The Tongue Is a Mighty Sword

Move over, James Brown. It’s time to add Joe Morton and Dick Gregory's names to the pantheon of hardest-working men in show business. In Turn Me Loose, written by Gretchen Law and directed by John Gould Rubin, Morton gives a tour de force performance as Gregory, the tireless civil rights activist and stand up comic known for his acerbic social satire on race and American politics.

Morton, of the hit TV show Scandal, adeptly captures both the younger and the older Gregory as the play moves back and forth in time. As a comedian, Gregory eloquently holds a mirror up to the contradictions in American society. Although he believes economics are at the root of many problems in society, he contends that “poverty is not the worst disease on earth. Racism is.”

Born in 1932, in St. Louis, Gregory says he had “black assets: fast feet, and a fast tongue.” He was athletic and outspoken, and when he was given a three-year contract at Hugh Hefner’s Playboy Club in Chicago in 1961, he was catapulted into another realm as an entertainer, not as a “shuffling minstrel, but as a 28-year-old star.” However, he often stepped down from comedy to take up the cause of the 1960s civil rights movement and march side by side with Medgar Evers.

Morton captures the conflict between being a performer and being an activist that caused Gregory to take pause at moments in his life. In a chilling moment, the young activist gets a bad feeling that he can’t shake before heading back down South to join Evers. But suddenly his son dies and he returns North to join his wife. Only two weeks later, Evers is assassinated; Gregory believes his personal tragedy spared his life. The dangers of activism and being a black man in the South in the ’60s were never more apparent. He realizes that the "racist system is nothing but a shadow. You got to dive through—every day could be your last.” He also realizes that bigotry is like the barb of an arrow piercing the skin. Gregory returns to comedy and aims, not so much to extract the arrowhead from the sides of American racists, but to shake them with enough laughter that it will fall out.

Morton’s voice has a deep timbre, and he has amazing reserve and control over both his voice and physicality. Often, while the tempo and volume rise, his body is restrained and still. Near the finale, sweat pours down his face, and instead of taking the handkerchief, as he does at times throughout the play, he forges through what he has to say: the power of his words is amplified by the apoplectic state of his face.

The raw immediacy of Morton’s performance, coupled with the power of Gregory’s message, incites some members of the audience to murmur “Mmm-hmmm” and “Yeah,” as if they are receiving a message from the pulpit rather than the stage. Also helping tell the story in a variety of roles is John Carlin; among other things he plays a bumbling mediator at a loss for words when Gregory delivers an acerbic diagnosis of the state of economics and its effect on all that ails American society.

It takes tremendous courage and intelligence to design and deliver the kind of comedy Gregory does. At 83, he's still going strong. Because of his work with the civil rights movement, and the way in which he has relentlessly, with humor, grace and a tongue like a sword, dissected the contradictions about race in America, the conversation itself has since taken a few twists and turns. For instance, Vin Diesel, who rose to stardom in The Fast and Furious films, declines to accept any racial pigeonhole. Rather, says one observer, Diesel presents himself as “a multiethnic Everyman.” The actor’s insistence on identifying himself as a human being, rather than by race, is an important step. As Turn Me Loose makes plain, it’s one that Dick Gregory has worked tirelessly for.

Turn Me Loose plays at the Westside Theatre (407 West 43rd St.) through July 3. Evening performances are at 7 p.m. Tuesday, at 7:30 p.m. Wednesday and Thursday, and at 8 p.m. Friday and Saturday; matinees are at 2 p.m. Saturday and at 3 p.m. Sunday. Tickets are $79 and may be purchased by calling (212) 239-6200 or visiting www.turnmelooseplay.com.

 

Concealed and Revealed

“Camouflage: to be in plain sight, but not to be seen” is the undercurrent of Cal in Camo, about a family dealing with grim challenges. At the heart of the play are a husband struggling to provide for his wife and child; the wife who has little, if any, affinity for her newborn; and her backwoods brother, a man of few words, whose own wife has recently drowned. Given the somber plot, Cal in Camo is often surprisingly humorous, with actors who reach deep to pull out emotionally charged performances.

David Harbour plays Tim, who is languishing in a small Illinois town as a distributor of craft beer. His wife, Cal (Katya Campbell), is a stay-at-home mom. Their arguments may resonate as typical, but the writing by William Francis Hoffman delivers the stories wrapped in a unique casing. Relish the amusing moments, because Cal in Camo is a gut-wrenching play. The topic of Cal’s brother Flynt, his behavior at their wedding two years earlier, as well as his upcoming visit, is fodder for intense, fast-paced dialogue.

When he arrives, Flynt (Paul Wesley) just peels away another layer to the family secrets. However, it’s Wesley’s perfectly stilted delivery of Flynt’s simplistic view of the world that is bold: “You wanna bond with that baby...you take that baby dirty as she is....diaper dirty....you…strip her down...and you strip yourself down…and you get down on the ground you wrap your whole body around that baby….even though you might not know what you’re doin’ at all...that’s nature...nature knows what ta do.... like water knows where ta go...you just gotta let it find you.”

Campbell’s Sybil-like performance is striking; on one hand fighting with Tim, her unmotherly response to the cries of her child juxtaposed with her schoolgirl excitement to see Flynt. The reveal of their mother abandoning them and Cal’s experience in and out of foster homes is telling: “The way I grew up in all those different homes with all those different families...you learn not to want...you keep your eyes in front of you...if you don’t want they can’t take anything away from you if you don’t need they can’t break your heart…but I got caught up in this idea this picture of family this thing you had and I started to believe it.”

Harbour takes Tim's lack of trust to a new, in-your-face level—the performance is solidly Harbour. His sheer size next to Campbell takes on a brutish, commanding figure, and his resentment being dragged to rural Illinois by Cal is evident in every gesture, as well as everything he doesn’t say.

The opening scene with Cal on the floor attempting to pump her breasts of milk feels like it was put there for shock value. In that regard, it steals the thunder from the scene of Cal and Tim fighting about her inability to produce milk, which requires them to purchase formula.

Once Tim arrives home to the family kitchen, complete with sliding door to the backyard, John McDermott’s set design works harder. With Flynt standing on the porch, having just walked out of the kitchen, the set rotates, and he is standing on the back porch. Grant Yeager delivers crisp lighting design and, coupled with sound design by Amy Altadonna, creates the perfect storm scene. Altadonna’s baby cries are spot-on, whether through a baby monitor, from the other room, or coming from the traveling car seat.

Cal in Camo is meant to be uneasy, and director Adrienne Campbell-Holt makes sure of it. The dialogue is fast and the narrative hard, begging to be heard. Living is in the asking and yet being vulnerable to the answers; that’s where the heart grows. For the actors it is evident that they know the material and they listen; even more important, they respond in kind. The camouflage is ripped aside and the human spirit is revealed, bruises and all.

Cal in Camo continues at Rattlestick Playwrights Theater (224 Waverly Place, just west of 7th Avenue) through June 12. Evening performances are Wednesdays-Saturdays at 8 p.m. and at 7 p.m. and Sundays and Mondays; matinees are at 3 p.m. Saturdays. Running time is 85 minutes. For more information and tickets call Ovationtix at (866) 811-4111 or visit www.rattlestick.org.

Days of Drinking Games

Love has a hard road to travel to find itself, especially in this madcap world. It has never been easy for young adults to figure out the mating game, and in Half Moon Bay, a dark and witty new play by Dan Moyer, the lovers meet in the grungy bar of a bowling alley. The two-hander opens to Led Zeppelin and bright lights, then goes pitch-black as the Talking Heads blare in the darkness. The lights (by Mike Inwood) abruptly go full up to reveal Annie (Keilly McQuail) alone at the bar, where she meets the neurotic Gabe (Gabriel King), a gambling addict with too much time and money on his hands. The alcoholic Annie gives Gabe lessons on pickup lines. And so begins a dark comedy about the narcissistic, existentialist, and often self-destructive struggle young adults experience to find themselves.

Moyer’s intelligent yet poignant dialogue reflects what many go through at that period when a person realizes he or she is not a child anymore and is trying to play grownup, but doesn’t know how. Gabe asks, “You here with anyone else?” And Annie retorts smugly, “No I come here alone and bowl by myself, then I go home and cry when I lose.” Amid the humorous banter there is a serious undertone that mirrors the inner struggle of finding love in a hopeless place.

Annie realizes she’s an addict when she discovers she has genuine feelings for Gabe. Although both actors start out tensely over-animated in performance, as they live through what they are doing and build the emotional life of their characters, their desperation becomes compelling.

Reid Thompson’s set is so real it’s surreal, enhancing that unearthly feeling that alcohol and attraction can give. Pictures on the wall tell of past bowling championships; half-empty liquor bottles and dirty glasses whisper of other lost nights. The disarray of Annie’s apartment reflects the disarray of her life.

Choices by sound designer Janie Bullard and Thompson heighten the characters’ emotional state. The muted outside illumination that Inwood has artfully crafted for the Santa Cruz, Calif., setting is particularly effective, as is the way nighttime becomes daybreak as Annie switches from “party-ready” to “Get the hell out of here” mode after their evening together.

Thompson’s set is utilized fully by director Jess Chayes; the actors improvise and evolve in their experience together, and ultimately connect in this mad, mad world. Starting out quick-witted and terse, the evening ends poignantly still and emotionally moving. The play looks at broken children and reprimands society to offer more to them, underlining that young adults need guidance on how to love as well as maneuver through life.

In response to Annie’s story on bad pickup lines like “Your mouth is like a window to the tongue,” Gabe asks her, “It didn’t work, did it?” She sadly replies, “Of course it didn’t work.  Very much.” Yet a good deal of the play is about what is not said; it helps that director Jess Chayes’s choice of music sets the proper tone.

Thankfully, Moyer offers hope in the end for the lovers. After much fear and reluctance Annie does open up and allows Gabe into her heart. There’s a possibility for them to find a true connection.

Lesser America’s production of Half Moon Bay runs through June 4 at the Cherry Lane Theatre (38 Commerce St.). Evening performances are at 8 p.m. Thursday through Sunday at 8 p.m.; there is an additional performance on Wednesday, May 18, at 8 p.m. For tickets, which are $19, call OvationTix at (866) 811-4111 or visit www.cherrylanetheatre.org/onstage/half-moon-bay.

An Ideal Betrayal

As Oscar Wilde in David Hare’s 2012 revision of his play The Judas Kiss, Rupert Everett has found the role of his career. Though he’ll always be more famous for films such as My Best Friend’s Wedding, his terrific performance in the production visiting BAM helps resurrect a play by the prolific author of Plenty and Skylight that had less impact in its Broadway debut in 1998. 

Neil Armfield's staging has given Hare’s play the heft of real tragedy. The Judas Kiss is set at two pivotal points in Wilde’s life: the first act takes place the day he is arrested at the Cadogan Hotel for gross indecency, following the collapse of his 1895 libel case against the Marquess of Queensberry, father of Wilde’s younger lover, Lord Alfred Douglas, aka Bosie. The second takes place two years later, after Wilde has left prison and has settled with Bosie in Naples, living hand-to-mouth.

In both halves Wilde is seen to undermine his own best interests, all for the love of Bosie, played by Charlie Rowe as an arrogant, narcissistic worm in a light blue suit. (Costume designer Sue Blane clearly knows her stuff; it’s a color long associated with homosexuals.) The first act revolves around Wilde’s refusal to leave England, even as his old friend and ex-lover Robbie Ross (Cal MacAninch) urges him to. Yet Wilde foolishly won’t take the carriage that awaits to spirit him to the Continent.

Instead, Wilde tries his best to be unflappable, tossing off witticisms and demanding a meal of lobster before the police arrive to arrest him. Everett handles the timing and the wit with ease, and he’s physically right as well: tall, and in a fat suit, a bit stout, just like Wilde. He claims to foresee what is going to happen, yet, he says, “I have always had a low opinion of what is called action.” It's a witticism that contradicts his reckless decision to sue Queensberry for libel after being called a “sodomite.” Nonetheless, Everett inhabits the contradictions, the wit, the passion and the foolishness, in a multifaceted, riveting performance.

He’s equally as good in Act II, sitting almost the whole time in a straw hat and lap blanket on a chair in Naples. He and Bosie are in a lowdown hotel, and Bosie is picking up tricks. Tom Colley as an Italian fisherman is one of them; he spends most of his considerable stage time demonstrating that he has no body fat whatsoever. The frank nudity contrasts neatly with the scene that opens the play, when Alister Cameron’s dryly indulgent concierge Moffatt discovers his staffers, Arthur and Phoebe (Elliot Balchin and Jessie Hills), having sex in the darkened room taken by the Wilde entourage. Before Arthur leaves, Moffatt says they must have a talk about the situation later. Twisting a towel around his hand and snapping it ever so slightly, as if it were a riding crop, he warns, “I shall need to reprimand you in person.” His sexual impulses are glimpsed for only a moment, but it’s typical of Armfield’s detail. The contrast between the unruffled acceptance of heterosexuality vs. the disdain for homosexuality, as well as English repression vs. the later Italian vigor, enriches the story.

Hare is one of Britain’s most political playwrights, so barbs aimed at the class system are inevitable. Bosie is an aristocrat who naturally abuses the staff and loudly opposes Robbie’s common sense by insisting his highly placed acquaintances in the House of Lords will pull strings for Wilde. They don’t.

Moreover, Wilde and Bosie are only two sides of a love triangle. MacAninch invests the dapper, punctilious Robbie with an almost palpable unrequited affection for Wilde. His yearning makes their parting the most moving moment in the play. And Wilde behaves cruelly to Robbie, yet Robbie takes it with only the subtlest objection. 

Wilde is not, however, so blind that he cannot see Bosie’s callowness. When the arrogant youth declares, “I am already the greatest non-narrative poet in English,” Wilde flashes a scowl that’s priceless. Perhaps it's a bit of a stretch for Hare to cast Wilde as a Christ figure, but it’s not hammered at heavily. The kiss of the title quickly follows, as Bosie has been bought out by an allowance from his parents and has packed his bags. The last glimpse of Everett’s Wilde, throwing his head back and laughing uncontrollably, hints at a classic architecture. He has given up everything for a young man who didn’t really love him; and he has sent away the man who did. The first act is tragedy; the second is farce.

David Hare’s The Judas Kiss plays through June 12 at BAM Harvey Theater (30 Lafayette Ave. between Ashland Place and St. Felix St. in Brooklyn). Evening performances are at 7:30 p.m. Tuesday through Saturday; matinees are at 2 p.m. Saturdays and 3 p.m. Sundays. Tickets start at $30. Visit www.bam.org/theater for information. 

High on the Buy

Shoes and Baggage is a wildly entertaining one-woman show that explores shopping, and life. Written and performed by stage veteran Cheryl Stern (whose Broadway credits include La Cage aux Folles and The Women) and directed by Joe Barros, both actor and director do a marvelous job of using the cell theater, a small space that is more of a theater in the rectangle than the round. Nonetheless, all seats are good, and musical director John Dipitino’s soundtrack, performed by a two-man band with drum, keyboard and guitar, adds pizzazz and drive to the performance, but don’t overwhelm the diminutively sized actress.

Stern hits the nail on the head when she reveals her conflicted relationship to shopping. She manages a delicate balance between revealing the inner turmoil as well as the ameliorating effects of shopping during some of life’s more difficult moments. The dialogue is intimate but not, as kids today say, TMI (too much information). A self-confessed connoisseur of clothing, shoes and baggage, she recalls her experiences buying her first Louis Vuitton bag and to “buy, or not to buy” a pair of Louboutins that cost as much as her weekly paycheck.

Weaving in past experiences that go all the way back to childhood with more contemporary experiences, Stern does a fantastic job. She touches on relationships that have influenced and informed her appreciation for clothing. Two in particular are with Rena and Karen, whom she remains fast friends with in life and shopping. When Stern first meets Rena in a college acting class, she is completely taken by her. Dressed in a rabbit fur coat, Rena is “urban-sexy in a Bianca Jagger sort of way.” It turns out Rena can’t act but the two form a bond. Akin to this relationship is the one she forms with Karen while out walking her dog one day. Karen is a former Ford model and disco queen and, when they meet, the ad director of Vogue. They embark on many shopping excursions and Karen verses her in the world of couture.

Stern’s play is also an autobiographical account of her experience as an actress. She hilariously renders her experience as a cast member of The Women, a Broadway production that included Cynthia Nixon, Jennifer Tilly and Kristen Johnston. She forms an unlikely bond with Tilly, who has a great appreciation for unusual jewelry and fashion. When Stern compliments Tilly on some rings she’s wearing, she captures Tilly’s relaxed and off-the-cuff cadence with her reply: “Super-cute, right?” They become friends with an appreciation for fashion, and after one particular shopping spree, nearly miss curtain call.

It’s not only the wild forays into shopping that Stern captures, but the addictive nature of it. While trying to return a sweater at a high-end retail store, she ends up leaving with a pair of pants and a top, in addition to the sweater she initially goes in to return. When she sings: “High, totally high from the buy…,” it explains the thrill of going home with new purchases. But then, when she feels compelled to hide them in the closet so her husband won’t see them, there’s the shame in knowing that they exceed her budget, and she failed in returning a sweater that wasn’t really perfect after all.

Stern outlines the way shopping can alleviate some of the stress that occurs in life. When friends get sick with cancer, or lose their jobs, or her father is in the hospital after a heart attack, shopping and an appreciation for clothing, shoes and baggage somehow make the moments more bearable. Yet, as Stern grows older, she comes to recognize that shopping is an addiction as serious as any other. She sings “High, totally hooked on the high, take another hit, like breathing air, oh the lure of what to wear.” Through Debtors Anonymous and self-help books filled with daily affirmations she comes to terms with the fact that shopping is only a high, and not a real antidote to life’s problems. It’s uncertain how she will live without the “high of the buy,” she says, but it seems like it’s time to try and face the music of her addiction, and let that “good buy” go.

Shoes and Baggage, is playing at the cell, 338 West 23^rd St. (between 8^th & 9^th avenues) through June 3.^. Take A/C/E train to 8^th Ave at 23^rd Street. Evening performances are at 7 p.m., Wednesday through Sunday, with matinees at 2 p.m. on Saturday and Sunday. No late seating is permitted. Tickets are $35. For more information, call (646) 861-2253, visit www.thecelltheatre.org.

No Regrets

The world premiere of Rising Circle Theater Collective’s production This Time, written by Sevan K. Greene and adapted in part from Amal Meguid's memoir Not So Long Ago, is an extraordinary example of juggling multiple timelines with exacting deftness. The storylines weave in and through one another, much like a memory comes in and out of consciousness. The underlying theme? A life of no regrets.

Delphi Harrington is brilliant as Amal, an overbearing, ethnic mother, one who professes to want only the best for her child but has a distinct opinion about everything. She exhibits the mannerisms and inflections of an older, well-traveled woman. Salma Shaw as her divorced daughter, Janine, comes to her aid when she has broken her arm bringing her home with her to recover. Janine is attempting to pack up her own home to put it on the market, downsize, and restart her life.

In flashbacks to 30 years earlier, the younger Amal, played by Rendah Heywood, meets a charming man-about-town, Nick (Seth Moore), at a party in Cairo. Heywood is cocktail-party elegant as she employs aloofness to counter Nick’s advances.

Nick: “Alone?”
Amal: “Married.”
Nick: “Happily?”
Amal: “Married.”
Nick: “Unfortunate.”

She eventually succumbs, wanting to be free of the oppression she feels in Egypt, yet comes to struggle with Nick’s life choices. 

A scene near the end has each of the four main actors taking a seat at the dining table, eating and arguing across one another, and at times sharing the same line. The actors’ timing is impeccable in this charged interaction, demonstrating a fluidity of movement between decades that brings the play alive. 

Amal: “You’re leaving.
Younger Amal: “I’m leaving.”
Nick: “You could use a break.”
Younger Amal: “I said I’m leaving.” Amal: “I said you’re leaving.”
Nick: “Good.” Janine: “Good.”
Younger Amal: “No, Nick, I want a divorce.”
Amal: “And what about me?”

The direction by Kareem Fahmy keeps the action moving smoothly  between decades. At times Amal remains onstage, as an observer, while her younger self and Nick interact. In one touching scene she “feels” Nick holding and whispering to her, as if she were the younger Amal, with the younger Amal standing just to the side, also experiencing Nick. 

Ahmad Maksoud dexterously plays multiple characters, including an Egyptian shopkeeper; Amal’s son, Hatem; and Janine’s younger love interest, Tom. Together, the cast brings the story of This Time to life using English, Arabic, and French. Their accents are delicious. 

Designer David Esler’s set of a house in Toronto circa 1990s transitions easily to an apartment in Cairo roughly 30 years earlier. The Toronto house is split-level with a dining room, kitchen doorway, and entry hall, stairs to a second floor, and a sunken living room. Employing five panels, scenic backgrounds transition from the skyline of Egypt to the coast of Rhode Island and winter in Toronto, gently helping to delineate location and time. 

The settings are enhanced by the sound design of Mark van Hare, from the opening sound of Edith Piaf modulating from house music to the distinct sounds of a phonograph playing in the living room. The costumes designed by Sarafina Bush are bold and smart.

Two quibbles. First, although the lighting by Scott Bolman is generally quite effective, it sometimes results in actors’ obscuring one another in shadow. It may be the result of a lack of technical rehearsal, but it can be distracting. Second, the end of the play is abrupt. The ever-giving Janine, whose children have grown and whose husband has gone, is at odds with her purpose in the world. “This is supposed to be my time,” she cries. “What the hell do I need?” The end is meant to feel generational, almost as if passing a baton from a strong woman to another strong woman; Nick’s presence is a distraction.

Too often, it seems, modern playwrights are challenged with creating a strong enough arc to engage an audience for two acts, instead relying on one long act. That is not the case with This Time. Greene’s storytelling is compelling and fresh, with engaging narratives. Piaf may have said it best, though: “As you leave, I can say, no, we will have no regrets.”

This Time is playing through May 21 at The Sheen Center’s Black Box Theater (18 Bleecker St. between Mott and Elizabeth streets). B/D/F/M trains to Broadway/Lafayette stop. For more information and tickets, contact The Sheen Center or visit sheencenter.org.

The Secret's Out

Gorey: The Secret Lives of Edward Gorey is a delicious observation of a well-lived, if secret, life that is easily enjoyable even if one hasn’t heard of the subject. A writer, illustrator, and animator who is best known for his macabre cartoon books for children, such as The Doubtful Guest and The Unstrung Harp, and the opening graveyard credits of the PBS series Mystery!, Gorey left a treasure trove of ephemera and memorabilia when he passed away in 2000. Drawing from 1,074 items in Gorey’s home, writer and director Travis Russ has crafted an engaging script, assembled a trio of charming and vibrant actors and a production team that bring to life a vision of the artist, brimming with creativity. 

Phil Gillen, Aidan Sank, and Andrew Dawson play Gorey at three stages of his life: in his early 20s after college, in his late 30s, and just before his death, in his mid-70s. They interact easily with one another and occasionally break the fourth wall to address the audience. Although the dialogue carries an undercurrent of “What would you tell your younger self?” it has much more to it.

In one instance, it’s clear the older Gorey (Dawson) knows the answers to the younger Gorey’s query but won’t say, leaving the younger version (Gillen) visibly shaken. In the moments where the older Gorey relives events from earlier days, Dawson shines. Sank, the middle-aged Gorey, delves into the collection of vintage postcards of dead children with curiosity and deference. What is unique about the actors is that all three share similarities, including mannerisms and inflections. However, each delivers the attributes of the character in keeping with his period of Gorey’s life.

Russ and Carl Vorwerk, who designed the set, fill the intimate space with memorabilia, creating an atmosphere in keeping with Gorey’s collecting habits. Three tall, open-shelving units are filled with leather traveling cases, LPs (including Balanchine, a Gorey favorite), a Harvard scarf, and a myriad of notebooks. The back wall is complete with hundreds of 8½” x 11 sheets of paper with Gorey’s drawings and writings.

Lighting and projection designer John Narun uses the wall  to display videos including a clever projection where the elder Gorey “climbs” into a white frame and draws moving characters on the wall. Narun’s lighting is brilliantly crisp and dramatic. At times it is so striking that, when Gillen and Sank are seated around the writing table, their shadows on the back wall subtly appear to move in and out from a single person. Sound designer Emma Wilk with music arrangement by Chad Stoffel have an absolutely blast with an old phonograph using music from the 1940s as well as creative sound effects, in particular for the 8mm film projection.

 

Gorey was known for his passion for cats, and in his later years wrote puppet shows complete with libretto. In homage, Russ writes for the elder Gorey: “I’m currently working on Madama Butterfly. It’s just community theater, but it fills the days. Now, I must warn you, this is not your standard, traditional Madama Butterfly. It is a modern—slightly bastardized—version. Very pastiche.” He goes on to say that the part of Madama Butterfly is played by a homeless Abyssinian cat, here created by puppetry designer Elizabeth Ostler and manipulated by Gillen and Sank.

There is a moment or two near the end where Gorey falters and seems unsure where it should end. The scenes and transitions linger a little too long, and it’s evident that the play is winding down, but when? Having used a voice-over interview previously, the use of it again seemed redundant for the finale.

For the greater part of the evening, Gorey is smart and cleverly crafted from the things the quixotic artist left behind. Gillen, Sank, and Dawson make the absolute most with the great material provided, as well as one another, in a well-equipped playground. Even seated with their backs to a third of the house, they never forget the audience, engaging them at every turn. The young Gorey enjoys one of the best lines, “You know, my friend Ted Shawn, the choreographer—he used to say, “When in doubt, twirl.” Gorey never has to resort to twirling.

Gorey: The Secret Lives of Edward Gorey is playing at HERE, 145 Avenue of the Americas through May 22. (Entrance is on Dominick Street one block south of Spring Street.). Take C/E trains to Spring Street stop. Tickets are $18, For more Information and tickets, visit  www.LifeJacketTheatre.org or here.org, or call 212-352-3101. 

Bringing Home the Bread

Six men who work in a bread factory call themselves “bread plant operatives,” a glamorous, James Bondian phrase to describe a life of working-class burden, in Richard Bean’s Toast. First staged in 1999 and now revived at 59E59 Theaters as part of Brits Off-Broadway, with Snapdragon Productions, Bean’s freshman play is littered with such comeuppances to the class divisions inherent in British society. Its main players are blue-collar breadwinners (and bread-makers) who live paycheck to paycheck; they are given to cursing creatively, and often, about their jobs, their wages and their “lasses.” Bread isn’t the only thing that’s baking in Toast; director Eleanor Rhode imbues nervous energy into a production that proves both raucously entertaining and moving. 

It’s the 1970s, and a side-burned Blakey (Steve Nicolson), the foreman at the Rosedale Street Bakehouse, is clocking in. In the canteen, he (obviously) makes himself a cup of tea, before grudgingly greeting Colin (Will Barton), a harrumphing, middle-aged man with strike wages to complain about. Three other players also enter: Peter (Matt Sutton), a talkative young man with an ambitious itch; Cecil (Simon Greenall), an ever-smiling, avuncular bread-maker and Dezzie (Kieran Knowles), a former ship’s deckhand with a new home, and incidentally, a loving wife who takes hot-water baths—a luxury in their lives. Lumbering through these life-threads is Nellie (Matthew Kelly), a bread mixer at the factory for 30 years and the type of man who works ceaselessly and unquestioningly till senescence overtakes him. 

At the behest of his (unseen, yet somehow still present) boss Mr. Beckett, Blakey takes a student called Lance (John Wark) under his wing. Immediately out of place in his tweed jacket and crisp, affable accent, Lance is an outsider in the blue-collar bubble of the bread factory. We, like Lance, slowly grow accustomed to the spirited slang of Northern English accents: “‘Kinell!” “Are you pulling my plonker?” He might as well be from another country, as the audience is, and still feel the same rift in social connection. The other workers immediately nickname him “Sir Lancelot.” But in due course, Lance begins to tease and pull at Toast’s existential strings; class conflict is negated in the face of wanting to live a meaningful life, it seems. 

All are worried, some violently so, that the factory’s central oven will break down and put them all out of work. When a tin inside the oven gets jammed, tempers flare and panic sets in. It’s indicative of the weight and salience these men afford their jobs. To say that Nellie’s work is his life seems a conflation of identities—his life’s work is baking bread. His legacy is baking bread. A threat to their labor, which shares so intimate a friendship with life for these characters, is tantamount to sacrilege. “The bakehouse is my church,” says Blakey, for there is no other arena of life that exists so dependably, and so religiously, as his work at the bread factory. 

Unsurprisingly, Bean’s particular brand of screwball satire, most famously shown in One Man, Two Guv’nors, is found only in shades here. Peter and Cecil carry on a balls-grabbing competition; Blakey gives his crotch a great deal of unconscious comic readjustment as well. Yet for all of Toast’s good humor, farce gives way to a darkly spiritual kitchen-sink drama.

Rhode’s trump card is Matthew Kelly’s devastatingly haunting portrayal of Nellie, the ever-laboring, broken yes-man. Arms varicose with dermatitis and lungs heaving with cigarette smoke, Nellie’s monosyllabic dialogue leaves plenty of room for an actor of Kelly’s ability to indulge in invention, and he does not disappoint. Even Kelly’s deadpan stares take on uncomfortable, survivalist meaning. Is his reticence keeping him sane as he mixes bread day in and day out, year after year? John Wark’s Lance is a chattering antithesis of sorts to Nellie’s silence, yet has the most trouble keeping his wits about him as the play proceeds. 

The fairly stifling vacuum of factory life, so apparent in the nervous, chaotic conversations of the characters, is almost nonexistent in the physical space that Toast occupies. Set designer James Turner has made the canteen a blinding white and pastel blue; stark white light bathes the canteen (Mike Robertson is the lighting designer) almost constantly. Swinging doors lead out towards the factory, while a Max Pappenheim’s constant soundtrack of grinding machinery plays behind each performance. Holly Rose Henshaw has provided appropriately understated clothes that affirm the greatest concern of the characters: their job. 

But spread on every open surface is a fine film of white flour. It sticks to the walls, on door handles and the forearms of the workers—it is the non-erasable costume that the characters wear, reminders of their station. Matt Sutton’s Peter hastily wipes every chair before sitting down on it, but it manages to stick to his bell-bottomed jeans all the same. 

Richard Bean’s Toast runs in the Brits Off Broadway festival at 59E59 Theaters (59 East 59^th St., between Park and Madison avenues) through May 22. Evening performances are at 7 p.m. Tuesday through Thursday at 7 p.m. and at 8 p.m. Friday and Saturday; matinees are at 2 p.m. Saturday and 3 p.m. Sunday. Tickets are $70. To purchase them, call Ticket Central at (212) 279-4200 or visit www.59e59.org.  

Sins of the Past

Scottish playwright Sharman Macdonald’s When I Was a Girl I Used To Scream and Shout, directed by John Keating, at the Clurman Theater, captures the tensions that often exist between parents and children. In this case, the play centers on a mother’s attempt to reconcile with her daughter. Morag (pronounced “MORE-ag”), played primly with repressed exuberance by Aedin Moloney, treats her daughter, Fiona, to a seaside holiday on the Scottish coast—to the town where they once lived.

Morag has a difficult time connecting with Fiona, who, at 32, is childless and unmarried. Morag is upset that Fiona hasn’t given her any grandchildren and tells her that “every woman needs to have a child” and, later, “a woman’s body is a clock that runs down rapidly.” Fiona, played by Barrie Kreinik with the needed detachment that comes from a childhood of disappointment, is also a vegetarian, a lifestyle choice that her mother understands as little as her marriage and childless state. In John Keating’s production, Luke Hegel Cantarella’s simple set allows rapid scene changes between the past divisions and the present encounter of the two women. The whole is enhanced by the lilting music of Paddy Moloney of the Chieftains.

Morag talks a blue streak and, as Fiona says, “cares passionately about everything: life and a ham sandwich.” Morag has packed not only tea in a thermos, but coffee and a picnic basket full of sandwiches and other goodies. Morag is clearly prepared for the activities that people undertake in life, but not really for life itself. She has believed so firmly in the traditional institution of marriage that it led her to make choices that deeply affected Fiona. Five years after Fiona’s father left, she finally met a new man whose work will take him to the Middle East. Morag makes arrangements for Fiona to live with the family of her best friend, Vari, played with spunk by Zoe Watkins. But Fiona wants her mother to stay. After all, she’s only 15.

Morag, however, chooses the new man over her daughter, and while she’s making plans to leave, Fiona is looking for ways to make her stay. She finds what she thinks is a surefire solution: getting pregnant. Having explored her sexuality with Vari, Fiona lures Ewan (Colby Howell), a winsome boy a few years older than her, and one whom Vari had let kiss and fondle her, to the beach and tells him she’s ready to have sex. He’s eager to lose his virginity so willingly gives in. Fiona gets pregnant as a result of that encounter, but the plan backfires, and her mother still goes off with her new husband. It’s a bitter pill to swallow, and Fiona’s sadness over her past abandonment engulfs her. We see why Fiona’s mother wants to reconcile with her daughter, but it’s very hard for people to change. Morag only knows one way: her way. Her ideas about life hang in delicate balance. If she didn’t believe in what she had done—choosing a husband (a man) over her daughter—life probably would have broken her.

In comparison to Fiona’s childhood friend Vari, who has let herself become fat as a result of an unsatisfying marriage and three children, Fiona is thin and independent. Vari calls Fiona a “privileged feminist.” However, in reality Fiona is haunted by the ghosts of the past. She carries her confusion and resentment silently into the present. At the end of the play, when her mother begs her to talk to her, Fiona sits stonily beside her, but the fight is gone. Perhaps the barriers of contention have finally been torn down on this seaside excursion. At least, the vision of the three women eating a soft ice cream and sharing a shot of whiskey indicates a ray of hope that the wounds of the past and the relationship between mother and daughter will eventually be repaired. 

Fallen Angel Theatre Company's production of When I Was a Girl I Used to Scream and Shout is playing through May 8 at the Clurman Theatre on Theater Row (410 W. 42nd St. between Ninth Avenue and Dyer Street). Evening performances are at 8 p.m. Wednesday through Saturday; matinees are at 2 p.m. Saturday and 3 p.m. Sunday. Tickets are $46.25; for more information visit fallenangeltheatre.org or telecharge.com. 

Loss Takes On Many Forms

Holding on to the past can weigh upon a family. In her first play, Keep, Francesca Pazniokas explores how the emotional weight of a missing woman burdens her three sisters. Keep is inspired by her years of struggling to mask an addiction to hoarding. The production centers on a young hoarder, Naomi (Kim Krane), and her older sisters, Jane (Madison Comerzan) and Kara (Jenna D'Angelo). As Jane and Kara attempt to clean Naomi’s cramped apartment, they learn about what happened to their sister, Margo (Leslie Marseglia), who disappeared some years earlier. No, Jane and Kara do not find Margo’s decaying body underneath Naomi’s rug. Instead, they discover how disconnected their sisterhood has become.

Naomi does not sleep much and spends most of her time within a small area of her apartment, surrounded by junk and next to her filthy mattress. Jane and Kara arrive, and the three women blend together. They give bland first impressions as characters and are not easily distinguishable. Shortly after, Jane is revealed as more than a doting, artificial suburbanite who affectionately calls Naomi “Nooni”; she’s a lesbian who is in a relationship with a psychiatrist. Kara takes on a reckless and commanding leadership role and demands that the apartment be cleaned. Meekly, Naomi follows along with uncluttering her apartment and goes in and out of spouting incoherent passages like, “A rabbit, I think. A rabbit kicks a clot of blood and it–or someone boils it. I’m trying to remember. I think it was a rabbit.”

What doesn’t ring true is the sense of an actual intervention like those shown on an episode of A&E’s addictive television show Hoarders. The twist that is offered in Keep does not cure Naomi of her hoarding disorder. Other disorders like attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder (ADHD), obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD), obsessive-compulsive personality disorder (OCPD) and depression can be associated with hoarding. It is ambiguous if Naomi is struggling with any of these associated disorders or if she is just schizophrenic or bipolar. Hoarders are likely to be more guarded and attached to their items than Naomi’s passive nature indicates, and so Naomi’s hoarding disorder lacks some credibility. Although director Stephanie C. Cunningham brings out the sense of loss the sister feel, perhaps she could have urged bolder character choices.

The play is supposed to take place somewhere along the East Coast during the transition from winter to spring, but this is also ambiguous. Set designer Alfred Schatz creates a hoarder’s haven, with stacks of unpacked moving boxes, piles of old mail, and random pieces of furniture. It is like an antique store that has been turned into a storage unit. The set becomes enchanting after Margo appears, when lighting designer Cate DiGirolamo transforms the ceiling into a sparkling starry night.

The storytelling techniques used to show how these three sisters deal with the loss of Margo is the real value of this 80-minute production. Though they start out seeming indistinguishable, it becomes clear that Naomi lives in the past, Kara lives in the present, and Jane lives in the future. The distance between the three of them also brings them together because the separation reminds them of the intimacy they all once shared. Only Naomi really knows what happened to Margo, but, through the help of Jane and Kara, Naomi eventually reveals the truth.

Although simple and subtle, the play lands like a character study, without strong motivations from the characters. Because the characters do not coherently or explicitly stand for something, it is the plot that eventually moves the discussion forward. Pazniokas aims to dive deep into America’s “disposable society” and the value of human life, but lands somewhere between vaguely characterizing mental illness and grief.

The production is more successful at conveying how young women cope with isolation and alienation. The sisters’ disconnection is not due to modern technology or even mental illness in Keep, but because these characters have withheld who they really are from one another for so many years. The bonds of sisterhood began disintegrating after Margo left; the absent sister is the only one who frees herself of this burden but is unsuccessful at transforming her sisters—and this is where the true divide lives. Keep reminds theatergoers that the affinity shared between sisters can be powerful and ephemeral.

Keep runs until April 30 at the TGB Theatre (312 West 36 St., between 8th and 9th avenues) in Manhattan. Evening performances are at 8 p.m. Thursday through Saturday; there is an additional performance on April 27 at 8 p.m. There are no matinees. Tickets cost $18. To purchase tickets, call 800-411-8881 or visit BrownPaperTickets.com.

Breaking Gender Barriers in ‘Shrew’

New York theater is known for challenging the status quo, and  that is what the Queen’s Company is all about—breaking down barriers by creating gender-blind performances of the classics and reaching out to a broader, more diverse community in its perspective on those classics, in particular Shakespeare. Artistic director Rebecca Patterson’s vision shows she understands that Shakespeare transcends time and place. His characters represent all of humanity and hit at a deeper core—the truly humane one. Because every actor was cast according to how her personality fit the role, not according to gender, the production is an organic ensemble theatrical experience.

Patterson, a Lucille Lortel Award winner, is an actor’s director. Every moment in the play was active, honest and alive with brilliance. Having the role of Bianca played by the lovely Sweetie Doll (a blow-up sex doll) was a hysterically funny touch. In that single choice, Patterson shows one of the most important themes of the play—women’s oppression by men’s control of sexuality. Choices in music that fit key moments of the performance further heighten that theme and the emotional tension of this famous love story. Particularly funny yet thought-provoking was the pantomime of a Tina Turner song performed by Petruchio’s motley servants, led by Ashley Samona Baker as Grumio. As they perform, Katharina fights her shrewish instincts to be right. The lyrics and their playful performance reveal the inner conflict of that moment when Kate breaks and realizes she is fighting a losing battle.

The cast is perfect. The entire ensemble deserves praise for playing multiple roles with ease. Elizabeth Preston as Petruchio was spot on. Catherine Dalton as Hortensio was delightful in her Brant Russell physicality. Their playful interaction was reminiscent of Orlando Bloom and Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean. But Preston was no overacting pirate; she was more like Depp in Chocolat—sexy, sensitive, cool. She captured Petruchio’s arrogance and willfulness, but also his vulnerability. Preston reveals Petruchio’s genuine respect and interest in Katharina when Petruchio reflects on how Katharina aggressively deals with Hortensio as the ill-fated music instructor: “Now, by the world, it is a lusty wench. I love her ten times more than e'er I did.” Preston’s performance breaks the gender barriers, yet nothing is overstated or falsely posed. In her direction, Patterson has shown the true meaning of Petruchio and Katharina’s relationship—they represent all the nuances of falling in love and giving oneself over completely to another.

Tiffany Abercrombie is a stoic Katharina, creating a mother of the modern woman. The chemistry between Petruchio and Katharina is crucial to this play, and these two sensual interpretations reveal perhaps a more honest point Shakespeare was making—that love is not a prideful battle but a partnership made from love and respect. Under Patterson’s thoughtful direction, Abercrombie’s heartfelt confession as Katharina, as she infamously reprimands women, becomes more a proclamation of true love. And Petruchio’s response becomes that of a repentant faithful lover.

Their final kiss truly is a declaration of respectful love. It no longer is an issue of man’s will against woman’s but more about how wonderful love can be when it is with the mate who is a perfect match. Patterson’s interpretation gives Shakespeare’s play a fairy-tale ending of renewed faith in love, not a battle of wills and submission.

The set, lighting and costuming were simple and basic, with a dance of colors rich with textured fabrics of wool, fur, and velvet fully enhancing the raw beauty of the time and place of this wonderful play. Muted blue lighting against the brown wools and furs for the servants, the burgundy velvet for Baptista, and the bold red lace for Katharina mirrored the emotions of the characters but also reflected the barriers of caste and class.

Patterson’s talented entourage of technical artists worked seamlessly within her artistic vision. Set designer Angelica Borrero, lighting designer Alberto Ruiz, costume designer Elizabeth Flores and sound designer Beth Lake created an atmosphere that set the tone and playful mood of this timeless story. Patterson and her troupe really honored Shakespeare and all he represents in theatrical history. For Shakespeare lovers, this is a must-see production.

The Queen’s Company’s The Taming of the Shrew runs through May 1 at the Wild Project (195 East 3rd St., between Avenues A and B). Performances are at 8 p.m. Tuesday through Saturday and at 3 p.m. on Sunday. Tickets are available by calling (866) 811-4111. Tickets are 2-for-1 on Tuesday nights. For information, visit http://QueensCompany.org.

Ancient Cradle of Rationalism

The pleasures come out of left field in Nathan the Wise, a 1787 play by Gotthold Ephraim Lessing that most theater aficionados would not expect to see staged—if they had ever heard of it. Even Lessing never saw it produced; the original production, after his death in 1781, flopped. Schiller revised it for a successful 1801 production, and Goethe acclaimed it, and if not for the championship of those two great playwrights, it might still be gathering dust in a library in Deutschland. So artistic director Brian Kulick deserves kudos for choosing this rarity as his valedictory production before handing the reins of Classic Stage Company to John Doyle.

Lessing’s original runs more than four-and-a-half hours, according to adaptor/translator Edward Kemp, who has rendered the verse into prose and made massive cuts. What’s left still reflects Lessing’s Enlightenment respect for Judaism, Christianity and Islam. The conflict of the three great religions is interwoven in Lessing’s plot, which rests on coincidences, but ones that are unforeseen, for the most part.

Lessing’s story involves Nathan (F. Murray Abraham), a kindhearted Jewish merchant living under the rule of Saladin in 1192, after the Sultan has driven out the Crusaders. He has just returned from a trip to buy goods. During his absence, his daughter, Rachel (Erin Neufer), was rescued from a fire by a Knight Templar (for film buffs, the Knights Templar are the same guys who fashioned a falcon on Malta a few centuries later).

The knight, Conrad, was walking the streets after being released from prison by a merciful Saladin (Austin Durant). The Templar, a rarity now that the Crusaders have been driven out, finds himself attracted to Rachel. Meanwhile, Saladin’s unexpected mercy to the Christian soldier is rumored to be due only to Conrad’s resemblance to the Sultan’s brother Assad, who disappeared years earlier. (Lean and pale, Stark Sands doesn’t resemble anyone Middle Eastern, so whatever resemblance one is expected to embrace is a stretch.)

For his part, Nathan is married to a Christian woman, Daya, who was born in Europe and apparently maintains her religion while married to Nathan, although Rachel has been raised as a Jew. Other characters include Saladin’s sister, Sittah (Shiva Kalaiselvan), who keeps her brother company and bails him out financially from the cost of his wars, although he is close to bankrupt and needs to borrow from Nathan. Lastly, there’s a dervish who has become Saladin’s treasurer and has seen how the sultan’s wars have drained the country’s coffers.

Tony Straiges’s simple décor of Oriental rugs, a chessboard and camp chairs for the characters evokes Jerusalem in 1192, shortly after Richard the Lionheart has departed. Indeed, Saladin’s sister Sittah was once considered a possible mate for Richard’s brother Prince John, the same Prince John who persecuted Robin Hood and later signed the Magna Carta—but those are other stories.

Still, Kulick maintains the atmosphere of a fable as Lessing's Enlightenment rationalism shows a society in which characters of different religions figure out how to live in relative harmony. A projection of bombed-out clay homes in the Middle East, with satellite dishes and telephone lines, overlain at times by Arabic script, provides some connective tissue to modern strife, and the characters, though dressed in gorgeous robes—the Jews’ have Hebrew lettering—occasionally appear with modern clothes. But the contemporary touches are subtle, and there’s a gentle, friendly atmosphere. All the characters are so good that it’s just a tad dull. By intermission one questions where the conflict is.

The second half provides it, as Conrad, whose roots are in Swabia, a district of Germany, learns Rachel was born Christian; his heathen-hating Crusader instincts kick in. Danger increases after Conrad approaches an old priest (John Christopher Jones) with a hypothetical situation—Jew raises Christian girl—to seek guidance, but the priest reports him to the patriarch, and Conrad is called on the oriental carpet, as it were. The patriarch wants him to assassinate Saladin, who has learned of Conrad’s relationship to Rachel and has also been befriended by Nathan, who wants to lend him money.

How it all plays out is unexpected, although the twists may become apparent shortly before they occur. But there’s such a pleasant atmosphere of idealism, respect and generosity that one comes away delighted by its virtues.

Brian Kulick’s farewell production, Nathan the Wise, plays at Classic Stage Company (138 E. 13^th St. between Third and Fourth Avenues) through May 1. Evening performances are at 7 p.m. Tuesday through Thursday and 8 p.m. Friday and Saturday. Matinees are at 2 p.m. Saturday and 3 p.m. Sunday. For ticket information, call (212) 352-3101 or visit classicstage.org.

Henry IV, Parts 1 and 2

Shakespeare’s two plays that focus on the reign of King Henry IV are a panoramic view of medieval life. The historical portions, which occur early in the 1400s, take on the question of a monarch’s duty to his country, not least of which is preparing the heir to take over. Ignoring his father’s complaints, Prince Hal (Alex Hassell), Henry’s heir, fritters away his time with lowlifes, notably Falstaff, the fat, rascally knight who is one of Shakespeare’s great creations. The political maneuvering of nobles in rebellion also shapes the narrative about high-born responsibility, leadership and compassion.

Matthew Needham plays Hotspur in Henry IV, Part 1. Top (from left): Antony Sher as Falstaff, Sam Marks as Poins, and Alex Hassell as Prince Hal.

Yet in the tavern scenes and, in Part 2, the country scenes with Justice Shallow and Silence that involve conscription of men for war, the life of the common man is portrayed, more closely reflecting Shakespeare’s own time. From the king down to the lowest conscriptee, the plays provide a broad view of issues that touched Queen Elizabeth I and her subjects.

As Henry IV, Part 1 opens, the king (Jasper Britton) announces plans for a crusade to Jerusalem to retake the city from the Saracens—something he promised in his last speech in Richard II, the chronological predecessor (and also part of the RSC’s visit to the Brooklyn Academy of Music). Quickly, however, Henry is advised of rebels gathering against him: the Earl of Northumberland (Sean Chapman), a former ally in deposing Richard II; his brother, the Earl of Worcester (Antony Byrne); Northumberland’s son, and Lady Percy’s brother, Lord Mortimer (Robert Gilbert). Chief among them, though, is Matthew Needham’s stunningly good Hotspur, a fierce, intemperate warrior whose skill at arms is set against the dissipated life of Prince Hal (Alex Hassell). The trip to the Holy Land must be postponed.

Falstaff, the surrogate father to Hal, is embodied by Antony Sher, a great actor who has nevertheless seldom tackled comedy. Anyone who has seen him in classical roles (Massinger’s The Roman Actor, Marlowe’s Tamburlaine, Marston’s The Malcontent) knows he is a master of the language and a powerful stage presence. As Falstaff, though, something is not quite right. Sher growls a lot to sound dissipated and lumbers around to seem overweight. He can nail the wit, but one has the impression of someone giving a grand performance (and Falstaff is an actor at heart) but not completely inhabiting the character. He’s great fun to watch, but his roistering as Falstaff doesn’t feel natural. Yet there are splendid moments: when he’s trying to connect with his cronies in the darkness on Gad’s Hill to rob some pilgrims, he comes on, stepping slowly and whispering loudly, “Poins? Poins?” to find his compatriot.

Needham (right) with Jasper Britton as King Henry IV. Photographs by Richard Termine.

In a similar way Hassell is not totally persuasive as Hal. Frivolity and callowness don’t sit naturally on him, but as he assumes the gravitas required of a future king, he becomes more persuasive. He gives the speeches clearly but, perhaps because he’s the centerpiece of three plays, there are times when they’re closer to masterly recitation than insightful characterization.

In Part 1, however, Britton, overshadowed in Richard II by David Tennant’s terrific performance, comes into his own as Henry, the usurping king who struggles with his son’s wastrel ways. His halting first lines, “So shaken as we are, so wan with care,” present a royal whose voice literally trembles. And news of Hotspur’s valor against rebels brings joy until his counselor Westmoreland remarks, “It is a conquest for a prince to boast of”—pointing up that Hal should have been leading the victory. The haunted Henry’s grappling with his son’s fecklessness is an important through line for both parts. Part 2, however, also affords Hassell the opportunity to navigate from Hal’s callowness to something that fits the actor better: nobility and valor.

Looser than Part 1, Henry IV, Part 2 also lacks Hotspur. Moreover, the lower-class scenes in it prove a slog. One problem is that Antony Byrne’s Pistol, a swaggering braggart soldier, is a type that may have been funny 400 years ago but grates now. Made up as a yob, with thick black mascara under his eyes and a braid, and dressed in a punkish leather outfit by Stephanie Arditti, he is a tedious figure, offsetting Falstaff’s raillery. Thus, much of the first half of Part 2 is an ordeal, redeemed after intermission by Oliver Ford Davies’ hilarious Justice Shallow, paired with Jim Hooper’s wide-eyed, perplexed Silence.

Hassell as Hal banters with Sher as Falstaff.

But the most memorable scenes are those with Hotspur. “I can call spirits from the vasty deep,” says Joshua Richards’s Gandalfian Welshman, Owen Glendower, a behemoth in skins and long gray beard, and Hotspur’s in-law. To which Hotspur replies: “Why, so can I, or so can any man/But will they come when you do call for them?” And his scenes with his wife (Jennifer Kirby) are both touching and frustrating; though in love, each tries to connect emotionally with the other and doesn’t always succeed. Other standouts are Sam Marks’s vital Poins and Richards (again) as a red-nosed, dryly comic Bardolph, one of Falstaff’s cronies.

The plays are rich with smart business by director Gregory Doran. With Hotspur on a tear, his father, Northumberland, grabs him by the scruff of his neck and forces him to his knees. Some extended comic business with the serving-boy Francis plays beautifully (and sets up a cameo for Henry V). One clumsy interpolation, however, is Doran’s opening Part 2 with Rumour (Byrne) coming on in modern clothes against a field of projections of #Rumour. It may be intended to parallel gossip on the Internet, but it’s a jarring moment.

Though the first part is the stronger play, together the pair are an indispensable challenge that any lover of Shakespeare’s work will want to experience. They aren’t often done together, and this is an opportunity to hear verse-speaking of a high order and experience outstanding, if not flawless, productions.

The Royal Shakespeare Company’s Henry IV, Part 1 and Part 2 play in repertory with Richard II and Henry V through May 1 at BAM Harvey Theater (30 Lafayette Ave. between Ashland Place and St. Felix Street in Brooklyn). Tickets start at $35. Visit www.bam.org/theater for information.

Richard II

Gregory Doran’s production of Richard II at the Brooklyn Academy of Music is a thunderous start to “King and Country,” the umbrella title for Shakespeare’s histories of three consecutive kings, Richard II, Henry IV (in two parts) and Henry V, visiting from the Royal Shakespeare Company, where Doran is artistic director.

Perhaps “thunderous” is not the right word, since David Tennant’s Richard is never shown at war, but is a frivolous and arrogant ruler as the play opens. He holds himself imperiously aloof in the early scenes, clutching his orb and scepter, but Tennant also finds much humor in the flawed character. The play turns on family relationships, and in describing his cousin, Henry Bolingbroke, the actor terms him “my father’s brother’s son” with slight hesitation between the words, as if Richard is saying to himself, “I’ve got to get this tricky part right.”

Jasper Britton (left) is Henry Bolingbroke and Matthew Needham is his son, Harry Percy, aka Hotspur, in Richard II. Top: King Richard II (David Tennant, right) with Sam Marks as Aumerle.

In order to fund wars to subjugate the Irish, Richard plans to tax the rich. With Bolingbroke banished for feuding with another noble, and his father, John of Gaunt, dead, Richard seizes the inheritance that belongs to his cousin, and goes off to war, where he is unaware of a rebellion at home: Bolingbroke has returned from exile to claim his inheritance and is likely to depose Richard. At the center of the play is the issue of divine right: does the king rule as God’s representative on Earth? Is everything he does God’s will?

Doran plays up the notion of Richard as a divine figure with costume supervisor Stephanie Arditti’s white robe that gives Richard, with very long hair, the look of Christ. The language of Christianity is threaded throughout: “balm,” “water” and “Pilate.” In a climactic scene, Richard himself calls his eventual killer “Judas.” (It’s a key change from Shakespeare, where Richard is slain by Sir Piers Exton, an assassin; this murderer is closer to home.)

The other key relatives in Richard II besides the short-lived John of Gaunt (Julian Glover), who delivers the speech about “this earth, this realm, this England” thrillingly, are the Duke of York, the last of seven sons and also Richard’s uncle, and his son Aumerle (Sam Marks), who becomes Richard’s cousin-with-benefits in Doran’s reading—the homosexual subtext is more forthright here but not unheard-of. Oliver Ford Davies plays the Duke of York with a booming voice, by turns denouncing his nephew Bolingbroke and then backing off. Torn between believing the king is chosen by God, yet finding his regency while the king fights in Ireland is undermined by men with troops, he finally says, “I am neuter” in a great Shakespearean pun.

There is a brief appearance, too, by Harry Percy (Matthew Needham), who will become known as Hotspur by Henry IV, Part 1 and is already clearly a man of action and sinew, albeit a bit dim.

Britton (right) with Sean Chapman as Northumberland. Photographs by Richard Termine.

Richard II is all verse, and is spoken commandingly here. Tennant raises the pitch of his voice as the lightweight king. His delivery of “For God’s sake, let us sit upon the ground/And tell sad stories of the death of kings” is beautifully staged—his dwindled retinue all sit, although it’s clear their butts are unfamiliar with the Earth. When Richard then takes off his crown and contemplates it, the parallel of Hamlet looking at Yorick’s skull is unmistakable. (Some critics viewed Tennant’s Hamlet in 2008 as the best since Laurence Olivier’s; this New York debut is mandatory for anyone who regrets missing that.) The crown itself is used again when Tennant spars wittily and cleverly with Bolingbroke. He takes it off and holds it out to his side. “Seize the crown,” Richard tells Bolingbroke, and then, in the tone of coaxing a dog to fetch, “Heee-re, cousin.”

With the language on display, the primary feature of Stephen Brimson Lewis's set is a catwalk that descends at times for Richard’s court appearances; projections, including a white stag and a bloody moon, add color. Trios of trumpeters and plainsong singers in the side balconies provide considerable aural texture, while the smell of incense is an unexpected addition of medieval atmosphere along with Tim Mitchell’s tenebrous lighting.

Any quibbles are minor. Occasionally a character lowers a voice and a word or phrase is dropped. Leigh Quinn’s Queen is passionate and speaks clearly, but one wishes her power of projection were as strong as her acting.

Overall, though, Doran has created this 14th-century Shakespearean world with great precision, attending not just to Tennant’s towering performance, but to tiny moments: the forgetfulness of Jane Lapotaire’s Duchess of Gloucester, the dry joke cracked by a lady-in-waiting and the chilling prophesies from a minor character: “The pale-faced moon looks bloody on the earth/And lean-looked prophets whisper fearful change.” This Richard II is curtain-raiser to what promises to be a landmark visit.

The Royal Shakespeare Company’s Richard II plays in repertory with Henry IV, Parts 1 and 2, and Henry V, through April 21 at BAM Harvey Theater (30 Lafayette Ave. between Ashland Place and St. Felix Street in Brooklyn) through April 29. Tickets start at $35 and are currently on standby for this performance. Visit www.bam.org/theater/2016/richard-ii for information on availability or the day-ticket lottery.  

Crossing Into Madness

The filth, danger and enchantment of the South comes alive in Adam Rapp’s Wolf in the River and it all takes place around a fresh mound of earth with intoxicating purple flowers. The Man (Jack Ellis) is a shapechanger and he stands barefoot in the dirt, like he is on a soapbox, and counts each audience member one at a time. He is shirtless and holds his torso firmly as he moves around the room demonstrating his dominance. The shapechanger can supernaturally change from a man, to a wolf, and to a nasty, old woman named Dumptruck Lorna. The Wolf smells a pair of used panties from a canvas sack and examines a muddy sundress, cutoff jean shorts, sneakers and a cell phone. Ghoulish men and women known as the Lost Choir creep around the space and hide in the shadows. Suddenly, a distraught, young woman, Tana Weed (Kate Thulin), runs onto the stage naked, grabs the items and is attacked by the Wolf and Lost Choir.

The production explores Tana’s relationship with her apparent first love, Debo (Maki Borden)—a jovial young man from Benton, Illinois. Lighting designer Masha Tsimring uses the warm light from a worn fridge skillfully to create intimacy as Tana and Debo talk to each other over the phone. Scenic designer Arnulfo Maldonado constructs a psychotic background with black stick figures drawn across plywood walls and a thick rope looming over the stage. On a back wall hangs a picture of Jesus Christ with a green, plastic Christmas garland and red bow.

Tana also experiences a contrasting world of chaos and violence that is ran by Monty Mae Maloney (Xanthe Paige). Monty is a blood collector and uses a cane with an alligator head on top of it even though she walks perfectly well. She is also the girlfriend of Tana’s older brother, Dothan (William Apps). Dothan is a dishonorably discharged veteran who spends his time silently tinkering with electronic gadgets. Monty’s gang consists of Aikin (Karen Eilbacher) and Ansel Pinwood (Mike Swift), who goes by Pin. Aikin appears to be a masculine lesbian and eats the purple flowers to get high. Pin runs onto the stage half-naked with a printed copy of Miley Cyrus’ face taped to a blow-up doll. He has sex with the doll over the mound of dirt. Monty ensures that her crew have their intravenous medical ports working properly so that she can draw blood from them.

Theatergoers experience Tana’s worlds as though they are sitting right next to her, and this intimacy is the real value of this production. When Monty slams Tana’s head into the fridge, audience members might even get fake blood splattered on their clothes. The fresh soil from the center mound of earth and burning incense also brings a sense of smell to these worlds. Tana’s life is exposed, criticized and objectified. Nothing, including Tana’s virginity, is not left unjudged. Under Rapp’s direction, The Flea Theater’s resident volunteer acting company, The Bats, have these worlds come alive in raw form.

Rapp and the cast make bold choices and commit to them, but the challenge is having these choices payoff with theatergoers. The vulgarity in some of the scenes can create distance for theatergoers who are trying to relate to the characters and understand the storyline. It is awkward watching the Wolf engage with audience members when the audience is still just trying to figure out what is going on. The overall aim and vision can be unclear and other markets may not respond to this material.

At the same time there is so much depth to these characters that each of them could have their own play written about them. The issues are rooted more so in the characters and not the plot. Each character’s stand is like figments of Tana’s imagination. The violence, nudity and sexual situations do effectively show the characters’ vulnerability, desperation and fears–even when theatergoers have already seen enough.

Wolf in the River is recommended for theatergoers who want to be challenged and still have the patience to see what this production has to offer at the end. It is not recommended for those seeking a nicely woven and easy-to-swallow story. Thulin’s performance as Tana is solid and her ability to stay in character and be innocent while going through hell is very impressive. Tana’s hunched shoulders and bloody nose suggests that she is timid and defeated, but her determination to leave her hometown and run away with Debo stays present in her eyes. She is not a victim, but a survivor who hides her reality from Debo. The audience is the river and the Wolf says, “You go for miles and your current’s so strong this time a year that the people in this town string ropes across to help folks get to the other side.”

Wolf in the River runs until June 6 at The Flea Theater (41 White St. between Church Street and Broadway) in Manhattan. Evening performances are Monday and Thursday-Saturday at 7 p.m. and select matinee performances are Saturday at 1 p.m. and Sunday at 3 p.m. Tickets range from $20-$100. To purchase tickets, call 212-352-3101 or visit TheFlea.org.

Shards of Light

How many times has someone attempted to explain the "situation" in the Middle East? And, of those times, how many have felt one-sided? No matter how hard the best of us try, the reasoning often has a bent, a leaning toward one side or another. “It’s complicated,” after all. In Wrestling Jerusalem, Aaron Davidman presents 17 voices of men, women, Israelis, Palestinians, Brits, doctors, farmers, and rabbis, among others, in a manner that can be heard and understood with refreshing deference. His affinity for the material, as well as the struggle and heartbreak of people, is breathtaking.

As the playwright, Davidman has done his homework. “You might say it all started in 1948” or “You might go back to World War I,” he says, but wherever you might think he is leading you, it’s not where he’s going. Wrestling Jerusalem is in uncharted territory. Six Day War, Intifada, United Nations Resolution 181, Invasion of Lebanon, or the settlements: he unwraps the causes and the concerns, the politicians and the terror attacks with such deftness that he draws the audience into being concerned regardless of any predilection they had when they walked in. He causes one to care, to want to know more. “If, if, if, if, if, if,” he declares. If only this hadn’t happened or if that hadn’t occurred, things would be different, right? It’s the manner in which he constructs the inquiry that is at heart of his invitation to look deeper, practically challenging the audience not to care.

Davidman’s skill reaches well beyond his writing. His talent as an actor, adept at the nuance and complexities of characterization, is thoroughly engaging. Each of the 17 is based on people he has encountered in his attempt to understand the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, whether in North America or on his travels through Israel and Palestine. Like a chameleon he embodies the subtleties of Farah, a Palestinian woman in her 30s, or Professor Horowitz, a British man in his 50s, or Rabbi Moses, an American in his 60s. Davidman sings Yiddish songs from his days at children’s camp to the cherished “Shalom Aleichem.” He dances to folk songs from the homeland as Allen Willner’s lighting creates shadows around him. It is equally as powerful to observe him on the ground pushing invisible sand, as it is to viscerally feel his fear crossing the Israeli border into Palestine; he is that passionate.

The backdrop for this extraordinary experience is a beautiful, yet simple painted tarp along the back wall designed by Nephelie Andonyadis. At times it has the feeling of windswept sand and at others a ragged mountain range, depending on the lighting of Willner who colors the backdrop and space with rich oranges and yellows, or a vibrant blue, and then in an instant throws Davidman into the harsh, bright sunlight of the Ben Gurion tarmac. Bruno Louchouarn is responsible for original music and haunting sound effects. Credit for the keen direction of Wrestling Jerusalem goes to Cuban playwright and director Michael John Garcés. He brings a rich and varied background in community-focused plays, which is particularly evident in this production.

There are many profound and wrenching moments in the 90-minute Wrestling Jerusalem. Davidman’s character, Ibrahim, a Palestinian cries, “The only Israelis my children have known drive tanks, invade neighborhoods, intimidate their parents at checkpoints. The only Israelis I have known own the water trucks that deliver my water. My water.” His interaction with Rabbi Moses, who emphatically declares, “Adonai Echad does not mean there is only one God. Adoni Echad means God is One. What’s the difference? There’s a huge difference. God is One. One, not the number. One, the truth of indivisibility.”

All of which is extremely important in a landscape where people, politicians, and religion drive the conversation as to “who does the Holy Land belong to?”

“As the muezzin’s call to prayer floats out over the Wall,” Davidman tries to make sense of it all. “Please. You can hear the cry inside the cracks. Please, God, help me. Help us. The Wailing Wall holds the tears of generations.” His inquiry into the Middle East conflict may not answer any questions or even the ones everyone has come to expect, however he wrestles the word humanity into the bright light of day. “’And it’s the work of human beings,’” say the Kabbalists, “’to find those sparks, those fragments of goodness, and put them back together. It’s how we heal the world, they say.’”

Wrestling Jerusalem runs through April 17 at the 59E59 Theaters (59th between Madison and Park Avenues) in Manhattan. Evening performances are Tuesday through Thursday at 7:15 p.m. and Friday and Saturday at 8:15 p.m. Matinees are Sunday at 3:15 p.m. There is no late seating. Tickets cost $35. To purchase tickets, go to 59e59.org or visit TicketCentral.com.

Air Pump Wheezes

Anne Washburn’s perplexing Antlia Pneumatica takes its name from a constellation. In the 1750s, French astronomer Nicolas-Louis de Lacaille “pulled together leftover stars and made new constellations,” explains Adrian, a visitor to a remote Texas home. The astronomer named one of the constellations he created “the air pump,” known by its Latin name as Antlia Pneumatica. It’s one of the few fascinating points in Washburn’s meandering play.

Adrian is an unexpected guest at an isolated house in Texas Hill Country, where several people have gathered for a Big Chill-style reunion, although that isn’t immediately apparent. The hostess is Nina (Annie Parisse) and Adrian (Rob Campbell) is a lover of hers from 16 years earlier. Already present when Adrian pops in are Ula (Maria Striar), a frizzy-haired compatriot, and Liz (April Mathis), an African-American woman who is Nina’s sister. 

Subtitled “a play about place, space, grace,” Antlia Pneumatica is structured as a collection of scenes around a kitchen island, monologues, stories, recitations and audio conversations. Most of the latter involve Nina’s two children, who are 5 and 7, but there is a scene of a nighttime encounter of two of the adults that proves a red herring. During these voice-overs, for seemingly interminable stretches, the stage is dark. Although a note from the playwright extols the art of listening to rather than seeing a play, the scenes come off as a torturous radio show and may spur you to cancel your subscription to NPR.

Insofar as Washburn’s title has any parallel to the action, it seems to be that she has used bits and pieces and leftovers as the meat of her story, in the same way that Nicolas-Louis de Lacaille collected unused stars for his constellations.

The deceased friend is named Sean, and he lived in New York; most of the characters had lost touch with him following his downward spiral into alcoholism. Much is made of who is coming for the scattering of Sean’s ashes, and a viewer has to listen closely to realize that, as the play progresses, other characters have arrived besides the ones who are on stage. New cars belonging to new names are parked in the driveway. 

The conversations seem deliberately mundane and opaque, and although director Ken Rus Schmoll imparts a certain sporadic charge to them, and there’s a sense that the characters know one another so well they use shorthand to communicate, the effect is frequently to leave the listener at a loss.

A friend named Len (Nat DeWolf) arrives, full of stories about olden times for the children. One of them explains the origin of the term “bachelor.” Originally, he claims, “bachelors was the term for unattached men who would stumble from the brush and happen across a celebration and get invited in out of politeness... back then it was the polite term for a man who was really all but an animal.” If the speech has a point, it seems to be that man has only recently evolved from barbarity, that his time on earth is dwarfed by the stars. The prevalent mood is bewilderment: the lives shown are a random collection of half-memories and dreams. Yet a sense of flailing uncertainty and a rueful glance back at the wake of one’s life don’t carry the gravitas that one suspects Washburn wants.

When Len arrives carrying the ashes of Sean (earlier the character who was picking them up was a woman, but who knows what happened to her?), there’s talk about where to scatter him, and Nina even suggests baking a teaspoon into food they’d consume. This plot twist is not only unpalatable, but it has been done to death: the mistreatment of cremated remains in the theater is a Ph.D. thesis waiting to happen.

Late in the play, a friend named Bama arrives, and Crystal Finn brings an espresso shot of energy to the lethargic proceedings as a fast-talking Southern charmer. (Finn appears earlier in a scene with the others, all standing at the forestage and speaking directly to the audience; there’s no effort to explain who her character is or why she’s there and then disappears until the end.) A recollection from Bama sparks a story from Len that ends the drama on a supernatural note. The cast sings a song as the play peters out.

Washburn has a following and her work is produced regularly, but she also has skeptics. Obscure and unsatisfying, Antlia Pneumatica will give the latter plenty of reason to carp.

Anne Washburn’s Antlia Pneumatica runs through April 24 at Playwrights Horizons (416 W. 42^nd St. between 9th and 10th Aves. in Manhattan). Evening performances are at 7:30 p.m. on Wednesday-Saturday and at 7 p.m. on Sunday; matinees are at 2 p.m. on Saturday and Sunday. For tickets, call Ticket Central at 212-279-4200 or visit TicketCentral.com.