Philly Fringe 2018: Sarah Knittel’s ‘NIGHTMARE FUEL’

A liberal use of fluids, both real and imagined, courses through Sarah Knittel’s frenetic one-woman show, staged in an old Southwest Philly warehouse with a warren of burgeoning arts spaces known as Panorama Philly. If you’re new to this particular adventure, maybe leave yourself a little extra time to find it.

Look for the metal gate on the desolate Kingsessing sidewalk and head in between a parking lot and the brick wall of the building. Go inside and follow the stairs with the yellow railing up a few stories. From there, whatever show you’re headed to, pretty much all you can do is follow the signs taped periodically to the wall. There are a couple doors, but just trust that you’re on the right track and push through. Eventually, you’ll come to what looks like a giant hole in the wall next to a bright-blue rolling barn door. Give your name at the table inside and choose one of the folding chairs that are probably older than you are.

Her boyfriend's back

Knittel just returned from her successful run at the Edinburgh Fringe, and NIGHTMARE FUEL has already had a few Philly incarnations at Good Good Comedy Theatre. It would ruin the fun if I tried to describe too much about how Special Agent Dana Scully presides over a panoply of lubricious horror-trope pantomimes, culminating in the star of the show becoming unwillingly possessed by the soul of an ex-boyfriend. He's a #MeToo raison d’être, wearing a denim vest you can smell from here.

Just come ready to be honest about what really got you off when you were a teenager. (Oh, me? Nothing. None of your business. Mid-‘90s David Duchovny. I mean, none of David Duchovny's business. Why do you even care how Agent Mulder rolled his white shirtsleeves halfway up his lanky forearms? I don't care. I don't.)

Knittel’s totally engaging performance is the work of a pro, fearlessly engaging the audience from start to finish, until we are all practically co-stars, or at least co-conspirators, in the whole bloody, profane, hilarious spectacle.

What’s the point of it all? I think it probably changes nightly, and you’ll see why. For myself, I’m thinking of the way facing up to and discarding abusers also means disentangling a piece of your own identity. Ultimately, kicking them to the curb may demand a sort of collective cosmic effort none of us can manage alone.