Born Again

What would you do if you woke up naked and alone inside the belly of a cow? Jason Pizzarello's InsideOut—a 45-minute multimedia performance that dramatizes the answer to that question—is a whimsical take on the agony of the human condition. Artists from Beckett to the Beatles have long attempted to depict the frustrating absurdity of not knowing why we are here or where we're going, but as far as I know, none have done so like this. While InsideOut doesn't break new ground on the topics of loneliness and insecurity, it does manage to represent the same old struggles in a fairly novel way.

A young man wakes up gasping for air. We see portions of his naked, blood-doused body projected in extreme close-up on a translucent screen. The eye of the camera blinks at random, and for a few moments the man is only an eye and then a gaping mouth and then an entire face. The camera pans out finally and continues to train its eye on him from different angles; as we watch him, we too are disoriented, trying to make a coherent picture of this man and his surroundings. He is scared and seemingly alone.

And then, from nowhere, a voice answers his, and he is no longer alone. A woman, it seems, shares his predicament and calls out to him from another space. Her picture, as tightly focused as his, appears on the screen. We can see them both, huddled meekly in their spaces, though they cannot see each other. Their conversation flitters from the logical and speculative to the hysterical and hopeless. They are in no way connected to themselves or to each other except that they search for answers to questions they don't fully know.

The woman is variously crafty, playful, and vindictive; she seems at times to be unwilling to help the frightened man. She is more accustomed to her surroundings, but cannot (or will not) answer all the questions he has for her. As we follow their conversation, we learn bits and pieces of their history, their relationship to each other. He is Harold, and she is Dana. They are siblings. They are dead. Or at least they think they are. Their hosts, the cows, have agreed to take them in.

Dana seems resigned to their odd fate because at least it is something she knows. What if the space outside the cow's belly is worse? But Harold is not so sure. In the performance piece's climactic moment, he decides to punch his way out. By now the pair of video images is being projected on the white plaster sides of two life-sized cows. The screen that has shielded them from us is pulled away at the moment that Dana reveals their whereabouts to her brother. As Harold breaks through the cow's side, we see his naked body being "born" as though from a womb.

The visual effect is dazzling for a show as seemingly low budget as this one is. Kudos to video designer Lindsey Bostwick and director Aaron Rhyne for faithfully recreating the images that must have seemed so otherworldly in Pizzarello's mind.

Instinctively, Dana follows her brother, and they are both free from the cows that bore them. Free, that is, until the gasping for breath and the screaming begin again. This time it is Dana who has just woken up disoriented and alone. Several seconds after their escape, Dana and Harold are seemingly confined again, doomed to die and be born forever. Perhaps the idea of "death" here is simply this cycle's state of non-being...within a cow.

Devil's Work

In his first epistle—fifth chapter, eighth verse—the apostle Peter warns Christians to "be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walks about seeking whom he may devour." A funny little man with a pitchfork and bright red tights this is definitely not.

Adapted from C.S. Lewis's epistolary novel of the same name, The Screwtape Letters is a fictionalized, but biblically motivated, firsthand look at the inner workings of hell. As a spiritual and philosophical warning about the devil's trickery, Lewis's work is fascinating and instructive, giving causality and consequence to our daily travails. But as a piece of theater, the production unfortunately does not pass muster.

Screwtape (Max McLean) is the undersecretary of the Department of Temptation, an underworld bureaucratic office assigned to keep nonbelievers from knowing God at all, and believers from turning their decision of faith into any kind of lasting devotion, charity, or repentance. With the constant stenographical assistance of a buxom young demoness, Toadpipe (Jenny Savage), Screwtape fires missives to a flailing young apprentice, Wormwood, who must thwart the maturation of faith in an unnamed young Christian man.

Lewis—whose religious insights are far more cryptic in his famous, mythological Narnia series than they are here—was writing during the Second World War. But references to contemporary history do not keep his biblically sound insights about the devil's workings from being as cogent today as when they were written. As a Christian, I was struck by the time and care that Screwtape, this master tempter and a cog in the bureaucracy of hell, invests in the life of one man.

Screwtape encourages Wormwood to wreak havoc in various areas in the young Christian's life, including the continual and recurring arguments he has with his mother, in which both of them assume innocence and superiority; society's distorted female ideal, which can only lead to marital disappointment; anxieties about the future that keep him from enjoying the present; and, most insidiously, the claustrophobic pride that accompanies his identification as a believer in the first place. It seems that every good thing—filial affection, romantic love, the passage of time, and even the presence of faith itself—is in danger of being distorted and damaged, thereby clouding God's loving attempts to make us better people.

McLean's Screwtape is charismatic enough, which is a good thing, because the entire production consists of his talking directly to the audience. We simply watch his impassioned dictation for the better part of two hours. With only a handful of lines, Savage must resort to nonsensical and thematically disjointed dance numbers in between writing letters. The decision to keep her moving comes, no doubt, from the director's anxiety about how little there is to actually watch.

Better to have spent less money on the elaborately furnished set and put it toward hiring more actors, who could have pantomimed the spiritual warfare Screwtape so explicitly describes. We suspend our disbelief in order to see hell unfold before us, but we are not granted a view of ourselves, weakly cursing our circumstances, wondering at the meaning of it all—or of the angels whose intersession counteracts the likes of Wormwood, Screwtape, and the whole bunch.

Because the production is little more than a dramatized reading of Lewis's book, it can only succeed in preaching to the converted—audiences who will forgive its lack of theatricality because of its spiritual richness.

West Meets East

There have been many misconceptions about geisha, the most common being that they are a fancy Japanese version of prostitutes. Fortunately, more is now known about these impeccably groomed women, who are, in fact, "professional party guests." In Randall David Cook's compelling and jolting drama, Sake With the Haiku Geisha, playing at the Perry Street Theater, we meet a geisha (Angela Lin) who only speaks in haiku, thus earning the name Haiku Geisha. She spends most of the play nearly hidden by the set's shimmering cloth walls, silently listening to the comedic, touching, and tragic stories of three tourists.

Midway through the play, the set self-destructs, noisily dropping its metal bars to the floor, where they land in a heap of fallen curtains. On an eerily bare stage lit only by an orange light, the Haiku Geisha springs to life. She moves with power and conviction, performing a graceful dance that ends as suddenly as it begins. Facing the audience, she hunches her shoulders, sheds her robe, and stands before us in a starched white shirt and stiff black business skirt. It is here that her heartrending story begins.

However, before we reach this climactic moment where the mysterious geisha boldly bares her soul, we watch her persuade three seemingly perky tourists to slowly reveal theirs. They are members of a "worldwide gathering of teachers" who have traveled to Japan to share their culture with the students, though their host suspects the teachers' praise of his country is insincere. He solicits the aid of the Haiku Geisha to uncover the truth.

An Englishwoman named Charlotte (Emma Bowers) complains that she constantly felt illiterate, everyone criticized her noisy shoes, and all the tea was "green like sewage." A homosexual man from America named Parker (Jeremy Hollingworth) feels alienated by the lack of gay men and the ridicule he endured for being one. The third tourist, a Canadian woman named Brianna (Fiona Gallagher), is appalled at the sight of students saluting a Hitler float. She hits a sensitive nerve, taunting, "How would you like it if I made a float of an atomic bomb?"

With the mention of "atomic bomb," the play's tone instantly changes, marked by the set's collapse, which ends the tourists' stories and launches into a Japanese perspective.

There is a chilling scene between a father (Ikuma Isaac) and a son, Ichihiro Hashimoto (David Shih), where Hashimoto refuses to speak English. Furious at his disobedience, Father describes to him the losses their family suffered when the atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki in 1945. He orders the family to speak English because it is vital that they understand the language of the country that did this. He stresses the need to not only "connect" with potential enemies but to "communicate" with them, in the hopes of preventing such a horrific event from ever occurring again.

When Brianna learns that the students who built the Hitler float did not know about the Holocaust and only admire Hitler as a good speaker, she screams that it is wrong to honor someone without acknowledging the destruction his leadership has caused. The Japanese men remain stony-faced through her scolding, perhaps because they are thinking the same about America's attitude toward Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

Everyone in this play is searching for understanding, whether it is tourists struggling to make sense of new words, students in Japan trying to comprehend ours, or broken families unable to grasp the concept of peace with a country responsible for the death of their loved ones. The Haiku Geisha is the only character to lay her past on the table and then embrace it as part of herself, for better or worse. Her story overcomes the language barrier others have succumbed to, enabling this play to succeed on a level where its characters could not. Sake With the Haiku Geisha not only connects with its audience; it communicates.

Revenge on a Silver Platter

Subtitling films works because the performances are prerecorded and therefore predictable; it's easy enough to graft the words onto the picture and get them to sync up to the dialogue. Subtitling (or supertitling) opera works because the words are sung to a melody, and its meter can provide cues as to the proper placement of timely translations. But how does one add titles to a play? How can an actor's delivery be calculated so that the written word matches up with the spoken word?

La MaMa E.T.C., in continuing its tradition of bringing theater from around the world to the New York stage, is presenting an ambitious Italian transplant, The Last Night of Salomé. Performed in Italian with English supertitles (projected onto a discreet black screen above the set), this period piece starring two middle-aged women and one passed-out man has all the theatrics to keep the audience interested, but those not conversant in Italian may have trouble with the plot specifics.

The show opens one hour before dawn in a delightfully divey bar, the prewar, below-ground, brick-walled type. Lighted only by neon signs and weak yellow bulbs, it never gets a single ray of sunshine (and people like it that way). The bar is located in Rome in the 1950s, and its owner, Desi, is busy clearing bottles and verbally abusing her husband, the drunk and dead-to-the-world Buffalo Bill. Then a woman, formally dressed in rumpled clothing, breezes in and demands a drink.

Once the mystery woman removes her large hat, Desi recognizes her as Veronica Lopez, the famous actress currently appearing in Oscar Wilde's Salomé, which Desi has recently seen. Starstruck, Desi forgets that the bar is closed and studies Veronica like a scientist eyeballing a sample on a glass slide. Veronica, glad for the adoration and the alcohol, answers questions, performs, and generally abuses Desi's adulation. They discuss their careers, their husbands, and their desires in real time as it grows closer to dawn.

Perhaps out of the director's fear that only one set and few performers could grow wearisome (or that the language barrier could cause audiences to get bored), the show is highly stylized, peppered with dramatic sound and lighting cues and bold movement. Yet those moments, often played for laughs, don't take away from the authenticity of the experience. Credit must be given to Lydia Biondi and Carla Cassola for their committed, lived-in performances.

Biondi's Desi, a worldly woman trapped in a small-town life, becomes more fascinating as the contradictions in her character pile up. Cassola's Veronica (who, it could be said, is a small-town girl trapped in a worldly life) is selfish but also terribly needy, the kind of person who forms close attachments to people quickly but is quick to forget those attachments if they don't suit her. Veronica is one of those "actressy" characters that actresses love to play, yet Cassola wisely avoids romanticizing Veronica in any way but in Veronica's own mind.

On the night of this review, there were many Italians in the audience; they seemed to really enjoy the production, laughing at things when the English titles gave no indication of a joke and clapping enthusiastically at its end. For those who didn't parlano Italiano, there were still laughs and general understanding, though the laughs came at different times (upon reading the lines rather than hearing the joke told), and the words sometimes came a little too speedy to read when the fast-talking ladies got going.

Perhaps the only nonspeakers who should be discouraged from seeing The Last Night of Salome are those who obsessively need the words to figure out what's going on. The rest of us can rely on the strong performances and production values, which need no translation.

Put on a Show

About halfway through [title of show], Jeff Bowen and Hunter Bell's musical about making a musical, I began to wonder what all the fuss was about. Yes, self-referential humor can be funny, up to a point. And yes, dropping obscure musical-theater references can often be a witty choice. But for an entire show? Yet just when things begin to seem overly contrived, Heidi (Heidi Blickenstaff) performs the ballad "A Way Back to Then," a poignant tribute to the innocent child within every aspiring theater (or creative) professional. It's a deceptively simple story of sacrifice and aspiration that carries indelible truth, bringing clarity to everything that has already transpired. The show celebrates the noble dream of being "part of it all," but more than that, it exalts the importance of the individual in creating art.

In a spare, fluid production gleefully presented by the Vineyard Theater, [title of show] is a delightful look into the process of creating a musical. With a festival deadline rapidly approaching, Bowen and Bell decided to write a musical about the process of writing a musical, enlisting the help of two friends, Heidi and Susan (Susan Blackwell). They all play themselves (well, versions of themselves) as they collaborate to create an original musical.

As they begin to drum up ideas, casual conversation becomes dialogue, and jealousy becomes fodder for duets. Even the musical director/accompanist Larry (Larry Pressgrove, who plays the lone onstage keyboard) jumps into the action from time to time.

What sets [title of show] apart from other shows about making art is its refusal to push its tongue-in-cheek humor down our throats. Michael Berresse, a well-respected and successful New York actor making his directing debut, keeps the action restrained, preserving the honesty and integrity of the performers and their material. (He also contributes choreography with a light touch that charms without relying on in-your-face shtick.)

Several musical numbers, however, rely on jokes that eventually lose their luster, including "An Original Musical," which starts out strong but trails off haphazardly by the end. (Some one-liners just can't be suspended over an entire song.) For the most part, though, Bell's book is strong and witty, while Bowen, who writes very pleasant—if mostly unmemorable—music, displays an exciting gift for setting words to music. Both the lyrics and the script, in fact, feature writing that is often fresh and unexpected.

All four actors contribute outstanding performances, illustrating the different types of people and personalities that create art. For example, Heidi continues to audition and perform, while Susan has taken a day job (they sing about this discrepancy in their well-done duet, "What Kind of Girl Is She?"). And while Bowen is rather uptight and overly conscious of grammar, Bell is more laid-back, procrastinating with TV and autoeroticism.

All numbers are well executed, and each performer displays impeccable comic timing. Other highlights include "Die Vampire, Die!" (a warning against the "vampires" of self-doubt that paralyze creative people), "Part of It All" (a touching showcase for Bell and Bowen's desire to join the theater community), and "Nine People's Favorite Thing" (the inspirational closing anthem).

Frequent theatergoers (aficionados and die-hards) will find much to appreciate in [title of show], from the amusing voice-mail transitions (featuring many renowned theater performers) to the many references to musicals, both obscure and well known. Others, however, may find the material alienating, especially in "Monkeys and Playbills," a song that highlights Playbills from many now-defunct Broadway shows. While it is an inventive concept, the references are sometimes difficult to catch, even for those in the know.

Still, even audiences who are unfamiliar with the "in-language" of theater will be able to sympathize with the highs and lows of the creative process. As they wonder whether they should "sell out" (changing themselves and their show), Bell and Bowen raise important questions about the commercialization of theater—an industry that remains focused on product. Who can create art? Who are the important voices? And what compromises must one make to be heard?

By placing themselves (and their friends) front and center, Bell and Bowen remind us that real lives are what matters in theater. As referenced in "A Way Back to Then," there are still unaffected children with big dreams at the heart of musical theater, despite commercialism, financial greed, and artistic corruption. And in its own small, sweet, and endearing way, [title of show] encourages us to value the simplicity—and worth—of our own stories.

(Off-Off) Broadway Baby: Jersey Boys's John Lloyd Young

John Lloyd Young

Downtown theater can be grueling. Just ask John Lloyd Young, who, not so very long ago, found himself onstage with a gaping head wound from a self-inflicted gunshot in the unforgiving heat of summer.

"I had to lean my head against the exposed brick wall supposedly to hold my brain inside the hole in my head, and as I walked across the stage, I left a long smear of blood against it," he remembers. "When I stepped away from the wall, I had to hold my head up with my hand so my brain wouldn't fall out."

The production, Spring Awakening at Expanded Arts, a 30-seat storefront theater, encapsulates the ever-paradoxical nature of downtown theater, Young says. "It was disgusting, gruesome, hot, sticky, ghoulish: a barrel of laughs." Today, no longer battling onstage blood, Young is poised on the brink of stardom, at least by Broadway standards. His widely acclaimed performance as Frankie Valli in the hit

musical Jersey Boys has already generated early Tony Award buzz, as well as the accolades and respect of critics and fans alike, including Valli himself.

But while he currently plays to sold-out audiences at the August Wilson Theater, Young began his New York stage career-as so many performers do-in Off- and Off-Off-Broadway theaters. And while his move uptown places him in a more distinctly commercial theatrical environment, the actor-who admits to being in his late 20s-continues to cling to the artistic ideals that informed his work early on.

In fact, Young says his experiences downtown initially discouraged him from pursuing any Broadway roles at all. In Off- and Off-Off-Broadway shows, he relished "interesting" and "artistically challenging" material that was "sometimes so out there." Broadway shows, by comparison, were often "high on spectacle and low on bite."

Even after finding success on the Great White Way, Young still maintains that he never intended to work there. "To be perfectly honest," he says, "I began to get very resentful of Broadway. I was very angry. The musical shows seemed to be empty and artless, and those that were good had trouble attracting an audience."

The Broadway landscape has undoubtedly become increasingly commercial, and the appearance of the jukebox musical has been seen by many as perhaps its most emblematic, money-hungry product. Beloved by many tourists but maligned by most critics, the form splices together pre-existing songs from popular musical groups, with plots that, due to their slapdash genesis, can often seem overly simplistic and contrived. Recent jukebox ventures, both successful and less so, include Mamma Mia! (Abba), Movin' Out (Billy Joel), Good Vibrations (the Beach Boys), and this season's Ring of Fire (Johnny Cash).

Young himself acknowledges that the jukebox musical is at odds with the less conventional, progressive trends found in much Off- and Off-Off-Broadway theater. "I hate the jukebox musical, if 'jukebox musical' means an inane story line strung around recognizable songs making a fool of everyone onstage and in the audience," he says. "The shows that do that [present dumbed-down material] don't survive, probably because no one likes to be made a fool of."

But Jersey Boys, which tells the story of the Four Seasons, is, of course, a jukebox musical. So how does a veteran of downtown theater suddenly find himself in the middle of a jukebox? Although Young auditioned for "a lot of so-called jukebox shows," it wasn't until Jersey Boys

A scene from Jersey Boys

that he found a project he believed to be "at once commercially successful and still artistically challenging." And the critics agreed, praising the musical for embracing the actual history of the Four Seasons-depicting actual lives rather than trying to shoehorn music into a fictionalized structure.

Young credits "playable, actable scenes," a strong character arc, and highly demanding falsetto singing for creating a "steep enough challenge to create that fire inside my belly to want to surmount it." And it was Off- and Off-Off-Broadway theater that helped, in part, to fuel his desire to seek out huge challenges. "You do things like a storefront expressionist drama for no money while temping during the day," he remembers. "And [you] succeed at it—or fail—and emerge emboldened."

Citing one favorite Off-Broadway stage experience, at Target Margin Theater, he recalls, "Half the audience left at intermission; half stayed, mesmerized." The potency of Off-Broadway material can be divisive for an audience, but he relishes that knee-jerk response. Whether off Broadway or on, he values "an audacious and exciting theatrical environment where anything could happen."

The biggest benefits of working in a more commercial environment, Young says, are the "luxurious trappings" and the ability to enjoy "complete immersion in the work." Although playing a leading role in a powerhouse Broadway musical demands its share of one's free time (interviews, press events, benefits, etc.), there is plenty of luxury in "being paid enough to not have to split your attention with a survival job."

In fact, "luxury" is a word Young often uses to describe his new uptown performance venue. But for him the charm lies less in his solo dressing room and the wardrobe department and more in having enough time and energy to devote himself wholeheartedly to his craft. He admits to having been tremendously frustrated when he had to hold down "a survival job."

Jersey Boys

"I wanted nothing else than to dedicate all of my attention toward the project," he says. "There is nothing more frustrating than delving into something artistically irresistible to then have to go and type spreadsheets for some unimaginative dullard."

Even with additional time to focus, Young maintains that his approach to the craft has remained the same, whether the production is commercial or downtown. "I've always contended that working in front of an audience is the best training," he says. "And you're not going to be infected just because you're working commercially; you never forget the renegade guerilla experiences you've had. They become part of your artistic personality and sensibility."

So although he is now fronting a mainstream show, don't expect him to "suddenly be transformed into somebody who wants to do the next big revival of Oklahoma!," he says. "It's just not in my makeup. Jersey Boys is something I can do

and do well, because the person I was makes me right for it, not because I've suddenly melded into something new or more 'commercialized.' "

In addition to Jersey Boys, Young has found several other recent Broadway productions encouraging for both their artistic merit and wide audience following. He cites Doubt, The Light in the Piazza, The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee, and Avenue Q as shows that have become popular without sacrificing artistic integrity. (All have also won Tony Awards in recent years.) And even with steep differences in funding, resources, and expectations, he believes the worlds of Off-Broadway and Broadway are not mutually exclusive.

At least not completely. "There is certainly a big gulf between the kind of work that happens in a storefront theater on Ludlow Street and on a cruise ship," he admits. "Broadway can sometimes tend more towards cruise ship, of course, and almost never resembles anything you'd see at a storefront theater downtown.

"[Broadway] is a commercial enterprise, and your run-of-the-mill tourist doesn't always want to be 'challenged.' I heard some guy in a restaurant in the Theater District last night say, 'I don't like the plays where I have to think.' It's our job as artists to think, though. Part of the fun of what we do is 'tricking' people like him into thinking, without his realizing we've done it.'"

According to Young, the interplay between Broadway and Off- and Off-Off-Broadway theater happens primarily through its artists. Julie Taymor, for example, honed her craft for years before her innovative puppetry found a wider audience in Disney's stage adaptation of The Lion King. While her talent was certainly no secret to much of the theater community, her presence on Broadway made her a household name.

"The Lion King was the right fit for her in the commercial arena," Young says. "And suddenly the mainstream sees something 'new' without realizing that Taymor had been doing that stuff her whole career."

And this widening of scope need not be detrimental for the artist, he says. "As long as what's authentic to the artist isn't irretrievably lost or bastardized, then I think it's nice for them to be able to peek through to a more mainstream audience sometimes."

Young himself had hoped for a healthy career in Off-Broadway plays, peppered with "interesting film or TV projects." Thanks to Jersey Boys, the door is opening wider, but he still refuses to compromise his ideals. "If the next compelling project is Off-Broadway, and the next and the next after that, I'd be elated with that, too. It's really the role and the material that gets me going. The venue is an afterthought."

One thing he definitely plans to do in 2006 is support small companies as they continue to make new theater. In addition to Target Margin, to which he donates every year, he says he tries to donate to "emerging companies who are doing exciting work or whose mission I can stand behind. It changes every year. What is great about being on Broadway is that I I can afford to donate to more companies than I have in the past, and I'm excited about doing that this year."

Again, it's a luxury afforded by Broadway, but it's one that will benefit such theaters as the La Jolla Playhouse (where Jersey Boys originated) and the 52nd Street Project.

A dedicated supporter of up-and-coming theater, Young ranks "sheer force of will" as one of Off- and Off-Off-Broadway theater's many strengths. One weakness he has noticed, however, lies in the "strong strain of dilettantism" when people are not equally and fully dedicated to a project.

"It is enervating to someone who takes their art seriously to have to act alongside someone who's just fooling around or not serious about what they're doing," he says. "When you want to make a career of it and you're acting with people who are doing it just for fun, it can be very discouraging."

Like Valli, whose rags-to-riches story took him from working-class New Jersey to the height of fame, you could say that Young has graduated from downtown theater and "made it" on Broadway. But he refuses to see it that way, reaffirming his loyalty to the ever-shifting, ever-challenging unconventional houses that nurtured his early career.

Off- and Off-Off-Broadway theater, he points out, is a "boot camp for artists" and "a laboratory" where "stakes are lower financially so the tolerance for risk can be higher." And risk, of course, begets growth. Daring innovation is born of limited resources, and in this way "you can create a whole theatrical universe around a few blocks and a piece of fabric."

So how would he advise the hard-working people who continue to make Off- and Off-Off-Broadway theater, often quite unluxuriously?

"To keep on," he says. "It's really a noble struggle, a great place to experiment and fail and a gold mine of interesting people, ideas, and talent.

"It can be a morass, too. I don't think anyone would deny that. But when there are flashes of brilliance, it's blinding. To find the means and tenacity to continue to be able to create and thrive in a sometimes hostile environment is probably one of the most exhausting, exciting, rewarding experiences one can have."

Musical Milton

When considering source material for a musical, the epic battle between heaven and hell seems an unlikely—if not fatal—choice. And yet, creators Benjamin Birney (music and lyrics), Rob Seitelman (lyrics), and Seth Magoon (additional lyrics) have taken the bait, adapting John Milton's much-canonized poem Paradise Lost into a sexy and evocative full-length musical. Their efforts, while not always successful, are unquestionably valiant. Skillfully directed by Seitelman and ferociously performed by an attractive, amped-up cast, this Paradise Lost provides passionate, muscular entertainment. And the stakes, of course, are nothing short of grandiose. Lucifer, God's most trusted angel, reacts with jealousy and rage when God creates Adam and Eve. After a divisive battle (staged with force and grace by choreographer Jason Summers), Lucifer and his followers find themselves banished to hell, where they begin to plot against humankind. As Lucifer's power increases, he takes the name Satan, solidifying the diametric opposition of good and evil.

The problem, however, is that most of us already know how the story turns out, eliminating much of the suspense and conflict. Eve, of course, inevitably takes a bite from the forbidden fruit. But Birney and Seitelman have wisely inserted a new character into the story—Sophia, Lucifer's lover. Representing various incarnations of the feminine divine, Sophia is "Wisdom" in the Bible and appears in both Eastern and Western religions. Here, she is also sent to hell with Lucifer, but her sympathy for Adam and Eve brings much-needed conflict and complexity to both her character and the entire show. We may know what happens to Adam and Eve, but what happens to Sophia is anyone's guess.

Birney has penned a lovely, difficult score for the sung-through show, full of sophisticated (often a cappella) choral writing, powerful anthems, and spunky vaudevillian numbers. Too often, however, the songs are too lengthy and begin to blend together. As it dutifully reflects incendiary themes of battle and revenge, the music is finally unable to successfully maintain the continuous fervor the material demands. The dynamics explode almost instantaneously as the action begins, leaving little room to build in intensity as the show progresses.

The action also becomes a bit blurry in spots; with so much plotting and bellowing going on, it is often difficult to track exactly which battle is being waged. And the emphasis on sexuality, while it creates intriguing conflict (a love triangle of sorts between Sophia, Lucifer, and Eve, for one), sometimes feels forced. The personifications of Sin and Death, for example, appear to be castaways from the latest revival of Cabaret, clad in sadomasochist splendor that is more embarrassing than effective. And in "The Temptation of Eve" (and a few other songs), the melody is obscured by the addition of percussive accompaniment that sounds suspiciously like tacky porn music.

The multitalented cast rises to the challenge of the material, offering well-sung, convincing performances. Paul A. Schaefer dominates the stage as Lucifer/Satan; he's a charming, seductive villain who sings and moves with finesse. Danielle Erin Rhodes is forceful and compassionate as Sophia, and although Adam and Eve function as little more than pawns for the angels, Darryl Calmese and Ashleigh Davidson (in particular) bring remarkable depth to their performances. Sarah Madej and Tynan Davis turn in beautifully sung, radiant performances as the angels Raphael and Terathel. (Music director Jeremy Randall also deserves accolades for his meticulous work on some difficult choral passages.)

The angels spar on a bare stage, and they are simply adorned (white tank tops for angels; black for fallen angels), with wings suggestively painted on the backs of their arms by the creative costume and makeup designer, Sarah Levine.

A dedicated (and sometimes thrilling) attempt to create a dramatic miracle from problematic material, this Paradise Lost doesn't quite work as a musical. But the talented cast and crew have created a production that is well worth watching, and Birney and Seitelman are a promising young team of musical theater writers. One hopes that, as they begin their next project, they will assume a task of less epic proportions.

Separately Together

Sometimes it's hard to pinpoint exactly why a musical flops. Take, for instance, Side Show. Despite earning four Tony Award nominations (including Best Musical) as well as a cult following, the show played a scant 91 performances during the 1997-98 Broadway season. Thanks to the reliable Gallery Players, it is now enjoying a heartfelt revival in Brooklyn—its first major New York-area production since its Broadway debut. Based on the true story of conjoined twins Daisy and Violet Hilton, Side Show chronicles the twins' rise to fame on the 1930s vaudeville circuit. Bill Russell and Henry Krieger penned a gorgeous score for the nearly sung-through show, including several power ballads that have since become contemporary standards.

Central to the show, however, are the twins, and director Matt Schicker has helmed an earnest production that smartly puts Daisy and Violet's humanity at the forefront. The action unfurls at a brisk, heady speed, carrying the audience along with the twins on their turbulent whirlwind adventure toward realizing their dreams.

Enterprising producers Terry Connor and Buddy Foster discover Daisy and Violet at a seedy Texas sideshow and lure them away from their diabolical Boss. Daisy and Violet "want to be like everyone else," but that means something different for each of them. The more introverted Violet longs for a loving husband and a family life, while Daisy, the extrovert, wants to be rich and famous.

They rocket to stardom as Buddy coaches them in song and dance, and romance also blooms (a bit problematically) among the foursome. Daisy is instantly (and very obviously) drawn to Terry, while Violet privately nurtures her slowly developing love for Buddy. By the end, each twin has realized her dream, but not exactly as she had hoped.

As the twins, Kristen Sergeant and Tiffany Diane Smith give convincing portrayals of two very disparate personalities. Smith is a comic delight as Daisy, and she mixes a lovely old-movie-musical charm with sassy grit to create a very fresh interpretation of the more feisty twin. As good as Smith is, however, Sergeant steals the show as Violet. Her graceful, open performance exhibits all of Violet's conflict and sensitivity; you never doubt her.

Both have strong, captivating voices that combine to sound like one, and the production numbers are well paced to showcase their developing talents. "Rare Songbirds on Display" is a vocal highlight, as is the big Act I closer, "Who Will Love Me as I Am?" A successful wig job makes Sergeant and Smith look alike, but I couldn't help wishing that more effort had been put into making them appear to be the same height (adjusting shoe height and matching their hemlines) to further suspend disbelief.

Energetic Jimmy Hays Nelson makes a perfect Buddy, youthful and bright with a stunning tenor voice. Matt Witten brings a slick, smarmy charm to Terry, and his performance—along with his warm, easy voice—becomes more solid in Act II.

In the rather thankless role of Jake, the black "cannibal king" who leaves the sideshow to accompany the twins on their journey, Melvin Shambry shows a lot of vocal passion, but his acting doesn't quite bring that fire into his interactions with other characters. Greg Horton is deliciously disturbing as the tyrannical Boss.

The ensemble offers strong performances, both collectively and individually. Unfortunately, they are often encumbered by awkward choreography and staging. In "The Devil You Know," a bit of West Side Story-inspired choreography turns the stage into a morass of misguided bodies, muffling the vocals. And at the end of several scenes, cast members slink slowly away from the action, fading offstage without any clear motivation.

Joseph Trainor has devised a creative and functional set that employs moving wooden panels painted for each sideshow character, while Melanie Swersey has chosen a lovely palette of costumes for the large cast.

Side Show is such an abbreviated ride that you can't help wanting to know even more about Daisy and Violet. Out of their personal tragedy (wanting what one simply cannot have) springs a very universal need—the desire to be loved for who and what you are, without apology. And in this production, the Gallery Players poignantly explore this theme as they bring the twins' story to life.

So why did the show flop on Broadway? One theory: Side Show launched the careers of Alice Ripley and Emily Skinner, who shared a 1998 Tony nomination for their performances as the Hiltons. Perhaps the nominating committee's decision to lump two very distinctive performances into one reflected the attitude of an audience (and society) that wasn't quite ready for the Hilton twins, and was more comfortable with grouping them together and casting them—once again—as freaks.

Speaking Directly: Playwright and Director Mark Finley

 

Mark Finley

I first came in contact with Mark Finley in his role as a playwright, when he mounted his play The Mermaid with the theater company called the Other Side of Silence II (affectionately known as TOSOS), where he is artistic director. I wasn't unduly surprised to learn, during my time around that project, that Finley also directs-as in other fields with limited resources, no one can afford the blinders of a specialist. But the good noises his peers continually made about his talents piqued my curiosity.

I was finally afforded the opportunity to see his work when he took the reins of Ross MacLean's Follies of Grandeur, which recently played at Theater for the New City. With the show fresh in mind, I sat down with Finley to discuss his views on directing for Off-Off-Broadway, his take on the current state of the theater, and the pleasures of sitting outside a stage door in pink pajamas.

Offoffonline.com: How did you get into directing?

Finley: I went to North Carolina School of the Arts for acting, then got involved in a theater company called the Native Aliens Theater

Collective. One day, a friend of mine gave me a book called Young Stowaways in Space to look at. It was a young-adult science fiction book written-in 1962?-for boys between the ages of 12 and 15. It blew me away how homoerotic, how sexist this thing was. It had to be seen. I figured that, rather than hand it to a director and say, "This is what I want, blah, blah, blah," I would try to direct it myself. So I came up with a framing device for it and basically staged the book.

Was there something about the material that made you want to take that step?

MF: It was the way it was written. It wasn't just the dialogue. The dialogue was bad enough. It wasn't written to be spoken. If you tried to make it the way a human would talk, it would just be dumb, instead of amazingly, spectacularly, charmingly dumb. I hope this doesn't get back to the author.

So that was your first full-scale production as a director?

MF: Yeah. I mean, I probably should've started with a simple, little three-character Chekhov or something, where nobody really moves, instead of moving nine people-who are onstage most of the time together-through outer space.
So yeah, I kind of started as a late sophomore/early junior and not a freshman at directing. But I fell in love with it right away. As an actor, you can only control your performance, if that. As a writer, you control even less; you control the word on the page, then you just kind of throw it into the ocean and hope somebody gets it. As a director, you're absolutely responsible for what the audience sees. I love that.

Thinking about the arc of things you've chosen to direct, is there something in particular that you look for in a script?

MF: I always look for humor. Also, the thing I love about Follies is the total humanity of the characters. I certainly had never seen this story told in this way, in such a theatrical, forgiving, human way. Nonsexual, nonexploitive.
Even the topless moments are nonsexual.

A testament to your skill, I guess.

MF: [Laughs] I guess. So the quick answer would be: first, humor, then humanity. With this one, I'm also walking away going, "Wow, I really kind of realize why I like to work on comedy more," because it's just more fun.

Because comedy generally has a higher energy?
I think it's just less depressing. If you're working on a show, it's a world you have to live in 24/7, and my release is humor, not drama. So I would much rather live in a wacky, kooky, nutty place than a very important, serious place for eight hours a day. Personal preference.

How do you view the state of Off-Off-Broadway today?

MF: When I first came to New York in 1987, Off-Off was literally a showcase land for people to get seen, to maybe get cast in stuff. Now-and this was evidenced last year with the IT [Innovative Theater] Awards-Off-Off-Broadway is so much more diverse. It's so much more than little groups of people getting together and saying, "Let's do Sam Shepard's Red Cross for two weekends and try to get some agents in." It's people forming theater companies and putting seasons together, trying to make a go of it. There are institutions out there that have always been doing that: La MaMa, P.S. 122. But companies like Emerging Artists Theater and Women Seeking… have established a watermark of "this is what we do." And people seek that out, and I think that's great.

What are your ambitions for the future? Is there something you're pushing toward?

MF: I want to be able to direct full time, all the time. Everywhere, anywhere.

Would you say that you have a philosophy that you adhere to in your directing?

MF: The way I approach a project came from my friend John Reese, whom I worked with on a project in Virginia a few years back. He stepped up and said, "O.K., this is how this works: I do my work, you do your work, then we work together, then we go home." Sounds pretty basic, but you'd be amazed how many people don't or can't adhere to that.

So hands-on?

MF: Yeah. This is going to sound really arty-farty, but I like to feel like I'm building a machine with my actors that I can leave and they can drive. Often, I've had actors come up to me after a production and say, "You know, when those lights go up, I feel like I'm stepping on a roller coaster and we just come out at the other side." And I'm like, "Good, that's how it should be." I'm not a fan of lolling around on the floor. It's not my thing.

Do you have a story that epitomizes what Off-Off-Broadway is for you?

MF: I don't know if this is a funny story or anything. I'd stopped acting for a while, and a friend had gotten me into a production of Pillow Talk, with Native Aliens [Theater Collective]. It was a stage adaptation of the movie, and I played Doris Day. I didn't do it in drag; I dyed my hair and I ran around in pink pajamas through the whole thing.
We had one matinee performance. It was early in the run and it was raining, so it was very lightly attended, and I'm sitting on the fire escape just out of the rain-I had maybe three scenes where I'm not onstage-just sitting there in my little pink pajamas and I'm like, "What the hell am I doing here? I'm in an almost empty theater on a rainy day in the middle of the spring, but I'm just so happy to be here. I don't even know why. I'm just so damn happy to be here."

No Room at the Top

In front of the script for The Right Kind of People, playwright/actor Charles Grodin quotes Abraham Lincoln: "Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man's character, give him power." Said power may be relative in Charles Grodin's condescending new play, but it nonetheless corrupts his characters absolutely, and as a result, virtually everyone in People save for Tom Rashman (Robert Stanton), the protagonist, fails this character test. But it's not as though Grodin's play is a particularly winning success either.

In the program, Grodin tells the audience that he based People on his own bitter experience as a member of an elite Manhattan co-op board, and one can still taste the sour grapes. Tom, the morally upright milquetoast, is a theatrical producer invited to join the board based on the recommendation of his Uncle Frank (Edwin C. Owens), a highly influential member. Frank and his wife Edna (never seen, only referenced) raised Tom when both of his parents died during his childhood, though Grodin never specifies how. This is a problem, as the question is never answered but calls plenty of attention to itself. It would have been smarter for Grodin to have simply explained why and moved on.

Not only does Frank serve as Tom's father figure and fellow board member, but the two are also producing partners, currently working on bringing a Revolutionary War play to the Great White Way. Unfortunately, this makes for overkill. It is easy to show how their personal relationship could be affected by a professional one, but either the theatrical relationship or the real estate one would have sufficed; the two here are redundant. Nonetheless, Frank and his nephew become estranged due to Frank's growing problem with the bottle and his estrangement from Aunt Edna.

Frank proves to be one of the foolhardy members of the co-op board, but not the only one. Events escalate as the members make rather racist restrictions, and an ill-explained feud between Frank and bleeding-heart member Doug Bernstein (Mitchell Greenberg) boils over once Doug takes Tom under his wing. Grodin's message is obvious and thematically facile: the rich and privileged prefer to keep company only with their own kind and will take drastic measures to do so. After a coup disassembles the original board, a new one emerges, but it proves to be even more outrageous; its members are racist, anti-Semitic, even anti-children.

Stanton does what he can, but Tom is not a character; he is merely the playwright's alter ego. Grodin admits this in the playbill when quoting a particularly nasty co-op board member who treated him like a vulgarian for buying his wardrobe off the rack (he repeats the line early in the show). As a result, Tom is merely a reaction, not a human being. Grodin also makes an awkward misstep by having Tom close the show with an expository monologue, the only time he breaks the fourth wall. It is hard to say whether he made such a choice due to time restraints or a lack of self-censorship, but it was still a mistake. These are choices that director Chris Smith's fluid direction and Annie Smart's impressively realistic set design cannot rectify.

Both Greenberg and Owens are excellent, solid, and resolute presences in their respective roles. Film and theater veteran Doris Belack steals scenes in a dual role as a stuffy board member and an apartment applicant. But a solid cast cannot elevate the material. Grodin sounds too whiny in People, with its rehashing of uppity Upper East Side stereotypes.

Lincoln also once said, "Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak out and remove all doubt." Here's wishing Grodin had kept his thoughts to himself.

Prey for Salvation

In many ways, it's easier than ever to be gay in America. Queer Eye for the Straight Guy has shown mainstream audiences that homosexuals can be cool, creative, and kind. Brokeback Mountain has shown that they can love and be loved, and that good wives and family ties don't "straighten out" the situation. Though there is, and probably always will be, opposition to the lifestyle, it is no longer a social (or literal) death sentence to admit your sexual orientation in most parts of the country. But what if we as a country started going backward instead of forward? What if the LGBT community were treated no better than child molesters, or worse? And what if this treatment was authorized, and, indeed, authored, by our own government? This scenario is played out in Temple, a chilling though oblique piece by Tim Aumiller.

The show opens with the appearance of Russ (think a blue-collar Sean Astin with a longshoreman's vocabulary) as he storms into an abandoned room with boxes and a covered couch and yells at nothing in particular. He's soon joined by Walt (a bespectacled meek type), who's brought his older sister Brenda (a mentally challenged religious type) to meet up with an old friend.

This friend, John, has masterminded a plot to take down the U.S. Supreme Court as well as a computerized database (housed within the court building) that tracks homosexuals in America in compliance with the newly passed "Samuel Laws." Walt, who provided schematics of the target, and Russ, who is also in on the attack, are there for a post-mission rendezvous with John to find out the next part of the plan.

John, their charismatic and handsome leader, eventually arrives with most of the rest of the gang: the twitchy, straight Kent; the unconscious Remy, wounded in the attack; and the tough-talking Suzanne. (The other two in their party have gone missing.) Everyone but Kent, a hired gun, is gay and committed, to varying degrees and for varying reasons, to the cause and to John. As they wait for a phone call that will provide a pickup location, personalities clash and much speechmaking ensues—speeches that clarify the stratagem that occurred as well as the reasons for its genesis.

Sadly, the more we learn about these revolutionaries, the less we care about them. Sure, their plight is terrible: when the authorities learn that someone "plays for the other team," he or she is forced to "register" and made to go through counseling and treatments. The person's parents are sterilized and tested as well.

But the play's characters categorize all heterosexuals and practitioners of organized religion as evil and believe that the loss of life, as long as it's not their own, is just part of their work. They spend most of the evening whining and fighting and being consoled by John, who talks about their cause with a persuasive fervor but ultimately comes off as a selfish manipulator.

The actors put forth believable characterizations, and David Rudd, as John, certainly has the magnetism to make it understandable why all of these men can't seem to quit him. Greg Foro's direction keeps the actors moving and the atmospheric tension alive. Yet the audience needs to have a likable protagonist in order to become emotionally invested in the events, however horrifying, and especially if they're fantastic.

There have been complaints over the last ten years that while gays and lesbians are finally starting to appear in films and TV series, they are often emotionally and sexually neutered. Yet their mere presence has opened the door for more complex portrayals in Queer as Folk and The L Word. Those shows offer characters who are defined not just by whom they sleep with but by who they are; the audience in turn identifies with them. The gang in Temple define themselves solely on the basis of their sexual identity, and while audiences may pity them for their situation, they'll be hard pressed to find any reason to like them.

Liberated

While it no longer packs the emotional punch of, say, Sophie's choice, Nora Helmer's decision to leave her marriage—and her children—to pursue her own happiness still resonates as one of the most thrilling denouements in theater. In A Doll's House, Henrik Ibsen daringly thwarted the social conventions of 1879 Copenhagen, challenging audiences to debate the character of a woman who, trapped in unhappy circumstances, finds her way out. In Nora, his 1981 adaptation of Ibsen's classic play, Ingmar Bergman pares down the cast and strips away scenes to better examine the cascade of forces that act on Ibsen's famous protagonist. In his streamlined revision, she emerges as a true prisoner of her household, but, more important, the extent to which she has been imprisoned within herself becomes frightfully apparent. While impeded by some problematic performances, Test Pilot Productions nonetheless offers an admirable New York premiere of Nora, thoughtfully directed by Pamela Moller Kareman.

Beneath the arches of the ArcLight Theater, set designer Joseph J. Egan places Nora within a half-circle of ominous birch trees, where she remains—minus one quick costume change—for the play's entire 90 minutes. The other four characters sit along the circle's perimeter, filtering through the trees to enter for their scenes, but otherwise simply watching the action as it unfolds. (Interestingly, Bergman used a similar device in his 1991 direction of A Doll's House at the Brooklyn Academy of Music.)

The omnipresence of these observers heightens the urgency of Nora's situation. Years earlier, she had borrowed money from Nils Krogstad to secure money for a trip abroad to benefit her husband Torvald's precarious health, forging her deceased father's signature on the promissory note. Now, Krogstad, whose bank job is in jeopardy, threatens to tell Torvald the truth—unless, of course, Nora can persuade her husband, newly promoted at the bank, to let Krogstad keep his job.

Backed into a corner, Nora unsuccessfully pleads with Krogstad, enlists the empathy of her long-lost friend Mrs. Linde, and considers how she might procure money from family friend Dr. Rank. Throughout, Torvald's cloying, patronizing treatment of his wife becomes more and more evident, building to their final—and powerfully realized—confrontation.

Ibsen's fully drawn characters resonate with both positive and negative traits, and Carey Macaleer finds the contrasts in Nora, deftly portraying her selfishness, vulnerability, and steeliness. Her high, chirpy voice belies her inner torment, and one can see how she is, as she describes herself, "not happy, only cheerful." It's a subtle difference, but one she plays well.

The other actors, unfortunately, are less successful in developing fully resonant characters. While perhaps limited by an abbreviated script, Troy Myers, as Torvald, is overly stiff, monotonous, and lethargic in his delivery. A more complex performance from this unsympathetic character would certainly give Nora's final decision more credence.

Sneering and gesticulating with abandon, John Tyrrell overplays the villainous Krogstad. And although Sarah Bennett and Tyne Firmin show welcome restraint as Mrs. Linde and Dr. Rank, respectively, neither has enough stage time to leave much of an impression.

But it is, after all, Nora's show, and this production is most notable for the attention paid to her journey. Matt Stine's original music underscores her thinly disguised manic state with taut intensity; in well-executed transitions, hauntingly and thoughtfully revealed by David Pentz's lighting, we watch Nora fall apart as she acts out her anger. These episodes reveal a woman whose real, serious emotions are perilously locked away.

To walk out on one's husband is far from scandalous by today's standards, but the struggle between Nora and Torvald—provoked by issues of money, integrity, and power—feels all too familiar. In a recent New York Times column, Judith Warner addressed the death of Betty Friedan (The Feminine Mystique) and the failure of our society to fully realize her ideals. "We women have, in many very real ways, at long last made good on Ms. Friedan's dream that we would reach 'our full human potential—by participating in the mainstream of society,' " she writes. "But, for mothers in particular, at what cost? With what degree of exhaustion? And with what soul-numbing sacrifices made along the way?"

Nora's life, as rendered by Ibsen and Bergman, certainly registers as "soul-numbing," and the play offers an important glimpse into the first murmurs of the feminist movement, which, it would seem, is still in need of further advancement. While Nora's words might often sound antiquated to our ears, much of it is all too familiar. "No one sacrifices his honor for love," Torvald tells his wife, who replies, "Thousands of women have." Watching Nora march out that door yet again, it's still difficult to imagine exactly where (or when) she might find true happiness and fulfillment.

Sketching It Out

You don't have to have much to put on a show. All you really need is a script plus people to read it, a director to give it a vision, and an audience to watch it all. It helps, of course, if you have talent. Maybe the most important thing to have is heart: if you love what you're doing, it will smooth out any rough edges. TimeSpace Theater Company's presentation of short plays by Christopher Durang, Dessert With Durang, has all of these things. It's performed on a tiny stage at the Payan Theater in the Times Square Arts Center, and there was little room for fancy scenery, extravagant props, or elaborate lights. The basic set pieces—some chairs, a table, a squashy armchair—were reused in various combinations for each sketch. Costume choices were effective yet basic; for example, silky fabric wrapped with a belt became a toga.

This was clearly not a production with a big budget, but the simple design elements never felt like limitations. It was apparent that the entire cast had worked hard. Also, it didn't hurt that the playwright behind the material was talented satirist Christopher Durang.

TimeSpace chose six of his one-act plays. The opening piece, "Medea," was co-written with the late Wendy Wasserstein and dedicated to her memory. This version of the Medea story is a tongue-in-cheek look at the paucity of dramatic roles for women in theater. Full of wacky anachronisms and witty references to other plays, it was a fun choice to start with because of the high-energy performances by Emily Sandack as Medea and Kim Douthit, Cecelia Martin, and Allison Niedermeier as the all-female Greek chorus.

The highlight of the evening was "For Whom the Southern Belle Tolls." Durang created a clever adaptation of The Glass Menagerie that is both hysterically funny and faithful to the tiniest details of the original. In this version, the collection of glass animals has been replaced by a collection of glass swizzle sticks, and the troubled daughter Laura is now the troubled son, Lawrence. As Lawrence, Justin Lamb was the perfect combination of sweet innocent and slack-jawed moron. His performance was essential to the piece, and he brought to it the right amount of earnestness and comedy.

Equally flawless was Maureen Van Trease as Amanda, the overbearing mother. She was able to embody Tennessee Williams's flawed Southern belle while also layering in the twisted personality Durang adds to the character. And both Lamb and Van Trease had dead-on Southern accents. Paul Casali (Tom) and Cecelia Martin (Ginny, the "feminine caller") solidly supported the other characters without being overshadowed.

Another sketch, "The Hardy Boys and the Mystery of Where Babies Come From," again featured Lamb, this time as Joe Hardy, with Richard Rella Jr. as his brother Frank. The two young men had great chemistry together, and each obviously relished his role as a dimwitted, sweater-loving Hardy Boy.

All of the actors gave strong performances, and there were no "weak links," as can sometimes be found in ensemble casts. Michael Raimondi's direction was consistent across all of the sketches, and his interpretation of Durang's occasionally bombastic satire (gun-toting religious enthusiasts, a teenage anti-abortion zealot) was handled with the appropriate amount of irony. The energy level of many of the sketches dwindled at their conclusions, as if the actors felt the playwright's particular gimmick had gone on too long. But I believe this reflects more on the material than on this production.

The only blemish on the evening was that a program of six short plays was maybe too ambitious to be presented without an intermission. While Raimondi cleverly added stage business to the scene changes, there was never a full blackout onstage, and the audience never had any time to rest. With the show running about 90 minutes, a brief intermission could have ensured that everyone was as enthusiastic about the last three sketches as they were with the first three.

TimeSpace is a small and relatively young organization, founded in 2004. It no doubt faces many of the same hurdles that all fledgling companies come up against. But it's clear that the members care about theater and are willing to work hard to put on a good show. Dessert With Durang is ample proof of that.

Rules of Engagement

"What I really resent," sneers Carl, the brutish, Arabic-spouting interrogator, "is what you force us to become." And therein lies the transference of guilt and responsibility that, for many in power today, seems to sanction some, if not all, of the unspeakable acts that are part of the American war on terror. Yussef El Guindi's Back of the Throat is a provocative and harrowing critique of that act of transference, centering on the confrontation between two presumed government agents and a young Middle-Eastern immigrant, Khaled (Adel Akhtar), whom they suspect had an integral part in the 9/11 attacks. In order for the production to expose the (il)logic of Abu Ghraib and wiretapping, it requires its antagonists—Carl (Jamie Effros) and his Southern sophisticate partner, Bartlett (Jason Guy)—to self-consciously convey the bureaucratic tedium of privacy invasion and torture.

Much of the dialogue between Carl and Bartlett deals with interrogation tactics and their justification. El Guindi mines corporate-speak, often to comic effect: If a subject screams for longer than ten consecutive seconds or if his vital organs are pummeled directly, the methods used against him are not warranted, but if those narrow guidelines are followed….

In Khaled, a bookish introvert, we hear the voice of the unjustly accused. The production succeeds at being simultaneously provocative and entertaining in large part because of Akhtar's strong, deeply resonant performance; his Khaled is immediately likable, eliciting our empathy and concern.

Downstairs at the Flea is a long, narrow theater space that frames the action like a diorama or a letterboxed film. Audiences sit snuggly in one of only two equally long rows, with the actors merely feet away from them. A short wall, against which Khaled is repeatedly thrown and pushed, separates the stage from the rows of chairs. This kind of intimate space also works to communicate the production's immediacy. We are voyeurs, passive and silent, watching as this man, as much a citizen as any of us, has his rights systematically stripped from him.

Although the Flea's artistic director, Jim Simpson, who directed this production, efficiently works flashbacks into the narrative, using every bit of the space to its fullest potential, I wish he could have coaxed as strong a performance from his other actors as he does with Akhtar. Jamie Effros is believable enough and does fine as the more physically intimidating agent. Jason Guy's Bartlett, however, is incongruously slapstick, at times almost a sadistic, Southern Inspector Clouseau.

Bandar Albuliwi dutifully plays Asfoor, a dead Arab man connected to 9/11, with whom Khaled may or may not have had a relationship. And Erin Roth plays three separate women who give accounts of their interactions with Khaled. While her librarian is adequate, she does best as the spurned girlfriend; her over-the-top stripper is funny, but the laughs are cheap and keep the character from fully being the voice of ordinary American fear and distrust. Perhaps the fault lies with El Guindi's script, which, for all its critical strengths, artistically relies too heavily on cartoonish caricatures.

In the play's final scene, Asfoor speaks of the dominance of the English language, which does not have the "back of the throat" sound that Arabic does. He describes his desire to learn English so he can participate in the most basic sense, and how his anger grew when that participation was denied him. Back of the Throat is an excellent addition to the dialogue we must have about the war on terror and the investigation of that war's effects on us.

Connect the Dots

We crave narrative so much we see it everywhere, from the stars to the dirt. We seek out the stories of things because stories assure us that those things really do matter. And when no story exists, no matter; our imaginations connect the dots into whatever picture or pattern we desire. And so when the affable bunch of theater misfits behind Too Much Light Makes the Baby Go Blind declare they're going to cram 30—30!—plays into 60 minutes of over-caffeinated, adrenaline-fueled downtown entertainment, the mind exclaims, "So many stories! So little time!" When they add that the audience plays an important part in picking the order in which those plays are performed—shout out a number when you hear the prompt "Curtain"—the mind simply reels.

But two minutes is hardly enough time to get the whole story, so we're invited to connect those dots and see patterns of ourselves in the dialogue, monologue, and dance. We see ourselves failing to connect, and then goofily managing to, in the wordless dance piece "Wind Up." We see our prejudices hammed up and spelled out in "Housekeeper," a biting deconstruction of liberal biases. We see and can laugh at our stubbornness and folly in the well-played "Smoldering in the Silence of an Apology."

We see our insecurities heightened into sharp, self-conscious relief during "Do-It-Yourself," a confessional between two minority actors (Yolanda Kae Wilkinson and Desiree Burch) who make a plaything of the divide between real and fake as they discuss the six new company members, almost all of whom are white. Yes, the mind says, I recognize that kind of non-PC, self-involved talk; despite the limitations of race and gender, I recognize the jealousy and the fear of encroachment, and the need to protect what's mine. I recognize it so much that I'd like the backstory, or at least the rest of the story.

But no. They've yelled "Curtain," and it's time to move on. And move on we do.

Too Much Light is the New York imprint of an improv-short play genre mash-up that began in Chicago in 1988. It requires patrons to determine their own ticket prices with the roll of a die and promises to get audience members involved in the process. Once the hour is done, someone from the audience is asked to role the die to determine how many new plays will be added to the menu the following week. Cast members collaborate, writing and fine-tuning as many as six new plays for the next show, a feat that explains the palpable energy level in the room.

On the night I saw the show, one of the most compelling plays, "East of Eden," consisted of two actors (Justin Tolley and Sarah Levy) who speak, respectively, as the narrator of a Genesis-inspired creation story and a modern-day woman. Their back-and-forth seems like the fractured dialogue between two people trapped at opposite ends of history; the male in an impersonal tone decreeing that this is how it is, while the female intimately meanders her way through a relationship.

All the while, the actors use Scotch tape to enclose an apple that has been cut in two in a square maze of lines and restrictions. Once they were done, they stopped and looked at what they had made and saw that it was pretty good. They sat in the middle of the box and taped together the apple. What exactly did it mean? Forgiveness? Resilience? The reimagination of generations-old wounds and the mending of that original rupture?

But I didn't have time to think it out. The actors yelled "Curtain" and thankfully managed to snatch me back out of myself. Back out into the space where narratives are being flirted with and discarded, like so much Scotch tape on the floor of a black stage.

Rock 'n' Roll Saviors

Chekhov once quipped that "if there is a gun hanging on the wall in the first act, it must fire in the last." This basic dramaturgical tenet wasn't heeded in the productions of Cowboy Mouth by Sam Shepard and Thick Like Piano Legs by Robert Attenweiler, now playing at the Red Room. Nonetheless, the two one-acts packed enough heat to make an entertaining evening dedicated to down-at-their-heels musicians trying to find salvation amid the squalor of sex, drink, and rock 'n' roll. Attenweiler's new one-act depicts the regulars at a dive bar on the Lower East Side. The bar's struggling piano player, Tom (Nathan Williams), has one last big night to perform before he's off to Georgia.

When he enters the bar, however, he discovers someone's stolen his instrument. No one has a clue what happened to it. Upset that a "baby grand can't just fly away easy like, say, a baby elephant," Tom lashes out at the burly manager, Jack. Jack suspects Tom swiped it himself before scooting out of town. Meanwhile, Joanie, Tom's girlfriend and a cocktail waitress at the bar, gets upset that he has decided to leave her behind like "a chewed-off hangnail."

The play begins, though, with a fourth character, Billie, flashing a large wad of bills and asking Jack, "You wanna know where I got all this?" Jack would rather remain ignorant of what he suspects are her illicit dealings. Billie (Mary Guiteras) is a ne'er-do-well who lives out of her car and dreams of being a lounge singer. Like Tom, she's also back at the bar for one big last night—of boozing.

What I found odd was that the play never suggests a connection between the big wad of bills that Billie suddenly and inexplicably possesses and the conspicuously missing piano. To me, this looked like the gun that never went off, and could have acted as a dramatic decoy in the "case of the missing piano." As it is, Billie, though an amusing drunk, becomes somewhat extraneous to the plot.

Despite its loose construction, the play has enough action to hold one's interest. Attenweiler's one-act evokes the ambience of Tom Waits's ballads through its drunk and dreamy characters' slangy, exuberant dialect that's prone to down-home idioms and exaggerated storytelling, though the language slips into mannerism on occasion.

Likewise, the actors display panache and swagger without overdoing it most of the time. Bret Haines as Jack evinced a quiet control that radiated the sly worldliness, if not weariness, of the longtime bartender. Vina Less, as Joanie, conveyed the love-struck hysterics of a bright-eyed youth without resorting to melodramatic screaming.

"Cowboy Mouth," an early Shepard rock opera he co-wrote with Patti Smith, is pure spontaneous combustion throughout. Two lovers alternately argue and entertain each other with silly games in a seedy apartment. Slim unleashes his frustrations on his guitar, but can't quite be the rock 'n' roll savior that his quirky girlfriend, Cavale, hopes for. She's torn between romanticizing Johnny Ace, the black rock 'n' roll star who blew his brains out, and her more domestic dreams of owning a dishwasher and fancy shoes.

Bored, poor, and strung-out, the two lovers play out a fantasy life where they frolic like animals, pretend to go shopping, and make up wild stories. Eventually, they call the Lobster Man to get them some food. This strange delivery person intrigues them, and they call him back as a kind of prank to see what will happen.

Shepard's stage directions end the play on an intentionally ambivalent note, with the Lobster Man, unveiled as the rock 'n' roll savior, spinning the gun Cavale uses in her Johnny Ace monologue in a game of Russian roulette. The hammer strikes an empty chamber, and the lights slowly fade to black.

But director John Patrick Hayden chose to ignore the detail about the gun from Shepard's staging, and ends with the rock 'n' roll savior exultantly sprouting wings while Hendrix blares like an angelic chorus in the background. Without the gun clicking on an empty chamber, Shepard's well-constructed and grim parable about becoming disillusioned with the false idols of rock 'n' roll seems to have turned into a feel-good spectacle.

Overlooking my minor quibble with the last image, though, this fast-paced and exciting production is like a reckless joy ride with a stolen car. Becky Benhayon brings spunk, humor, and her own eccentricities to her interpretation of the peculiarly morbid yet bouncy character of Cavale, while Adam Groves delights with his boyish charm as the jumpy, energetic Slim.

While there weren't any smoking guns, these two one-acts successfully capture the explosive energy of down-and-out drifters in sexy, smoke-filled dives. Like rock 'n' roll itself, with its all-or-nothing attitude in the face of youth's big hopes and slim chances, these plays help life's disappointments seem a little less lonesome.

In Black and White

Conversation With a Kleagle is loosely based on the life of Walter White, a black writer whose light complexion allowed him to investigate the Ku Klux Klan during the early 20th century and convey devastating inside information about its use of terrorism and lynching. The production reveals some of that potentially explosive life story, but unfortunately the script contains deep flaws, especially in the characterization. Most of the play revolves around two conversations between John Watson (the Walter White character), a black Chicago journalist who passes as white to travel in the South, and a Kleagle, or KKK recruiter, named Randall Monahan (Chris Keogh). The Kleagle, who is aware of Watson's background and thinks the black man doesn't "know his place," plans to kill him. Watson is then tipped off by a stranger, an African-American shoe shiner named Tookie, and narrowly escapes. But when he returns to Chicago, he learns that Tookie has paid for his intervention with his son's life. Watson decides he must face the Kleagle again and find out why he had the killing done.

Problems with the conception of these characters begin right away. In an expository opening monologue, the audience learns that Watson is black and that Monahan knows this. This could set up a potentially mesmerizing scene where Monahan drops threatening hints as to what he might do. Better still would be to keep the audience guessing about whether Monahan knows about Watson, based on the Kleagle's ambiguous and vaguely hostile language.

Instead, Monahan makes only a few threats. A conversation that could be about subterfuge, fear, and what isn't known turns into easy boasting. Watson cajoles Monahan into bragging about his exploits as a Klansman by agreeing with his racist views, and any potential tension is killed.

In the rare instances where Keogh is allowed to be intimidating, he is exceptional. Keogh is explosive, powerful, and threatening, someone you would not want to be at the mercy of. But he hasn't been given good enough material. Being completely evil, his character is too absolutist. There is nothing conflicted about Monahan, no questioning of who is right in his confrontation with Watson, and no indication of what the Klansman's motivations are. Instead of the nuanced evil of, say, Roy Cohn in Angels in America, we get the flatness of Darth Vader from Star Wars.

Another missed opportunity comes in the subplot involving Tookie, a modest, generous Southern black man, and, surprisingly, a stereotype. He is an endearing simpleton, a bootblack who, though ignorant, is noble in his sincerity and tragic in his sacrifice. As the friendly, helpful black man, he represents absolute good in contrast to Monahan's total evil.

The play also presents an irrelevant flashback dealing with Watson's childhood and the threat of racial violence against his family. His mother urges him to pass as white—advice, it later becomes evident, he does not follow except when he goes South. As indicated by his profession, Watson has decided to be black: he writes only for black newspapers. The flashback does little to develop his character, because the more central conflict is not over his passing as white but whether he will confront Monahan about what he has done to Tookie's son. Yet too much of the play deals with the issue of Watson's racial identity.

Furthermore, Andrew Burns plays Watson as someone who bears his torments mostly internally. He does not seem troubled; any evidence of his struggle over passing as white is not outwardly apparent in his gestures and expressions. Instead, Burns seems impatient to get to the end of each scene, and his character, though often appearing angry, never seems particularly tormented by racial injustice or by his mother's ambitions for him, as flashbacks suggest he would.

To the play's credit, there are a few memorable instances of unforgivably racist yet vividly descriptive lines that reflect hateful Southern attitudes. These lines are reserved for Keogh and his expressions of vitriol, delivered in a booming voice. And one directorial choice is creative, at least at first: the general Klansmen serve as stagehands so that during transitions where Watson is onstage they menacingly stare at him and pantomime threats. But the device becomes tedious after the second time.

In all fairness, writing socially conscious theater, for all its importance, can be uniquely difficult. The writer must walk a fine line between artist and reformer. Conversation With a Kleagle is a play rife with possibilities for great drama. It's too bad so few of them are realized here.

Saga of a Stripper Suffragette

Anyone who's seen the movie Showgirls knows it's easy to mock. The film's lame performances, abysmal dialogue, and embarrassing array of naked flesh make it difficult to take seriously. In fact, one could argue that because it's so bad, it would be a hard piece to satirize well: the film itself is almost a parody of ultra-racy movies of the 90's (think Basic Instinct, also written and directed by the Showgirls team). The creators of Showgirls: The Best Movie Ever Made. Ever! bring fresh mockery to the original by introducing screenwriter Joe Eszterhas into their irreverent mix. In their production, Jackie Flynn Clarke, a feminist professor at Queens Community College, interviews Eszterhas. Jackie is a fan of the film—she sees it as a potential vehicle for female empowerment—and with the help of her husband, John Clarke Flynn, and a group of amateur actors (all recruited from craigslist), she re-enacts scenes from the movie while posing questions to its writer.

Jackie clearly believes she has the gravitas of a Barbara Walters or James Lipton and treats Eszterhas with great reverence. "You're a friend to women," she tells him repeatedly. Interspersed with the recreated Showgirls segments are a video montage of the representations of Christianity in the Vegas performance number "Goddess" and the movie's entire "pool scene," shown without dialogue but enhanced by the movie's stage directions, read aloud.

This entire setup is delivered with a delightful vulgarity. The production is certainly not for the easily offended: the film clips include nudity, and the dialogue is raunchy. The actors playing Showgirls characters reproduce their dance numbers and sex scenes with libidinous abandon (in order to produce this play, somebody watched the movie many, many, many times). Everything works because all of the performers are completely un-self-conscious. The result is hysterical.

In the interview—the show's framing device—Jackie (credited as herself) and Eszterhas (John Reynolds) strike the right balance of earnest belief in their work and utter absurdity. Jackie's character is the perfect blend of lounge singer, drag queen, and politically correct academic. As for Eszterhas, Reynolds's foul mouth, exposed flabby belly, and swaggering machismo—plus his pasted-on beard and moustache—make him an uncanny likeness for the actual screenwriter.

The other member of the interview team, John Clarke Flynn (also credited as himself), has the important task of dramatically reading all of the movie's stage directions. He reminds the audience several times that "no stage directions were changed in the course of this production."

But the true star of the show was Lennon Parham as Nomi Malone, the "stripper suffragette." Parham has mastered the glazed, far-off look that, in the movie, Elizabeth Berkley passed off as acting. She even maintained her dignity when performing a lap dance to the theme song from Saved by the Bell. Her clever costume was a tight black top, worn under a pink halter; whenever the stage directions indicated that Nomi was topless (which was often), she pulled down the halter.

Her best moments were at the close of nearly every scene, when her character was supposed to emote heavily. Regardless of whether Nomi was expressing anger, sadness, or fear, Parham ended the scene with a high-pitched shriek and the destruction of a nearby object. This funny gag got funnier every time.

The rest of the cast did a great job in the supporting roles; each actor played multiple characters. Eric Bernat brought a wonderful physical presence to Henrietta and Marty, and was perfect in his black wig as Zach (played in the movie by Kyle MacLachlan). Julie Brister was commanding as Crystal, Nomi's nemesis, and should have had even more opportunities to show off her comic talents.

Jeff Hiller was not only funny but also quite a graceful dancer. Bobby Moynihan's portrayal of Nomi's best friend, Molly, was hilarious. He foreshadowed Molly's unhappy ending with a perfectly deadpan delivery of a line that kept the audience giggling long after he'd finished.

Will people who haven't seen the film get anything out of Showgirls: The Best Movie Ever Made. Ever!? Most likely. The show opens with an extended trailer from the movie, and each re-enacted scene is a reasonable facsimile of the original. Some jokes are reserved for those who've seen the movie more than a few times: the correct pronunciation of "Versace," or the taxicab that appears out of nowhere.

But the live version of Showgirls doesn't satirize just the film. It takes on Hollywood's excesses, the public's fascination with celebrity interviews, and even the academic appropriation of pop culture. There's definitely something for everyone, as long as you like things extremely funny and a little bit dirty.

Ibsen With Robots

Heddatron is an over-the-top, mind-bending, jaw-dropping piece of masterful camp. Everything about playwright Elizabeth Meriwether's new play is brilliant. Produced by Les Freres Corbusier, this outstanding production boasts an extremely original and well-written script as well as a magnificent cast, inspired direction, and flawless design elements, all of which combine to make this the must-see show of the season. In short, it is pure theatrical magic (with robots!) that leaves its audience slightly delirious and breathlessly wanting more. In suburban Michigan, Jane (Carolyn Baeumler), a depressed and pregnant housewife, reads Hedda Gabler. As she folds laundry and cleans her gun, she finds solace in Ibsen's words, identifying with the title character's situation. Weeks later, Jane's 12-year-old daughter Nugget (Spenser Leigh) prepares to give a report to her sixth-grade class on Ibsen and the "well-made play."

Meanwhile, in 19th-century Germany, a melancholy Ibsen (Daniel Larlham) plays with dolls as his sadistic wife (Nina Hellman), a severe woman who refers to her husband only as "Ibsen!," gleefully calls his manhood into question. Back in modern-day Michigan, mild-mannered Rick (Gibson Frazier) and his arms-smuggling brother Cubby (Sam Forman) prepare to rescue Rick's wife Jane, who has been kidnapped by…robots.

Images of a news report about the robot abduction assault the audience from every angle. Ibsen frantically works on his new play, pausing only to battle his loathed enemy, the sexually depraved August Strindberg (Ryan Karels), and to find momentary happiness with his slutty kitchen maid, Else (Julie Lake).

Nugget presents her report, advising her classmates that if they don't like Hedda Gabler, it's probably because they saw it on a bad night or are too stupid to understand it. Rick and Cubby, armed with an arsenal of illegal guns, head to the rain forest lair of the robots. Deep in the forest, Jane performs Hedda Gabler over and over again as her kidnappers, Tesman and Lovborg (named after characters in Hedda Gabler) and their fellow robots, swirl about her. That the four story lines converge during a group chorus of Bonnie Tyler's unrequited-love anthem "Total Eclipse of the Heart" is just further proof of this work's campy brilliance.

A mixture of wry observations, hilarious jokes, social commentary, and literary criticism, Meriwether's writing is sublime. Through Jane's story, Ibsen's imagined history, and the robots that tie everything together, Meriwether expertly deconstructs Ibsen and his play. Alex Timbers's direction successfully weaves together all the story lines, guiding his entire cast to polished, accomplished performances.

The acting is also exceptional. Leading the ensemble is the delightful Leigh. As Nugget, she holds the play together with her natural acting style and deadpan delivery, showcasing a talent well beyond her young age. Carolyn Baeumler mixes comedy and drama as the suicidal Jane, fully and often hilariously committing to each bizarre situation, particularly those involving her robot captors. She turns in a tender and heartbreaking performance.

Hellman stomps about the stage screaming "Ibsen!" and delivering putdowns with bull's-eye precision, stealing every scene she's in. As the lusty Else, Lake is perpetually surprised and clueless while delivering her lines with a high-pitched, helium-infused voice that provokes many laughs. In Lake's capable hands, Else's monologue about her mother's brutal rape is, surprisingly, a comedic tour de force.

Larlham comically captures the self-aggrandizing soul of the tortured artist; his conflicted Ibsen is a man more concerned with writing about life than living it. As the bikini-underwear-clad Strindberg, Karels hysterically swaggers about the stage, full machismo bravado on display as he conquers every woman in his path. Karels is the perfect foil to Larlham's neutered Ibsen.

Forman attacks the role of wannabe mercenary Cubby with psychotic abandon, earning many laughs as his insane kill-the-robots-scheme spirals out of control. As the quiet center of the play, Frazier appropriately underplays each moment, imbuing the clueless Rick with a dim uncertainty about what is happening or why his wife is so unhappy. Like Tesman in Hedda, Rick simply loves her.

The unsung heroes of Heddatron are the robots. Designed by Meredith Finkelstein and Cindy Jeffers, they perfectly capture the personalities of their Ibsenian counterparts. The Lovborg robot is hunky and brooding, Tesman is dumpy, and the others—well, they should be seen for maximum effect. The robots provide some of the funniest moments and are so well executed, they achieve lifelike dimensions.

In a city bursting with theatrical options, Heddatron is a welcome relief. Not settling for the status quo or uninspired mediocrity of so many Broadway and Off-Broadway productions, Heddatron dares to be more. And while the flash of the robots is certainly alluring, the production's real magic is all human. Meriwether, Timbers, Les Freres Corbusier, and the exceptional cast and designers have given the New York theater scene a remarkable gift.

In a Frozen World

Theatergoers bold enough to brave the icy weather and take the L train to Brooklyn's Williamsburg will understand that The Snow Hen has found the perfect location. Situated away from downtown Manhattan and even a few blocks distant from busy Bedford Avenue, the Charlie Pineapple Theater has an isolated air. This isn't where your life happens; this is somewhere else, somewhere remote. Based loosely on a Norwegian folk tale, The Snow Hen expands on the story of a girl living in solitude in a snow hut after being abandoned by her parents. She continually fishes odds and ends out of the snow, and after a few years she's grown a plume of white feathers on her back. After the audience has observed the heroine's fascinating and bizarre existence, a towering stranger dressed in a long leather coat arrives, perhaps the only other person left in the world.

Director Oliver Butler has homed in on the play's haunting melancholy, and all elements of the production—design, sound, lights, performance—blend seamlessly into a cohesive whole. Besides Butler, the Debate Society's creative triumvirate consists of Hannah Bos, who plays the girl, and Paul Thureen, the stranger. As both writers and performers, they bring humanity as well as pathos to this farfetched and fantastical landscape.

From the moment Bos first slips her hands through the curtain and "invites" us into her strange little world, we become a part of her existence. Such is the miracle of her spontaneity that for the first silent minutes of the piece, as she picks her way through a multitude of props, there is no evidence of rehearsal or blocking. Instead, there is simply an ease of being. Bos never seems to be "acting"; she simply is, and her bleak yet somehow bright existence inside her snow hut seems as familiar to the audience as any childhood memory. With its laughter and tears, this life is a warm center of emotion within a frozen world.

Thureen's first appearance is shocking. Appearing nearly 9 feet tall in relation to Bos, the stranger is a monster bringing chaos to her world. Thureen wordlessly dominates the stage as Bos desperately tries to continue her life as it was before he came. But as he begins to discard layers of fur and leather (expertly crafted by Sydney Maresca), we see the man within the monster. The stranger seems to be susceptible to the girl's influence, and her spunkiness begins to revitalize him as he thaws out from the cold. Eventually, we realize that he is just as alone—and as vulnerable and capable of wonder—as she is.

The scenic design is both wondrously inventive and effectively oppressive. The child's Fisher-Price scale vividly illustrates that the girl has outgrown her home. More impressively, nearly every piece of the set is functional. There is an extension cord on the wall, and if one of the actors plugs in a hair dryer, it works. The floor has an ice-fishing hole, and if the actors lift the lid, there is water and a fishing basket. The wealth of gadgets and trinkets allows the actors to make discoveries throughout the course of the play.

Mike Riggs's light design presents an effective interplay between realism and artifice. Inside the hut, the lights are powered by a generator and fade as scenes progress. Frequent patches of sunlight add a stark contrast to the normally frigid tones outside. A quick glimpse of the northern lights, breathtakingly rendered, creates a greenish, surreal effect.

Nathan Leigh's sound effects include voice-overs by Pamela Payton-Wright and Adam Silverman, which occur naturally and heighten the loneliness. Every element of the design seems to have a slight echo, like music heard ringing on for miles. Or maybe the music is miles away, and we hear only the echoes.

The Snow Hen offers unique joys as well as sadness. To classify the play as experimental theater probably does it a disservice. Though some of the concepts and the performance style might be appropriate for that genre, the piece's overriding message about the need for shared existence will be accessible to anyone who sees it. Audiences may depart the theater feeling as if they've left a part of themselves in this mysterious little pocket of reality. As if somewhere remote and cold, a piece of us is cataloguing trinkets and hearing the echoes of a life long gone.