Sex, Death and Insanity

Two L-shaped, soot-blackened walls serve as the ominous backdrop of The Changeling, the first in a series of "scandalous" productions by Red Bull Theater this spring. One wall holds three glass cages, inhabited by the eerie denizens of an insane asylum, while the other is used for several lurid, thrilling acts (scenic design is by Marion Williams); cold-blooded murder and illicit sex come to mind. Director Jesse Berger's adaptation of the Jacobean tragicomedy has a great deal to work with, unsurprisingly. Aside from a few stiff moments, Berger's production steps up and delivers on the drama and suspense that is inherent in this scandalous work.

The story is a classical Spanish tragicomedy, written by 16th century playwrights Thomas Middleton and William Rowley (the former contributed to Shakespeare's Measure for Measure), and is rife with dark, morbid themes. Spanish noblewoman Beatrice-Joanna (Sara Topham) is being forced to marry Alonzo de Piracquo (John Skelley) by her deep-voiced, distinguished father Vermandero (Sam Tsoutsouvas), but she is in love with Alsemero (Christian Coulson). She is also the object of her servant, De Flores' (a fantastic Manoel Felciano) unyielding obsession. Joanna's calculative machinations to get rid of Alonzo come at the cost of her maidenhood—at the hands of De Flores himself, who yearns desperately for his mistress. Cover-ups, ploys and games of control ensue, while a subplot of similar yearnings and madness goes on in a nearby insane asylum.

The story is an admittedly noble, gory affair, characteristic of its Renaissance-Jacobean roots. The language is heightened and bombastic, as it should be. Red Bull Theater is one of the cherished few companies that has consistently produced acclaimed classical theater since its inception. In its opening scenes, The Changeling flags a little in its engagement—we briefly wonder at Alsemero's stiffness and Joanna's uncomfortable command of the stage. But such trifling missteps disappear, as the plot takes over and the actors fall into that cathartic rhythm of performance. Felciano, who plays De Flores, gives an especially intelligent performance, casting over his supposedly ugly character with a seductive poise and strange beauty. Tsoutsouvas' reverberating organ fills the stage, as does Topham's quick, shrewd movements.

Felciano and Topham, De Flores and Joanna respectively, have a terrifyingly potent chemistry. Even at the outset of their relationship, when Joanna despises De Flores for his malformed face and pathetic longing for her, each character stands on the brink of each other's sexual domains. Their interactions are fraught with an unhappy eroticism—she in the knowledge of her "taint" before marriage, and he in an impure passion of possessing his mistress, who does not requite his love. Their relationship is in quite beautiful contrast to that of Joanna and Alsemero; their love is an exercise in the age-old traditions of meeting, falling in love, and getting married. Coulson pours pure, handsome love into his character, while Felciano infects De Flores with a forbidden lust. They pivot around Topham possessively while she falls deeper and deeper into her Macbethian whirlpool of schemes. 

In a somewhat unrelated caper, the inmates of an insane asylum and their captors clash over the object of their affections: Isabella (Michelle Beck). This subplot seems a comedic aside at the beginning of the play, and tries to evolve into much the same problem that the main plot is beset with—three men who love and desperately wish to possess one woman. But for all its hilarity (and occasional bursts of choreography), the plot and its accompanying characters tie in loosely with the overall story, and does little besides. Beck dignifies her character with what little respect she is given by her lovers: her husband and man-in-charge at the asylum Alibius (a hilarious Christopher McCann), an airy, clown-like madman called Antonio (Bill Army) and an equally mad, love-struck poet named Franciscus (Philippe Bowgen). Army and Bowgen flit naturally between their mad selves and their in-love selves (the latter is an extraordinary madness). 

The play does not deflate after its initial catharsis; rather, actors, sound, stage and light blaze in bursts of activity. Berger casts every aspect of his production in the same explosive mold—that of creeping scandal and abrupt action. The sounds that we hear are either soft and haunting or brief and very loud (sound and music design is by Ryan Rumery). The relaxed stupor that some audience members might fall into, especially after an abstracted soliloquy or post-intermission, is kept at bay. If the ears are not engaged (perhaps during a soliloquy), then one can't help but admire the flowing dresses, leather jackets and colorful doublets that move about the stage (costume design is by Beth Goldenberg). Besides its occasional lags and head-scratching moments, The Changeling is a a rare chance to see a sumptuously produced piece of classical theater.

Produced by Red Bull Theater, The Changeling runs until Jan. 24 at the Lucille Lortel Theatre (121 Christopher St. between Hudson and Bleecker Sts.) in Manhattan. Tickets range from $60-$80. To purchase tickets, call 212-352-3101 or visit

Print Friendly and PDF

Tasty to a Point

The aptly named Commedia dell’Artichoke doesn’t veer far from its roots—commedia dell’arte, the knockabout comedy style of Renaissance Italy. Carlo Goldoni’s The Servant of Two Masters is a prime example, and although it is occasionally seen on stage nowadays, it was adapted exuberantly into the Broadway hit One Man, Two Guvnors with James Corden, who won a Tony Award for his slapstick performance.

There’s perhaps less outright slapstick and energy in Commedia dell’Artichoke, but a good deal of physical interaction in the production, directed by Devin Brain on a stage that’s part traverse, part thrust and part cabaret. The quartet of performers—Carter Gill, Alexandra Henrikson, Tommy Russell, and Shannon Marie Sullivan—are also the creators. Whether artichoke pizza was also part of the historical record is unclear, but before the performance at the intimate Gene Frankel Theatre (variously misconstrued by Henrikson's virago Capitana as the James Franco, the James Dean and the Bethany Frankel), a tasty slice is provided. Or you can choose to go with plain.

The story involves Pulcinella, an archetypal character from commedia, and his attempt to create a flourishing pizzeria business in New York. The main thrust of the plot is that the greedy Capitana is going to raise Pulcinella’s rent; Pulcinella has to wheedle some charity from her or pay up. Capitana (Henrikson) is both a capitalist and a captain of industry, as well as a boss; she is tall, dressed in a white outfit and a coral leather coat, with a white trilby (costumes are by Lisa Loen). She struts and barks about the stage, terrifying her henchman, the milquetoast Mr. Tartaglia (Russell). In a funny moment, she inserts her outsize nose into his mouth until he’s deep-throating it. Renaissance commedia was bawdy as well as physical, and the creators/performers seize every opportunity to infuse sexual license into the proceedings.

In keeping with commedia tradition, half-masks are used for the characters, and yet their attributes shine through, thanks to the actors. The show is divided into 14 lazzi, scenes that include written text which the performers embellish with improvisation. Subsidiary characters appear: Smeraldina (Sullivan), a young woman in a hat with a flower at the front (the archetype was originally a servant); two strapping working-class guys in blue overalls who make tentative overtures toward each other, which feels outside commedia; and an old peasant woman in a head scarf whom Pulcinella has hired, he says, because “I can pay her 78% of the nothing I would have to pay male.” A savvy listener might grasp fits and snatches of everything from Dark Victory to Waiting for Godot.

Typically, the commedia is topical, laden with references to well-known people (e.g., Pina Bausch, “that beautiful woman who wears a red dress and dances in that theater in Brooklyn nobody knows how to get to”) and familiar situations (the feminist Smeraldina demands of one of the men: “You gotta tell me I’m pretty, and tell me you love me, and that I look skinny in my sweatpants, and sexy even though all my underwear has period stains on ’em.”). 

That tasteless punch line is not the worst among many that would raise eyebrows in a brothel: Some salad greens are flung about to set up a particularly cringeworthy comment, and there’s a tortured set-up for another joke involving the Public Theater.

There are songs, too, that delight in nonsense and current events. Sings Smeraldina, à la “My Favorite Things”: “Springtime and puppy dogs/And coffee with cream/Cat memes and Neil deGrasse/ Tyson’s Twitter feed/These things are all things that I like yippee/Cupcakes and sparkles/And pizza with cheese.”

The multiple cooks have created a farrago of nonsense, wordplay, awkward situations, and bawdry that may approximate the Renaissance version. But Brain allows several scenes to go on too long (though, given that improvisation is essential, the blame is perhaps more the actors'). Even if it doesn’t all hang together, the audience seemed to have a roaring good time. If you appreciate scattershot, loosey-goosey comedy, then Commedia dell’Artichoke may be to your taste. Or try a slice of the plain.

Commedia dell’Artichoke plays through Feb. 6 at the Gene Frankel Theatre (24 Bond St. between Bowery and Lafayette Sts.) in Manhattan. Evening performances are at 7 p.m. on Wednesdays and on Sunday, Jan. 24, and at 8 p.m. on Thursday-Saturday. Tickets are $30 and may be obtained by visiting

Print Friendly and PDF