Peter Mehlman’s white hair stands on edge but he seems laid back enough to handle the curious crowd kneeling on his rug. They are behaving. If you run into these people the following night—Halloween Saturday—like I did, you encounter a wholly different creature letting it all hang out, runny make up, doing spontaneous splits on concrete.
photos courtesy of Post-Fact
In order to raise money for the next run of their play, New, Post-Fact Productions—Rachel Kolar & Lauren Brown—convinced Mehlman (Seinfeld writer/producer) to host a masquerade gala at his house. Gala doesn’t really describe the living room cocktail concert vibe. It was a casual and polite affair aside from a few rowdy adults and a topless one-man dance party wearing shiny leggings called Oliver. The performances hit intimate and quirky heights. An abstract movement piece by girls wearing underwear and black lipstick aroused the audience—I remember it now red-lit, the girls panting like dinosaurs or humans bursting from alien pods. That may be a false memory but I do recall voyeuristic attraction to their aggressive body movements. Amanda Jo Williams got the audience bobbing, corrupting their minds with sunshine and frogs. Heel-toe stomping followed He’s My Brother She’s My Sister’s jubilant clap. Ana Calderon spun favorites during wine chatter, and though Peter Mehlman reading a short story was neat, the biggest treat wore a Medusa mask and could seduce both mortals and gods using angelic persuasions—Henry Wolfe Gummer. Lights off. A tree rustled outside the floor-to-ceiling window and Gummer sat on the wall-less edge of a floating dining room. The way he kissed his D’s and crossed his T’s reminded me more of Mia Doi Todd than Jeff Buckley—but the latter when I found myself romanticizing my weaknesses. Of course fire crackled near his swinging feet.