NYC EOY 2025 (part two)

My experience with LES theaters is limited to my several summers either witnessing or participating in the (former) New York International Fringe Festival. The last time I set foot in Under St. Marks Theater was in August 2001, to witness a solo performance, the coming out story for a queer individual of native ancestry. There was no air conditioning, it was a forty seat hotbox.

Nearly a quarter century later and in deepest December, it was a bit chilly in that space, which was only appropriate as we were attending a 5:00 pm performance of the RadioTheatreNYC production of The 15th Annual Edgar Allen Poe Festival, under the banner of Frigid NY. Directed by Dan Bianchi, the event was a live radio drama (with prerecorded music and sound effects) performed with creepy gusto by Frank Zilinyi and R. Patrick Alberty.

The selections performed included The Tell-Tale Heart, The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar, The Masque of the Red Death, Berenice, and The Cask of Amontillado. Given the format, the words took center stage and while the performers did not disappoint, listening to the stories spoken aloud in this way allowed both of us to become more critical of Mr. Poe than reading him off of the page.

The Masque of the Red Death was the weakest of the set, as it describes a selfish millionaire who shuts himself away from a world ravaged by plague. When he throws a lavish party for his monied friends, the personification of pestilence arrives and murders everyone. Even in its telling, it’s not particularly suspenseful or scary, you know exactly what’s going to happen from practically the first word.

No, it was the one with which I was least familiar, The Case of M. Valdemar, that had me on the edge of my seat. A first person account (it was first printed without any indication the tale was fiction, creating something of a stir) the narrator claims that he mesmerized a man at the moment of death, essentially trapping the man’s consciousness inside a dead body.

What we fear is what touches us closest, and for me that is not dying, nor illness, nor ageing, not for me personally. No, it is the fear of caring for someone else who is dying, and doing it wrong. That we – I – cannot accept the death of someone we love when that death is inevitable, and necessary. And we prolong their suffering as a result.

After we had dinner and cocktails at Schmuck (yes) which was stylish yet unpretentious (yes) the kind of place where they pour your half-finished martini into a newly frosted glass. Without even asking. I’ve never experienced such a thing before.

We walked briskly back to our hotel – we’d spent an entire day without need for a cab or bus or train – exhausted and happy and feeling like it must be nearly midnight. Checking my phone I laughed out loud that it was only eight. All’s well, we had an early night.

To be continued.