Rolling Along

There is an old saying: "In a world full of caterpillars, it takes balls to be a butterfly." If this is true, Bounce's founder and choreographer, Eva Dean, must have grown colorful wings and burst from a cocoon the day her dazzlingly imaginative production first premiered at the 2002 International Fringe Festival. Since then, this full-length dance piece featuring five talented young ladies, one extraordinary founder and choreographer, and a horde of assorted bouncing balls has really been on a roll. Currently playing at Midtown's Dance Theatre Workshop, Bounce opens with tiny balls whizzing back and forth across a black stage while changing in color and growing in size. Soon the little balls are replaced by large ocean-blue ones, which are quickly pursued by young ladies who throw their bodies upon them, rolling to the floor like waves crashing to the shore. They repeat this movement until the visualization becomes as calming and meditative as a real ocean's ripple.

From here, Bounce keeps its audience guessing by branching off into a variety of skits, each with its own unique characteristics, styles, and themes. One piece, called "Playground," stars three girls playing with their bright red balls. Two scheming bullies clad in preppie pastel colors approach with their polka-dotted ones. A fight then ensues to see who can collect the most balls, while a hapless child simply tries to hold on to one.

Another vignette, "Flowing Fountain," takes a more serious, artistic approach, concluding with a noiseless duet spotlighting dancers Eva Dean and Lauren Griffin as they create soothing, spellbinding imagery with tiny, florescent, red and green balls.

Despite the overwhelming number of things a person can do with a bouncy rubber ball, Bounce takes the unique approach of using them as partners rather than props. The balls are incorporated into the scenes and dances so fully that they appear to be coming alive and voluntarily joining the dancers to tell their story.

There is a shorter version of Bounce for young audience members, called Bounce Jr., although children present for the full-length performance appeared completely engaged. For any youngster wishing to become a dancer, this production is a must-see, and for those truly inspired, Eva Dean offers "Balls" Dance Technique classes at her Brooklyn rehearsal space, Union Street Dance. But potential students be warned: the graceful movements these dancers use to fly across the stage on the backs of balls cannot be nearly as effortless as they make them look.

Still, by the play's conclusion and final vignette, "Surfing" (premiering in this current production), even the most uncoordinated, arthritis-stricken members of the audience will secretly wish they could throw themselves with abandon on a line of three turquoise balls, gliding across them as a surfer would a wave. In this lead-up to the play's finale, the large turquoise balls appear in a steady stream from backstage, forming pairs and triplets as they roll toward the audience in perfect imitation of a gentle wave determined to reach shore. The dancers then leap stomach-first into the lineup and ride it until they are deposited safely on the floor. After this motion is repeated several times, the illusion of a surfer on an ocean wave is so vivid you can almost taste the saltwater.

Unfortunately for these talented, flexible dancers, they are outnumbered by their rubbery colleagues, who are not to be outdone at curtain call. Before the evening ends, six performers and more than a hundred eager balls in all colors and sizes will appear with a vengeance to take their bows. It is virtually impossible for anyone of any age to see this play without having (pun alert) an absolute ball.

Roman Times

There are differing opinions floating about concerning the value of the scores of theater festivals that pop up in New York every year. Based on the success stories from these events, it's clear that their strongest asset to the artistic community is in identifying promising new playwrights and composers. At the Midtown International Theater Festival, a theater company appropriately named Unartistically Frustrated is presenting End Caligula, a smart, funny new play by Sean Michael Welch. As with most festivals, performances are scheduled back to back, to the detriment of those who like their theater to start on time. (On this particular night, the show began 20 minutes after its listed start time.) The three-quarters-arena black box with the fire engine-red seating contained a few props and set pieces originating from recent times. It was clear that this take on the famously equine-philic Roman emperor would be transported to the modern day.

The story begins as a middle-aged senator, Chaerea, tries to convince younger senator Sabinus that action should be taken to overthrow the Emperor Caligula. Much fun is had in the back and forth between the men, as the literal-minded Sabinus dissects Chaerea's statements even as he struggles to understand them. There are no satisfyingly concrete reasons given for their dissatisfaction in Caligula as a leader, though there is talk about the outrageous ways he supposedly entertains his houseguests.

Indeed, even when the man himself is brought onstage (accompanied by an amusingly tough-talking female soldier), there is nothing evil or crazy about him. Perhaps the stories spread about him are the fictional work of his Uncle Claudius, the stuttering, softheaded historian who may not be as dim as he lets on.

When the senators present Claudius with Caligula's report on the war in Germany, the elder gentleman mentions his nephew's strange affection for his horse. Upon leaving, Chaerea and Sabinus encounter news reporter/gossip hound Apostolus, played here as an oversexed, short-skirted, TV anchor-coiffed dame. Fearing that she'll write about their assassination schemes, Sabinus reluctantly ponies up the pony rumor. (History can fill you in on the rest of the story.)

Ryan Blackwell (Sabinus) and Matt Scott (Chaerea) make a fine team as the funny man/straight man duo. They seem to enjoy a strong rapport and ably handle the tricky and copious dialogue. Jesse Sneddon's Caligula is an enigma, all cool affability without displaying enough madness or sanity so you can make up your mind about his capability. As Claudius, Offie Sherman does a shticky, stuttering clown act in public, but comes across much differently when he's alone writing in his journals.

The cross-gender casting of the soldier and Apostolus does not strain credibility. Still, while Katherine Harte underplays as the Secret Service-esque strongman, Heather Lasnier overdoes it in Apostolus's flirtatious pursuit of a story. It would've been interesting to see her use the "helpless female" approach, so plausible in the patriarchal times portrayed, to get what she wanted.

Playwright Welch's story employs an interesting revisionist history, giving enough back story without becoming a documentary, and enough clever wordplay without stopping the action. As directed by Stacee Mandeville, the cast is given lots of stage business, much of which earns its own laughs.

In a summer bursting with productions, the theater audience has a lot of choices in genre, location, and price range. At the same time, it's difficult to separate the wheat from the chaff. For people who like original, intelligent comedy, go for these grains.

Echoes of Protest

In "Subterranean Homesick Blues" Bob Dylan sings, "You don't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows" as a metaphor for impending cultural change. Taking their name from the song, the revolutionary Weathermen felt true change came from direct action. In 1969 and the early 70's they set up underground cells, declared war on the U.S., armed themselves with guns, and bombed their targets with improvised explosive devices. In Tom Peterson's timely and promising play, Peace Now, currently at the Midtown International Theater Festival, a Weatherman plans to wreak havoc after secretly infiltrating a group of students who take over a university's administration building. The play spans May 3-5, 1970, and includes a radio report on the infamous Kent State shootings on May 4, when four unarmed people were killed and nine injured.

Despite being one of the "members of a group of protesters who took over our university's administration building," Peterson shies away from labeling his show, which he also directed, a documentary. Indeed, it might be better considered a historical fiction: Peterson weaves personal experience, historical events, and dramatic situations into an intriguing composite of a 70's protest.

Unlike docudramas such as Execution of Justice and Gross Indecency that use discursive approaches, Peace Now is static and linear. The show focuses on the group dynamics among the protesters (and one injured veteran) who find themselves at a crossroads between patriotism and revolution. Peterson draws a convincing set of characters, among which we know there is a Weatherman hiding in wait for the right moment to push the protest into violent extremism.

In an attempt to convey the play's underpinnings and context, Peterson uses certain characters as messenger devices. Joel, a theater major (capably played by Michael C Maronna), gives a speech about the Weathermen and their history. Liberti, a quick-mouthed protester (passionately portrayed by Adrianne Rae-Rodgers), makes a compelling argument citing various wars and how she hates war but still loves the solider.

In some cases, too much information outweighs the dramatic situation, and Peterson's style slips into a prescription for an apathetic generation that faces similar issues but does nothing. Where he excels, however, is in the point-counterpoint arguments between characters. The former soldier Petrovich (a stoic Matthew Decapua) debates flag burning with protest leader Elaine (beautifully played by Cameron Blair), resulting in a richly written and well-acted conflict, one that is playing itself out again in today's courts.

In fact, Peace Now offers a wide range of clashing ideologies that have modern-day echoes. Each character brandishes his or her own form of patriotism, and the bonds or infighting this creates effectively drive the play (and the country) forward. The cast is very talented, with standouts including the impressively understated Frank Harts (as Alan, who supports the Black Panthers) and fresh-faced Kim Shaw (Susan, the doe-eyed freshman).

The set is simple: a desk and a chair and a back wall of windows that the cast uses to egg on the protest and the National Guardsmen accumulating outside. This figuratively places the audience in the administration building with the play's dissidents (a wishful choice perhaps?). One suggestion: If that wall functioned instead as a fourth wall and the actors faced out, it would allow audience to shift from perspective to perspective: from a protester to a National Guardsman, or from a student to an administrator.

With their unresolved dualism, Peterson's crafted dialogues paint an evocative portrait of 1970 and recall a time when dissent and patriotism were not mutually exclusive, as many believe today. With more development, Peace Now could become not only a distant voice from the past but surely an important beacon of the future.

See Peace Now's Web site for the performance schedule at www.peacenowplay.com.

Show People

Life in the arts, particularly in theater, can be glorious, uplifting, and life changing. Of course, with this high that blesses so many hopefuls also comes the potential for extreme disappointment, exploitation, and devastation. Theater and film are littered with stories about life in theater and film, and among the examples of the glittery rise and fall tale are A Chorus Line, Gypsy, Rent, A Star Is Born, and The Muppets Take Manhattan. Or, for another instance of this dramatic arc, see 21 Stories: A Broadway Tale, now at the Midtown International Theatre Festival. Written by G.W. Stevens, directed by Michael Berry, and co-starring Stevens and Marilyn Rising, 21 Stories is often appealing and sometimes touching. But it does little to improve upon the genre, filled as it is with navel-gazing artists.

Set in 1984, the play chronicles the experiences of two young people who move to New York City to pursue their dreams. Billy Youngblood, played by Stevens with a consistent look of wide-eyed hopefulness and a toothy half-smile, is a native of Yorkshire, England. Back home he was a popular football enthusiast, but in New York he is an aspiring Broadway dancer. Margaret Evans, played by Rising, is from Texas. Abandoned by her father at a young age after he instilled in her a love and talent for the piano, she runs away to New York to find her father and perhaps become a great pianist.

Both are living on the 21st floor of a Manhattan high-rise, and they become friends who support each other through their trials: Margaret's Vicatin addiction and Billy's relationship with a drug-abusing playboy.

The set is mostly decorated with two elements: impressionistic images of New York and an ensemble of dancers who create the ambience for most scenes. Mostly wordless throughout the show, the nine dancers rush onstage to create crowded city streets, a busy club scene, small pieces of big musicals, and unfriendly swarms of cattle-call auditioners.

The dancers' presence, and the way they engulf Billy and Margaret and enrich their environments, is one of the most engaging and remarkable elements in the production. And the fact that every Broadway song is lip-synced and no one ever sings (except Billy, who sings in spurts and usually just for emphasis) may be simply for convenience, but it also adds a ghostly quality to the ensemble.

Because those emotional, half-sung moments go to Billy, he clearly owns the show, even though 21 Stories is billed as a look at a "couple of misfits." Understandably, Stevens, one of the co-writers, spends more time examining his character, who (spoiler alert) by the end succumbs to the despair of having contracted AIDS from a callous lover and then kills him and himself. Margaret, who we learn through a brief hint has prostituted herself for Vicatin, also kills herself, apparently for no other reason than her failure to find her father and the fact that she didn't get into Juilliard.

Stevens, while unquestionably charismatic and energetic, becomes a bit of a one-trick pony, relying on his considerable charm and watery blue eyes to create a sympathetic character. And while Billy's story is interesting, it doesn't give enough new insight into the tragedy of AIDS (or into broken hearts and dreams) to sustain a two-person show. Anyone who saw the semi-autobiographical Jonathan Larson musical Tick, Tick

In and Out of Eden

The story of Adam and Eve

Behind Every Good King...

The old line about who invariably stands behind every good man is often quoted. But how often do we stop to ponder the reverse notion

Fallen Star

Frances Farmer was a movie actress from the 1930's and 40's, loved for her radiant natural beauty, admired for her powerful, passionate acting, but remembered and immortalized for her tragic, wasted life. Her violent fall from grace was engineered by her mother, supported by a communist-paranoid government, and justified by a gossip-hungry press. In Sally Clark's fact based play, Saint Frances of Hollywood, currently running at The Manhattan Theatre Source, Sarah Ireland breaths vibrant life back into Farmer by skillfully resurrecting the feisty spirit and iron will that characterized Hollywood's most tragic starlet. Mounted on a bare white stage with no set, scenery, or props, Saint Frances of Hollywood relies on its tight plot, crackling dialogue, and well-nuanced acting to tell its story. The only special effect used to set the mood is a black and white movie clip from the 1930's Farmer film Come and Get It. Here the audience can see for itself why Farmer was once a beloved icon of the screen. Her glowing beauty is immediately evident. With high cheekbones, wavy blond hair, large blue eyes, and a face full of expression and charisma, her presence commands both attention and reverence.

Farmer's mother was a conservative, religious housewife determined to give her daughter a glamorous Hollywood life. But as Farmer matured, her mother's hold on her loosened. An idealist at heart, Farmer wanted to protest the treatment of migrant workers, join movements to help the poor, work with theater groups promoting social change, and find a way to make capitalism work for everyone.

Her passion for such changes was interpreted as a distaste for the government, which in that era meant being branded with the deadly label "communist." The press balked at her activities, her mother denounced her opinions, and the movie studio sent her to work in Mexico as punishment for canceling out on two big-budget films.

Farmer's refusal to pander to the press inspired it to paint her as a communist lunatic. After she physically lashed out at a hairdresser who called her as much, the government asked Farmer's mother to have her committed. Her mother readily agreed, then eerily proceeded to dress like her daughter and answer her fan mail while she was institutionalized.

Nine months later, Farmer emerged from the medical facility and attacked her treatment there. She reported that she was repeatedly raped by orderlies, prostituted to soldiers, subjected to constant electric shock, given insulin shots to stun her body, and forced to endure eight-hour baths in ice water. And yet her mother still sent her back to the facility a year later when Farmer announced she would rather return to the picket lines than to a Hollywood soundstage.

Unable to break her spirit, the mental institution performed a lobotomy designed to give Farmer only the most basic of brain functions. This time they sent her back into society as a shell of her former self.

With such heavy subject matter, humor is an essential aspect of this production. Fortunately, there are plenty of laughs, especially in the scenes within the mental institution. Jeffrey Plunkett hysterically plays Dr. Betelguese with a squeaky voice that makes every word play as a joke. Fiona Jones is perfect as Farmer's crazy, rubber ducky-obsessed cellmate, and Kendra Kohrt is excellent as a chipper nurse who breaks into Nazi-like seriousness when she means business.

But there is no doubt that the play is firmly planted on Ireland's capable shoulders. She gives a stunning performance as Farmer, one that, on a Broadway stage, would undoubtedly earn her a Tony nomination. Not only does Ireland have the same classic beauty and interesting face, but she manages to be spirited, zesty, and funny even in the darkest of moments.

Farmer's life was defined by her misfortune. Society took away her talent, butchered her beauty, raped her body, destroyed her mind, and sent her back into the world a compliant, mindless drone. Fortunately, her story lives on in movies like Jessica Lange's Frances, songs like Nirvana's "Frances Farmer Will Have Her Revenge on Seattle," and plays like Saint Frances of Hollywood. This legacy proves that even after lobotomy and death, Farmer's voice was never silenced.

Murder, Third Row Center

A murder has been committed at Muldoon Manor, a remote, fog-shrouded country home, and the body lies in plain sight. Too bad the house guests, and the critics for that matter, are too self-absorbed to notice. The Performers Access Studio's spot-on production of Tom Stoppard's 1968 witty whodunit, The Real Inspector Hound, is a play-within-a-play that pokes fun at the murder mystery form while exposing the critics who decide "yea" or "nay" before the first act is done.

First, the play: Stoppard has created a telltale mystery that is comically aware of itself, complete with the attractive widow, Cynthia Muldoon; her busybody maid, Mrs. Drudge; the unannounced stranger, Simon; and the inept but dashing Inspector Hound.

Early on, when Simon remarks, "I took the shortcut over the cliffs and followed one of the old smuggler's paths through the treacherous swamps that surround this strangely inaccessible house," we realize that Stoppard is revealing how easily recognizable and implausible mystery-genre conventions are. The performers must remain aware of the molds from which they've been cast, exaggerating their horror and shock, their passion and anger in a constant send-up of well-worn tropes. As Felicity, Mary Theresa Archibold, for instance, accents every exit with a fluttering step and a sudden flick of her curly black hair that perfectly sums up her character's jilted pout.

Downstage left, in a short row of chairs identical to those in the audience, sit Birdboot and Moon, two critics who have been dispatched to review the murder mystery. A big name with an equally big ego, Birdboot is a career-making critic with a conspicuously absent wife and an eye for fresh young actresses, while Moon is a striving second-stringer who lives in the shadows of his superior, Higgs. They both seem to be watching the play, but actually spend a good deal of time musing about their own problems.

As the action in the first scene gets under way, Birdboot proclaims that the killer is not Simon, the unexpected guest, but Magnus, the wheelchair-bound brother-in-law of the lady of the house, who "ten years ago went out for a walk on the cliffs and was never seen again." Having made up his mind about the killer's identity and the review he will give the show, the weathered critic can turn his attention to the young starlets who grace the stage. And Moon, hampered by his own sense of inferiority

Strutting and Fretting

Great quotes become clich

Mock the Casbah

Persians are "passionate people," argues Iranian-born actor Arian Moayed, and "all that hair," he offers as an afterthought, is just "to keep us warm." Issues of hirsuteness aside, if theater company Waterwell's re-envisioning of Aeschylus's The Persians is any indication, I would add that Persians are also somewhat schizophrenic, and not a little over-caffeinated. And thank the gods for it: what better way to shake some life into what is widely considered the world's oldest surviving play? First performed in 472 A.D., the work is remarkable not only for its age but also for the fact that it is the only extant Greek play to deal with an actual, historical event, namely the Persian king Xerxes's invasion of Greece just eight years earlier. With monumental hubris on full display, Xerxes amassed an army of nearly a million men

Noir On-Air

Hard Boiled is playwright Dan Bianchi's latest crack at the world of pulp-fiction noir. Produced by Radio Theatre Presents, it is a send-up of gritty detective novels and the live drama of radio theater. The setting is straight out of a 40's black-and-white mystery, the kind where the rain is always falling amid the perennial darkness in some nameless city. Hard Boiled features the usual suspects: the jaded detective, the Hollywood matinee idol and his brassy agent, the mobster and his actress wife, and the mobster's stripper girlfriend. Thrown in for effective atmosphere are a sultry singer and her pitch-perfect band. The story is interspersed with clever advertisements for other radio programs and commercial products of yesteryear.

The play attempts to recreate radio theater, and to Bianchi's credit, he undertakes this endeavor with a great deal of passion. The problem is that Bianchi the director can't decide if he is presenting a play, a re-creation of a radio broadcast that is being watched as a play, or a radio broadcast that is being heard first and seen second. With elaborate costumes and props, Hard Boiled is very much a spectacle, but some of the actors simply use their voices while others use their entire bodies, giving fully physical performances.

The cast of characters is game if not fully able. Ryan Kelly as the Mae West-inspired agent, Joey Kapps, gives it her all. Unfortunately, her all is too much, and with wild eyes, Kelly ends up overacting to the point of distraction. John Nolan as the Host has the perfect "radio" voice, and he does keep the action moving, yet he often comes across as bored. Elizabeth Bianchi has several nice moments as mob moll Cindy Marsh, but they are quickly undermined by a comes-and-goes accent and a weak character. Adam Murphy, Dan Truman, and Sarah Stephens fare better in their commercial spots than in their poorly defined characters during the show's story.

Charles Wilson saves the day (and the play) as Detective Jack Carter. His character is a cocksure ladies' man and a master of words, full of dry sarcasm, Wilson seems born to play the role, and he brings Hard Boiled alive. Yet ironically the unsung hero of Hard Boiled is singer Rhe De Ville. A sultry and sexy chanteuse, she sets the play alight with her smoky voice. Looking like a million bucks and sporting a priceless set of pipes, De Ville alone is worth seeing the show. She is expertly supported by Brian Cashwell on piano and Jimmy Sullivan on bass.

Bianchi has written a flawed script that tries too hard. With a plot that is incidental

Woven Memories

Beth Kurkjian likes to crochet. A lot. The intricate, multicolored pieces that she crocheted for and wears during Age Less

Lost Love's Ghostly Visitations

"What is the beginning of happiness?/ It is to stop being so religious." These lines, from the 12th-century Sufi mystic poet Hafiz, were probably intended with a great deal of irony, seeing how Hafiz was reputed to have memorized the entire Koran 14 different ways. Happiness, he seems to be saying, is the cheap wine, while true mystical enlightenment is the next day's hangover: a woozy, achingly exact sense of the full heft and grief of things. In Jamie Carmichael's new coming-of-age play, Pilgrims, these lines are used to counterpoint the spiritual

Nuptials

When certain elements are introduced in the course of a play, they have specific, set-in-stone effects on the play's events. For example, if at some point a gun is shown onstage, that gun must be fired by the end of the show. Sam Marks's new work, The Bigger Man, brings to mind two more: If a character suddenly "finds religion," that religion is always a cult. And if a guy shows up at his ex-girlfriend's wedding, that guy will cause a whole lot of trouble. The ex in question here is Len, whose former amour Lily is getting married to a gentleman named Mike in her rural Pennsylvanian hometown. Len's a (supposedly) reformed drug addict and thief who's brought his unreformed, unrefined stoner buddy Rick with him to stay at an ugly motel the night before Lily's wedding. The two New Yorkers are undone by the remote locale and consider some cannabis-flavored relief, but also talk about a promise not to do drugs, which they made when they signed something on their invitation.

Lily's brother Jerry appears and wants them to leave. He hasn't forgiven Len for abusing Lily and stealing from her while they were dating. Len refuses to go, saying that Lily called him and asked him to attend. Jerry warns them about what they signed and leaves.

After a number of scenes like this, which are blacked out in the middle of thoughts, it gradually emerges that Lily has devoted herself to the Foundation, a spiritual group to which her brother, fianc

Absurdities

Panel.Animal is not a full-length play but two one-acts performed consecutively in one energetic performance. The first half of the production is called The Young War and centers around a panel of two men

Close to Home

In his new one-person show, Paul Boocock deftly shifts his insights and opinions from money and corruption to adultery, drugs, and civil rights. No, this is not about Supreme Court justice nominations; this is about baseball. The world of baseball doesn't often cross over to the theater world or the political arena (unless players are being questioned at Senate committee hearings, of course). But Boocock takes up the challenge and uses his love of the sport to offer Boocock's House of Baseball, a meditation on "America's pastime" and its eras of greatness, its problems, and its influence on and resonance with American life. The parallels are greater in number and relevance than one might think.

Boocock posits that the great virtue of baseball

Call Me Crazy

One-person shows are difficult. One-person shows about mental disorders are even harder. In Gary Mizel's play Memoirs of a Manic Depressive, Dexter Brown journeys through the ups and downs in the life of a man with bipolar disorder. From riding high in a red Porsche to being terrified by alien voices in the living room, Mizel's story is at once disconcerting and heartening. The show takes place at the Gene Frankel Theatre on Bond Street, named for the Broadway director and Off-Broadway champion. (Best known, perhaps, for his controversial staging of Jean Genet's The Blacks in 1960.) His theater school, where the motto was "You don't just get the Gene Frankel technique, you get Gene Frankel," closed upon his death this past April. The theater has continued producing, and Memoirs features two of his disciples: Brown and director Lorca Peress.

This is Mizel's first foray into playwriting, and as a man with bipolar disorder himself, it is clear that this is one way he can portray the ever-changing world in which he lives. Lucky for us, he has a sense of humor: "See, bipolars used to be called manic-depressives, but I think a better euphemism would be 'the sanely challenged.' "

Brown has spent far more time in the theater world than Mizel has; plus, he personally trained with Frankel. It is odd, then, that it is Brown's pacing that allows Mizel's script to often drop precipitously. That said, he does a commendable job at evoking deep emotions, such as the wracking grief of his mother's death or the excessive elation of a manic episode.

While the play's title may be daunting, the content is actually peppered with candid humor, especially to audience members who know people with bipolar disorder and understand the power of understatement. At one point, the character "Gary" admits, "I take drugs. Specifically, Zoloft, Lithium, Trilofon. With them I get to be human. But before I was diagnosed as bipolar, I was, shall we say, 'moody.' "

Evidently, Mizel's life has been quite a challenge--from his mother's suicide to his own mental illness. This is a brave play, publicly airing the inner struggles of a man with a trying disease. Dale Wasserman made some strides in this area with his 1963 stage version of Ken Kesey's novel One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest; Tennessee Williams's shaky little Laura in The Glass Menagerie arguably has a mental illness; and, of course, Jessie Cates in 'night, Mother is anything but well. But the man in Memoirs finds a happier ending than those characters, thus making mental illness less of a spectacle and more of a difficult struggle that can end in victory.

Unlike those other full-length plays, too, Memoirs demands a virtuoso solo performance. While Brown is capable enough to get the audience through the 90-minute piece, he moves less than gracefully through the tumultuous scenes. A tough job, though, to be sure. In his worn-out jeans, white sneakers, and blue button-down, he does not embody the Manhattan stockbroker the character is meant to be.

Peress has also encouraged a lot of direct addresses to the audience, which is always a bit disconcerting if the fourth wall is not broken early on. In this case, it is especially disconcerting because this is a one-man play, not a comedy routine or a tell-all. Her sound design, however, is spot-on, with apt entrance music and well-done voiceovers as the voices in Mizel's head.

While bipolar disorder affects only about 3 percent of the world's adult population, those who have it suffer mightily from the auditory hallucinations ("hearing voices"), delusions, and severe swings between mania and depression. If these Memoirs leave us with anything, though, it is the confidence that such an affliction can be overcome.

Radio Days

Turns out we have someone to blame for the high number of court shows that dominate the afternoon-television lineup, and surprisingly enough, he never worked for NBC, CBS, or ABC. His name is Rabbi Rubin, and his court show aired on Yiddish radio in the 1930's and 40's. His court, though, was not exactly legit. Responding to the needs of the Jewish community in New York's Lower East Side, Rabbi Rubin's House of Sages (a place he created for retired rabbis to study and pray) formed its own private court system to settle disputes for people who were too poor or unfamiliar with the ins and outs of the real justice system. The service was free, but there was one catch

Four Sisters

This season on Broadway, testosterone has been as prevalent as the New York City summer heat. What is perhaps most remarkable about this phenomenon, however, is not the noticeable dominance of male-heavy shows but the significance of their content and the frustrating lack of comparable significance in shows featuring all-women casts. Steel Magnolias may be a diverting enough play, but it withers next to the drama and sheer power and urgency of Democracy or Twelve Angry Men. For those seeking a play about female empowerment and strength, one not focused solely on the drama of getting married or giving birth, there is a welcome respite in the current Off-Off-Broadway production of Kevin O'Morrison's Ladyhouse Blues at the Linhart Theatre. Directed by Marc Weitz and produced by 3 Graces Theater Co., a theater company "committed to exposing and exploring the power of women's experience through theater," the play revolves around the issues facing the four Madden sisters and their mother, who live in St. Louis in 1919. At times a bit overstuffed, Ladyhouse Blues is nevertheless a charming and touching look at a family of women who are close enough to lean on each another, but strong enough to stand on their own.

Set in the kitchen of the Madden home, the play starts while the audience is filtering in, with actors in turn-of-the-century working-class garb passing out fans and fruit and hawking their wares from the wings. Designed by Alexis Distler, the set, a skeletal frame of a large kitchen, is cleverly suggestive enough to provide a homey setting where the Madden family convenes to discuss all-important family business, yet sparse enough to allow the ensemble to create ambience-setting, between-scenes montages of wartime and struggle.

Indeed, the Madden sisters are products of their hard times. Eylie, the youngest, is a waitress who, along with her suffragist sister Terry, brings in the only income. Helen, who is married to a man of German descent, has consumption, is not allowed to see her young child, and can barely leave her home. Dot, a New York transplant and former model, is pregnant with the second child of her socialite husband, whose family does not approve of her. Liz, their mother, has had to raise her six children alone since she was 26, after the death of her husband, and her only son, Bud, is fighting in the Great War.

If this sounds like a lot of plot points, it is. And yet, the travails of these very different sisters weave a tapestry of love and labor that becomes engaging and heartwarming.

Weitz does an admirable job of attempting to meld both the elements of societal influence and private values. Yet his direction sometimes gets muddy, as when the ensemble, whether peddling wares or singing with a visiting revival, frequently overpowers the dialogue. Weitz also fails to rein in the play's focus in the second act. The play's most dramatic event, involving the sisters' brother Bud, fails to resonate as it perhaps should, because there is so much left to resolve or even address.

This lack of resolution also lies in a lack of focus for at least some of the characters. Most of the sisters' love and strength and rebellion come from their mother Liz, played by Kathleen Bishop with a little too much aw-shucks, quirky-yet-strong, "Southern" cartoonishness. And as the matron, she is given the play's most whopping one-liners, which she delivers without restraint, such as "God, I can't help but feelin' if you was a woman, you'da done it different."

Yet her performance is also paired with some wonderfully nuanced ones. Annie McGovern's Dot, the ailing, pregnant wife of a New England aristocrat, is wonderful to watch as she uses her dainty features to full comic potential, and to also show her suffering. Nitra Gutierrez fills the stage with energy and warmth as Eylie, and Dorothy Abrahams as Terry, the suffragist, is full of charm and passion.

Ladyhouse Blues is not a perfect production. Weitz's direction sometimes lacks delicacy, and some of the acting at times feels heavy-handed and overwrought. Despite those small flaws, the play will touch you in unexpected ways. "Ladyhouse" is an old word for a house full of women waiting for their men to return from war. Perhaps it would be appropriate to find another title for this play about a group of strong women who are so engaging to watch.

Shakespeare in the Park

When performing a play in Central Park, an actor has several distressing obstacles to fret over before he or she utters the first line. Will it rain? Will your un-microphoned voice reach the ears of a scattered audience over a host of background noises such as sirens, car horns, and drilling? Will you slip on the wet grass? Will a passing dog break free from its master and chase you backstage? With the play running an hour and 55 minutes, no intermission, will audience members' periodic visits to the restroom and snack bar distract others from becoming fully engrossed in the show?

Boomerang Theatre Company's production of Shakespeare's The Two Gentlemen of Verona overcomes all these obstacles and everything else the outdoor Central Park theater space tries to throw in their way.

Understanding Shakespeare's Elizabethan language is vital to appreciating the plays. Without this understanding, they can easily become confusing and dull to a contemporary audience. Even Shakespearean scholars who are accustomed to his work have confessed it takes at least 15 minutes of reading for their minds to fully wrap around the unfamiliar words and phrases.

And so it is a great testament to the skill of this play's exceptional cast that they instantly engage their audience in Shakespearean language that flowed from their tongues as lucid and naturally as modern-day English. So clear was their discourse that passers-by would stop in midscene to listen, young children abandoned their parents' blankets to take front-row seats, and few people left for refreshments.

The story follows the trials and tribulations of two lovelorn men from Verona, Valentine (Henry Martone) and Proteus (Jeremy Black). Valentine hopes to steal his true love, Silvia (Jessica Myhr), away from Sir Thurio (Dennis McNitt), the boring man her father the Duke (Bill Weeden) wishes her to marry. But when Proteus sees Silvia's beauty, he forgets all about his own love, Julia (Sharon Paige), thus betraying his friend Valentine to win Sylvia's affections for himself.

Paige creates a likable, sympathetic character in the scorned Julia. She has a youthful, classically adorable face that is always twisted in a recognizable expression. Her love Proteus is played by the animated Jeremy Beck, whose energy inspired a round of impromptu applause in the middle of a perfectly timed comic scene. His friend Valentine thrilled the audience when he hid in their midst, staying in character while Sylvia wept onstage, declaring her undying love for him. His rival Thurio is played by the hilarious Dennis McNitt in a nuanced portrayal of a disgusting, cowardly, and boring love interest.

And then there's Speed and Launce