About halfway through Al Lafrance’s I Think I’m Dead, I wrote in my notebook: “Things are happening. And he’s talking really fast. But nothing matters.” Then Lafrance turned it around. Big time.
In this autobiographical solo, Lafrance covers a lot of ground: the insomnia that started when he was in high school, a traumatic incident that flipped him into believing in concurrent realities, even a hurricane.
But Lafrance’s aggressive delivery feels like a mask. For too long, he shows no vulnerability—and, without vulnerability, there are no stakes. (When things threaten to get tender, Lafrance assumes a mocking sissy voice and says things like, “Oh, that’s so romantic!”)
But then he makes a beautiful flip: opening up about his panic attacks and depression, he leads us to a magnificently generous conclusion.
Ultimately, I Think I’m Dead is a gift. I just wish Lafrance hadn’t made it so hard to unwrap.
Remaining performances at the Arts Umbrella on September 9 (2:45 p.m. and 10 p.m.), 11 (6:15 p.m.), 12 (8 p.m.), 13 (9:45 p.m.), 15 (6:15 p.m.), and 16 (8 p.m.) > Colin Thomas
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