Sunday, December 12, 2010
"This Irish-Canadian play is truly a remarkable piece of writing, and like many Irish plays it is infused with the tough soul of a 'never say die' attitude. It manages to convey both grit and sentimentality in the same breath, and Magner's delivery is strong and charismatic". (Markus Paminger. New York. 8.25.10. theasy.com)
For Full Review http://www.theasy.com/Reviews/FringeFestival/thescavengersdaughter.php
The New York Times
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Once in a while a play catches you off guard, throws you into a sort of semi consciousness where you find your own past rolling in to haunt you as you watch the performance unfold before you on the stage. Scavenger's Daughter is that play. Writer/performer Colm Magner has written a semi autobiographical one man show surrounding the details of his brother's death. It's a performance that takes us on a journey down through the years to the very womb mining the brother’s relationship through a series of stories and anecdotes, as he pores over clues that might somehow make sense of his brother’s gradual detachment from reality and slow slide into despair. Magner, a Canadian of Irish descent, slips easily into the authentic brogue of his mother and father, and the Germanic cadence of the local priest painting for us indelible portraits of the forces that shaped the boys' childhood. Magner is a terrific story teller weaving the intricate strands of a life into a cohesive and entertaining tapestry with all the vibrancy insight, humour and vulnerability of the late Spalding Gray. If you need entertainment, if you need a performance that you won't feel like you've wasted your hard eared money, well then this is the play to see. Colm Magner has given voice to his past in a way that leaves me extremely optimistic about his future."
Colin Broderick, Author- "Orangutan: A Memoir", published by Harper Collins, New York
"The play is dark and irreverent, but never sorrowful or melancholic...Magner is a sharp, vivid storyteller, creating personas for his own character at many different ages. Strong stage presence" (Martin Denton. 8.25.10. New York. nytheatre.com)
For Full Review: http://www.nytheatre.com/nytheatre/review_fnyc.php?t=scav10707
THIS IS AN IRISH ARTS CENTRE RECOMMENDED PRODUCTION
Friday, December 10, 2010
Images and excerpts from NY International Fringe Festival production of ``The Scavenger`s Daughter``, remounted at Poor Mouth Theatre Dec/2010
"And how wondrous it is to think of the vast inner silence, the tiny little mind breathing in every sensation, still tied by tentacle to Gods apron strings, still part of his very fabric, his skin, his blue eyes, his shiny long blonde hair, his light and vigorous Catholic glory..."
"I will forget when Finnegan and I had minds like running water. I will forget the magical moments in children’s wonderland, walking across the blowing wheat fields and up to six A.M mass with my Dad. I will forget the silence of that vast church, and the incense, and the white snow on the windows in winter, and the grace of this creature they called God floating in the air who felt, almost, like he could be real. I will forget, that Spring, when the leaves were bursting, and Finnegan was laughing, and we were falling in love for the first time with girls in ragged blue jeans."
"And we begin to swirl around in memory back to...1975. 1975 when two boys on black motorcycles took to these very streets, the beautiful scents of alcohol, sex, and gasoline filling the air, their sixteen year old girlfriends hugging their waists- blonde, brunette, and red-headed giggles on legs. Long long legs which dangled next to the chrome tail-pipes that blasted their “fuck-offs” loud and clear into the redundant houses, the crumbling crucifix atop Mary Lake Monastery…And all around the town the shouts of:
“Wonder!. Wonder! We are alive with wonder!” gathered the ten year olds to the sprinkling manicured lawns, dancing like goblins to the sound of... Ry Cooder, Neil Young, Lou Reed
( Music out)
And behind it all the sweet smell of marijuana lingered like a reminder of Christ’s breath---- dangerous, determined and delirious.
(From centre stage)
“It’s 11 o’clock, do you know where your children are?”
"King City in my recollection had more teenagers in one place than any place I have seen since. On All Hallows Eve we became the seething underbelly of our parents desires; sex filled the air like porridge, adolescent boys spilled out of their homes and into cars looking for sex, violence, liquor, and …TROUBLE."
"The town of King City lies about seven hundred miles from here just north of Toronto along
that great Highway called "the 400". And every day as the cars swoosh by, the dogs who live on the farms beside the highway, watch each other. They watch in the most singular poses...some are stretched out on the cool morning grass, some are yawning. And still others are sleeping and dreaming. Sometimes it is difficult to dream with the sound of the chickens squawking, and the cars swooshing by full of people on their way up to their cottages, and the sound of the little kitties getting run over by transport trucks, but dogs have this amazing capacity to dream and twitch their little paws when all this noise is going on all around them."
"It’s really not so bad until you realize, one dark evening, one black Irish night when the fairies are swooning in a mescaline haze, one night when a certain heat overcomes the walls of the womb and your left hand, your tiny left hand, your little pin speck of dust in the Milky May, begins its regular three A.M stretch and you feel…it. Tiny, and so small, you're not even sure it's there.
But, needless to say, there it is."
"I was staring at myself in the little mirror of the morgue washroom with the scared piss pouring out of me, feeling nauseous from the smell of the antiseptics, feeling pissed at the clinical demeanor of the mortician and all the other little assistants who buzzed in and out of stainless steel doorways so officiously, those doors which open so smoothly and close with such a firm and final click."