Student-run literary journal brings live poetry back to campus

By Peregrine Hart

Students packed into Laughing Planet on Feb. 7 for the return of live poetry nights, hosted by Brushfire Literature and Arts Journal. Enough spectators piled in that some had to watch from the stairwell.

Twenty-nine poets volunteered to read their work aloud, as well as a few members of the literary journal’s staff.

Phoebe Coogle, Brushfire’s editor-in-chief, exclaimed her excitement for the event.

“The turnout was great,” Coogle said. “For like half the night, we had standing room only — which was amazing.” With its seventy-fifth edition on the presses, Brushfire is doing this year what it’s done in an almost unbroken stretch since 1950: publish the work of artists and writers, both students and not, in print volumes distributed across campus.

That’s 73 years and 75 editions, a discrepancy originating from extra editions published in the mid-70s. The journal has chosen to celebrate the latter anniversary with an increased page count.

“It was at 64 pages for the last 10 years or so,” Coogle said. “And we scrounged around, got some funds together, and now we’re at 76. It was like, ‘I want us to be at 75!’ That was great, we’re able to feature more artists and writers that way.”

Coogle, however, looks to other horizons, too. Brushfire is first and foremost a publication, but she hopes to bring its community out into the real world, and make it a presence.

“Brushfire has the unfortunate reputation of being a publication that just sits there and judges people’s work […] there is that level of disconnect between the publication and the people who submit to it,” Coogle said. “Having these kinds of live events really does foster a sense of community. And not only from the arts colleges, but we had several people come out from different colleges here at UNR. I think that also helps kind of build this sense of arts not just for, like, the ivory towers, as it were.”

Spectators are encouraged not just to show support as each new poet takes the mic, but to respond with enthusiasm as the poem is being read. Snaps and hums of approval are always welcome.

“Clap people up, clap ‘em down, show as much love as possible,” Coogle encouraged in her opening slate as emcee. “We want to annoy everyone downstairs.”

An eclectic and electric selection of poets then stepped up to the microphone, each greeted with a loud ritual before their name was read: “where they at, where they at, where they at!”

‘Stupid F***ing Bird’ a sincere, sometimes too-heavy riot

By Peregrine Hart

This spring, the University of Nevada, Reno’s season of live theater came to a close with many f—s to give.

The potty-mouthed play in question is Aaron Posner’s “Stupid F***ing Bird.” A loose retelling of Anton Chekhov’s “The Seagull,” the play follows Emma, an aging actress, her son Con, a struggling aspiring playwright, and a string of supporting characters who either love them unrequitedly or don’t love them back.

If this sounds complicated, it’s all in keeping with the original. Emma loves Trigorin, a famous author. Con loves the aspiring actress Nina, who doesn’t love him back. Trigorin also loves Nina — who reels with guilt as she finds she returns his feelings. Mash, a young, ukulele-playing pessimist, loves Con — who, heartsick over Nina, barely knows she exists. Finally, Con’s pithy friend Dev loves Mash — who might be able to settle for him — maybe.

In short: everyone’s feelings are misplaced. Everyone’s set up for misery. The universe doesn’t care.

Besides, there’s a mounting modern crisis to worry about. Posner’s adaptation lifts “The Seagull” from its original setting at a nineteenth-century Russian country estate to the present day. On top of being lost in love, the play’s young characters stare down the barrel of a bleak economic and ecological future. As many of us have already loudly proclaimed: f— this s—.

If hearing those words on stage will validate your feelings, “Stupid F***ing Bird” is the play for you.

And it is said. Often. But, thanks to great performances from UNR’s student actors, “f—” never loses its f—ing power.

The play’s small cast of seven is well-fitted to the task. They’re loud about their characters’ mundane problems, but it never feels overblown. They make convincing strikes at their characters’ deep flaws, but manage to entirely avoid the impression that they’re looking down on them. Under the compassionate direction of UNR acting instructor Rosie Brownlow-Calkin, that last skill really gets a chance to shine. Anson Wapstra Scott helms as the play’s fumbling aspiring playwright, Con. He’d be a standout if his peers weren’t so f—ing good. He takes a deeply volatile, needy leading man at his word and gets his insecurity across with full force. Con’s drastic emotional changes can sometimes set in over the space of a few lines — a perilous transition that only a fullycommitted actor can handle.

Similar demands fall effortlessly under the feet of Alyssa Granger, who plays Nina. Much like her delightfully dialed-up performance in last semester’s one acts, Granger anchors a larger-thanlife aspiring actress in unabashed need. Big gestures and a big voice generally evade modern, realist acting, but they can play beautifully off of other, more grounded players. Granger knows this well, and she’s a joy to watch because of it.

Meanwhile, Maya Wolery, who played Big Pharma in the one acts last semester, returns to medicine as the middle-aged doctor Sorn. Sorn is Con’s kindhearted uncle and Emma’s older brother. He’s the only character free of the play’s romantic angst — though not entirely of his own volition. His are the regrets of a cautious, prosperous life already lived. How did I get here? How can I go back? Wolery is an unconventional choice for Sorn, but that only works in their favor. They imbue him with age without ever resorting to “old man” tropes. Though usually a quiet presence on stage, they make him shine when his solemn moments finally come. This season, what would already be in-your-face talent is even closer than usual. Without technical support, “Stupid F***ing Bird” takes to the Redfield Studio Theatre with intimate seating and only minimal lighting at its disposal. Like Cabaret, it’s a script well-chosen for the venue, though for slightly different reasons.

Continued online at nevadasagebrush.com