Philly Fringe 2018: Megan Chialastri’s ‘powerpoints for my friends’

There is, however, one point on which Chialastri and I strenuously disagree: in their introductory Powerpoint presentation (which apparently emanated from a real-life Facebook status about defrosting meat), Chialastri alleges that “fish is a fucking bullshit food,” and that flounders, with their migrating eye, are particularly gross.

I have to wonder whether the artist has ever taken fresh flounder fillets, dipped them in a beaten egg and then crushed Ritz crackers, and then fried the fish in a butter-coated pan. If Chialastri has never tried this, then I challenge them to broaden their horizons a little before talking so much dirt about flounders.

Defrosting, serial killers, and annoying husbands

I digress, but that’s okay — so does Chialastri’s show, which combines basic-model Powerpoint bullet lists and graphics with monologue to explore the pros and cons of various meat-defrosting methods, whether or not their coworker Arielle is in fact a serial killer, and how Jill’s husband sucks on Facebook. Through their meditations on modern friendship (digital and IRL), Chialastri weaves in their own personal portrait, as a nonbinary improv nerd who never moved very far from where they grew up and, tbh, hasn’t always been a very good friend.

Chialastri’s show is a little like scrolling through your social-media feed and having an in-person conversation at the same time. With technical direction from Jack O’Keeffe, words and the occasional graphic or image (like Kristen Stewart circa 2015, with the haircut that every bisexual person had that year) appear on the screen behind Chialastri.

Life and death words

During the hourlong show, the text increasingly diverges from the monologue or divulges more than Chialastri says aloud, until they depart the stage entirely and the audience becomes absorbed in the words left behind.

What about the people who feel like your best friend, but you’re pretty sure that you’re not their best friend? I mean, that’s fine. Totally fine. What is friendship, anyway? A bunch of white people hanging out in New York City coffee shops or diners, as any child of the ‘90s probably learned? Eventually, the show also dwells on grief and its aftermath, with raw truths about regret and the impossibility of coping with the total absence of a person whom you never did get to actually have that movie marathon with.

On the Adrienne’s second-floor PHIT stage, Chialastri inhabits a messy living room with a battered maroon chair, clothes and shoes scattered on the floor, and prescription bottles on the side table. A phone and computer screen bring the artist’s friends into the space with them, and later, the text unspooling in the dark for the audience doesn’t feel unnatural. Personally, silently, collectively absorbing the written words demonstrates the way that, through our screens, we can absent ourselves from painful feelings — or connect with people who remain our friends, no matter where in the world they are.