Philly Fringe 2024: Pig Iron presents Poor Judge

So much Aimee

An original piece of dance-theater cabaret now running at the Wilma, Poor Judge reanimates the catalog of Aimee Mann with a rotating door of lovers, actors, and spies, born from van Reigersberg’s relationship to her music circa 2021. He says as much, or rather, his character does, in a brief preface. (How refreshing it is to see experimental theater this assured, in that it begins by cleanly setting the terms of its experiment.) Mann brought van Reigersberg a certain comfort, as she is wont to do, but her work this time around was also colored by the ghost of his last relationship, abruptly severed amidst a cross-country move. The suddenness of it all made him feel as if he hadn’t known who his ex-partner really was—as if, all along, he had been dating a spy.

What follows is a sparkling cabaret of Mann, the theatrical equivalent of a visual album, performed by a cast of seven Manns. They announce themselves post-preface, each in a different splashy outfit but all with Mann’s characteristic blonde hair and thick-rimmed black glasses (costumed by Nikki Delhomme). From their first number, the ensemble—comprised of Emily Bate, Alex Bechtel, Josh Machiz, izzy sazak, Jackie Soro, Justin Yoder, and van Reigersberg—delivers technically brilliant work. Their vocals consistently rise to the occasion of Mann’s powerhouse material while always retaining a scratchy humanity that roots the songs in the characters to these lives. Van Reigersberg, in particular, is a marvel, setting the show’s tenor with his rockstar rendition of “How Am I Different?”

Experimental heartbreak

The show’s many moving parts are similarly dynamic. Each musical number practically floats off the stage, courtesy of Eva Steinmetz’s sumptuous direction and Bechtel’s consistently inventive musical arrangement. (The duo previously collaborated on Bechtel’s Penelope and Lightning Rod Special’s virtuosic The Appointment, and it shows.) The choreography, by Chelsea Murphy, is soft and striking, taking pleasure in mirroring the many Manns across Maria Feuereisen’s vibrant set.

Of note, too, is the piece’s incorporation of film. Cameras pose a constant presence, often capturing an actor onstage and projecting them against massive backdrops to split-screen effect. Not only is the display faultless in execution (videos designed by Michael Long), but it also realizes the space that exists between people and art. In these moments, an actor will be onstage twice, once in person, once on film. We watch, therefore, neither one nor the other but the interplay between the two. A small human silhouette is cast into the celluloid virtuosity of old Hollywood; those larger-than-life images find purchase in the simmering emotions of ordinary life.

All the while, the seven Manns traverse auditions, breakups, film shoots, and noirs. In addition to reflecting van Reigersberg’s initial story through a series of prisms, these interludes play as an inversion of how one would normally interface with art. Instead of inserting ourselves into Mann’s lyrics, we witness the insertion of Mann into the quotidian. It’s an effect that emphasizes the audience as much as it does the artist—that reminds us that for all the heartbreak and pathos of Mann’s music, it would be incomplete without all of us listening, feeling it too.