Do you dream that your child will grow up to become an angst-ridden, emotionally unstable artist who earns their living performing autobiographical shows about their traumatic upbringing? It’s easy; just raise them in a strict religious sect that demonizes sex and overemphasizes eternal damnation, and you’re already halfway there! At least, that’s the lesson I’ve taken away from Travis Abels’ The Chair on the Door and countless other confessional solo shows before it.
Abels is far from the first Fringe artist to mine both his childhood indoctrinations — in this case, from the pulpit of his father, a preacher for the nuclear holocaust-obsessed Worldwide Church of God — and subsequent hedonistic rebellions for theatrical material. And these days, the idea of being in an apocalyptic doomsday cult doesn’t sound that extraordinary, since about one-third of the U.S. populace seems to have joined one.
What makes Abels’ take on this timeworn tale so terrifically engaging is the way he employs playful pantomime-style movements, precisely synchronized with the cinematic soundtrack he’s designed. From his prayerful pajama-clad opening to the slow-motion near-death climax, Travis brings his story to vivid life through masterful command of his lanky physicality, elevating this performance from a mere monologue into a multi-sensory masterclass in capturing an audience’s attention.
Even if you’re an avowed agnostic, you can still identify with Abels’ agony over disappointing his dad, and empathize with his struggles to reconcile the split between his secular and soul-searching selves. And no matter what you worship, Abels’ affecting, elegiac ending may leave you contemplating your own hands with wonder.
Fringe ArtSpace
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This article appears in Jan 10-16, 2024.