Intimate trip through homelessness
‘Garbage Kids' at Venus Theatre is a tumultuous tale about two runaways
“Garbage Kids,” on stage through next weekend at Venus Theatre in Laurel, invites patrons on a wild walk on the homeless side through the eyes of abandoned kids.
Playwright Jayme Kilburn graduated from the University of California at Santa Barbara with a degree in dramatic art and psychology and earned a master's degree in humanities and social thought from Cornell, where he is pursuing a doctorate in theater arts.
“Garbage Kids” is Kilburn's second script that Venus Theatre founder Deborah Randall has produced and directed here. Kilburn's “Ding. Or Bye Bye Dad” premiered at the C Street theater in 2014.
The cast includes Randall herself — she turns in a fine performance as a young girl who calls herself Scuzzy. The cast also includes Jay Hardee as Belly and Amy Belschner Rhodes as a woman and the interviewer.
In a scene with Scuzzy and Belly fidgeting in a waiting room, Randall and Hardee skillfully conjure the illusion of two terrified waifs — Scuzzy thinks someone is going to cut off her arms or legs. The incongruence of exaggerated fear in an ordinary situation — Belly gets a vaccination, Scuzzy gets a lollipop — sets the tone for a tumultuous tale that spins out fast in a stream of consciousness.
Scuzzy and Belly run away from foster care, clinging to each other.
Belly sings for spare change on the street and naively dreams of becoming famous; Hardee maneuvers Belly's childhood idealism beautifully.
“People don't give you money because they feel sorry for you,” he says. “They give you money for your talent.”
Belly's playful songs — Hardee's imperfect vocals are perfect for this character — add light to a dark adventure. His spirited rendition of “Hobo Bill” is charming.
Scuzzy finds her own way to adulthood, befriending a lonely woman who bribes her with sandwiches, and forming a sad relationship with food.
Randall is fascinating to watch as she travels the many layers of her character's longing and resilience.
As a director, Randall's blocking tends to be athletic. As an actress, her physical relationship with the stage speaks to the intense preparation audiences have come to expect from Venus Theatre.
Rhodes stands out in multiple roles, crossing gender and back to portray Belly's interviewers. In her main role as the woman, she plays a lonely soul who begs Scuzzy to take the place of her daughter with chilling depth.
“Other little girls would kill to have sandwiches,” she says.
In her director's notes, Randall writes that Act 1 is presented as a memory, “jagged” and “surreal.” Early on, for instance, a violent act during Scuzzy and Belly's escape from foster care should have horrific repercussions, but is never mentioned again.
Several references to Scuzzy's going away present an unsolved puzzle. By the play's end, we never know where or why.
We learn nothing about their origins. And although we can assume that Scuzzy and Belly grow into a sexual relationship, that issue is never addressed.
Perhaps such holes in a nonlinear context connect symbolically to the holes in a society that allows children to grow up homeless.
Framed by collages of trash hanging off the walls, a set of wooden steps with a simple steel frame flanks a tire swing suspended from the ceiling center stage.
Kristin Thompson's lighting design and use of strobe lights add subtle color beginning with the nightmarish opening scene, and Neil McFadden's imposing and distorted sound design drives an aura of fear.
Randall is credited with the savvy costumes and props and Lydia Howard serves as stage manager.
There's enough playfulness, love, laughter and survival in Venus' wild production to leave audience members contemplating empathy and hope.
Act 2, Randall writes, “is intended to be naturalism” as Scuzzy and Belly reunite after he abandons her in young adulthood.
This doesn't make for a happy ending, but it's not as dark as one might fear.
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