighthearted and soul-searching about life in the theater. In the case of Genie Cartier, the show's creator and star, the theatrical specialty is the Chinese acrobatics she was trained in as a young girl. The auditorium at the Athenaeum is the modestly appointed venue for the production, in which lighting provides just the right degree of enhancement, never veiling the intimacy of audience connection.

There are prerecorded voiceovers that sometimes mimic commercials for such necessities in the performer's life as physical therapy and sleep. There's self-criticism in the form of hand puppets (voiced via recording) that resemble an aggressive interviewer and a carping fellow professional pretending to be "constructive." 

Cartier tells anecdotes representing the learning curve of her career, though the title mainly refers to a curve of the torso that in her case an early teacher said was not suitable for an acrobat. There's a bizarre tale of a one-time gig at a party of Scientologists, which is as unsettling as you might expect. Respect for outsiders is not a salient part of this pseudo-religion, as the acrobat found out.

A set of X-rays illustrates her account of injuries sustained in pursuit of her craft. And there of course is the dark night of the soul and career support during the pandemic. Yet the tone and content of some of the less happy recollections avoid self-pity. 

In addition to aptly placed exhibitions of her skill, especially with a folding chair and suave use of a derby hat, Cartier weaves a bright narrative of achievement in her craft. The resulting texture is a tribute to the sort of commitment most in the audience can imagine only with a deft performer's help.