Last month, LaMaMa presented We Couldn’t Call it what we Wanted to Call it, so we Called it Holy Crap!! – by Iñigo Ramírez de Haro. The archbishop of Madrid demanded that the Spanish production of the play be banned, and it incited demonstrations there. As it had such impeccable qualifications, I couldn’t miss it.
This is a virtuoso solo performance by Stephen Mo Hanan. Much to his credit, he betrays no embarrassment at the behaviors he’s called upon to execute. These include complaining about constipation while sitting on toilet seats, bouncing between the characters of Everyman (sort of) and God in silly repartee, and simulating buggary.
It starts with the toilets. Then our nameless hero regresses to childhood and proceeds to present psychological abuse by the Church and physical abuse by a priest. The latter being a metaphor for the first, there’s an indisputable moral here.
Still, the play’s seering accusation can’t justify its considerable vulgarity. WCCIWWWTCISWCIHC doesn’t explore abuse, it merely stages it.
As New York audiences, we’ve seen everything. It’s an indication of off-off-Broadway’s vitality that we’re jaded to this stuff. By our standards, de Haro has merely latched on to a hot topic thinking he'll write a hot play.
The production suggests an interesting solution to the problem of changing sets on an OOB budget. There are sheets of plastic side-to-side and top-to-bottom of our field of view. The second is upstage of the first, concealed by it, and so on. Hana rips them away as the scenes change, revealing a new set with each rip. Clever.
