Good, Wholesome Entertainment?

We all know milk does a body good, but does a play about four confused and horny people make for wholesome entertainment? Does the Body Good tracks the stories of two seemingly unrelated couples. We start with a down-on-his-luck milkman. On his first day at the job, a housewife plants a big, calcium-fortified kiss on him. The majesty of this kiss is such that it prompts him to break up with his fiancée, in the hopes that he and the housewife (whose name he doesn't even know) can someday be together.

Meanwhile, another story unfolds on the other side of the stage. Mr. Harrison is a junior high school teacher locked in an unhappy marriage. He is having an affair with a young, but precocious student. When he refuses to declare his love for her, she threatens to tell everyone about the affair.

For a performance like this to be successful, each half of the story has to carry equal weight. Unfortunately, this is not the case. The milkman story, which should be charged with erotic tension, falls flat. Olivia Henderson gives a shiftless performance as the housewife and you never quite buy the milkman's, played by Vince Eisenson, longing for her.

Fortunately, the other half of the play features a pair of fine performances. Ros Schwartz, who plays Quinnie, the lusty and precocious student, does a great job in a difficult role. You even believe her when she says things like, "I love your cute masculine whisper." Patrick Link, who also wrote and produced the play, is impressive as a teacher lost in lust in confusion, wondering whether his uninspiring marriage is worth saving.

It was Link's goal "to present four dangerously lost characters as they make the most basic possible decisions about what to do with their lives." Unfortunately, a sense of danger only permeates half the performance. In the other half, once the novelty of the kiss wears off, we're left with nothing but a milk mustache.

All Aboard? Almost There, but Not Quite

The first thing that comes to mind at the opening of All Aboard, presented by the Armstrong/Bergeron Dance Company as a “multi-media dance work based on trains,” is an old work that led audiences to run out of the theater screaming. With a beep of a horn in darkness followed by an oversized film of a subway heading towards the audience, the similarity is strong between this scene at the Linhart Theatre at 440 Studios and the experience audiences had in 1895 while watching one of the earliest moving films, L’Arrivée d'un train à La Ciotat by the Lumiere brothers. Being unfamiliar with the medium of film, audiences were reported to be terrified of the looming locomotive.

Like the Lumiere brothers, co-artistic directors Carisa Armstrong and Christine Bergeron are innovators of their field, challenging the conventions of modern dance by using multimedia. Their work doesn’t send audiences scrambling for the door, but it does leave something to be desired.

Broken up into seven sections, the dance portrays aspects of a typical train ride: from finding the best seat to the final departure. This work evades the downtown dance genre because of its extensive use of film. In addition to the opening sequence, interviews are shown with train conductors and passengers. Other footage includes the dancers repeating live movements in Grand Central Station. The video, projected on a constantly changing screen, notably distracts from the dancers, pulling the focus away from the suspension-filled choreography.

The exception to this is in A Look into the Past, a solo for Ms. Armstrong. Her lyrical style subtly demands attention more than the video. She relates to the screen in a more complimenting way than the other dancers.

Another successful excerpt without film is Chug-a Chug-a Choo Choo, featuring 5 of the company’s 7 females. Without challenging technique, the choreography allows the personalities of the dancers to shine as they impersonate a train. The dancers are visibly more comfortable performing to familiar music, by the Asylum Street Spankers, rather than the mix of train noises and verbal anecdotes to which most of the work is set. Ms. Bergeron seems to be the only dancer who can move naturally to these sounds.

While the purpose of including film is clear, All Aboard may be more effective if the video is limited to the opening segment. A single clip could set the stage for an evening of dance alone based on the transitory nature of trains. Theater audiences may not appreciate the contrast of dance versus film, but modern dance enthusiasts can certainly be on board.

Heartland Song

Bizarre antics saturate the New York International Fringe Festival, but one particularly brazen act will likely perplex and intrigue New Yorkers more than any nudity or profanity. Feast your eyes, dear cosmopolitan readers, on the simple joys of hay baling. Direct from the heartland, Farmer Song: The Musical is a charming, down-home venture set in Iowa and delivered by an authentic Iowan cast, some of whom, according to the program, are or have been farmers. Although it suffers from sluggish direction and the acting restraints of many of its cast members, Farm Song offers an important message cushioned by an endearing love story.

As explained in the program, the "farm crisis" swept the Midwest in the 1980s. Interest rates soared, land values dropped, and the resulting debt left many farmers struggling to get by. The show opens with the auction of Frank and Ruth Whitby's farm property. Despite the meager odds, their daughter Becky and her husband Carl decide to make their future in farming, and the musical chronicles their attempts to make a living.

Supported by a thumping three-piece band (fiddle, bass, and guitar), Joe Hynek's pleasant score—a blend of bluegrass, country, and folk—conjures up dusty roads and rusty sunsets. His lyrics are sometimes awkwardly phrased ("I wish that the wealth in our country was more spread across"), but certain songs, like the yearning ballad "Wild Rose," leave you wanting more.

The production plods along steadily in want of more focused direction. Conversations often meander and trail off inexplicably, and sharp attention to the show's central conflicts would certainly pep up its book. Stronger direction would also benefit the cast members, who—while earnest and plucky—turn in extremely uneven performances. The dissonant acting styles veer from naturalistic to presentational to completely bombastic. Still, Hynek and Amy Burgmaier (as Becky) generate sweet chemistry as the young couple. And Joel Perkins, the banker, gives a thrilling performance of the bluesy "Honest, Stubborn, and Simple," a melancholy ode to hardworking farmers. Perkins has such a genuine presence and lovely, easy voice that I found myself wishing for more verses.

If its melodramatic tangles are often laughable, the crucial subject matter that Farmer Song addresses is certainly not. Kudos to this hard-working troupe for trucking in to give New Yorkers a taste of something more wholesome and no less incisive than the usual artsy offerings. The Fringe is all about eclecticism and daring, and Pumptown Productions is working to redefine its borders on a new frontier.

Children's Hour

As the New York International Fringe Festival has grown, so have the ambitions of the productions that are a part of it. The "Urinetown effect" (which may be too antiquated a reference for New York newbies) has begat shows with high-profile actors, writers, and directors; strong production values; and serious artistic goals. Whatever happened to the kooky downtown shows of old? Some of that scrappy aesthetic is still kicking about in Princess Sunshine's Bitter Pill of Truth Funhouse. A nouvelle vaudeville for the snark set, this adorable confection features a small, talented cast of performers who sing, mug, and clown their way into audience members' hearts.

The driving creative force behind this piece is Princess Sunshine herself, played by Juliet Jeske. She is responsible for the show's script, songs, costumes, backdrop, and spark. While it's clear that she could put on great shows for kids—and, according to the program, does so as her day job—her wicked sense of humor and world-weary act make her a hit with adults as well. She's also got a knockout belt/legit voice, and can play a mean accordion and ukulele.

Jeske is joined onstage by her husband Joel, a clown by trade who is equally adept at verbal and physical comedy. His creepy Uncle Fun and intense Science Guy provide a little Borscht Belt and Bible Belt humor, respectively. Rounding out the ensemble is Brenda Jean Foley, possessor of a beautiful voice that harmonizes well with Jeske's, and Timothy James O'Brien, who plays a delightfully sulky Upper East Side teenage girl.

Together they make music, make jokes, and do a little puppeteering. (The hand puppets, created by Joel Jeske, are whimsical and backed up by great vocal work, though if they were equipped with rods for arm movement they would be even more appealing.) There are morals aplenty, but certainly not the kinds you get from Mister Rogers. If childish fun (with a devilish spin) is your cup of Fringe tea, why not have a drink with Princess Sunshine?

Fictional Authenticity

In Mary Brigit Poppleton is Writing a Memoir, an energetic new play by Madeline Walter, the title character, played by a vivacious Allison Altman, decides to fake teenage pregnancy as fodder for a memoir and as her opportunity to burst free from a mundane world. As long as her ruse holds up, so does the play. Under the nimble direction of Heidi Handelsman, the first act bounces along as Mary Brigit undertakes her mission: fake a pregnancy, gain her family's attention, and write a bestseller. The ensemble delivers stylized performances in keeping with Heather Cohn's set, which uses a series of candy-colored tables on wheels to form everything from school desks to a dining room table. Mary Brigit occasionally reads aloud from her memoir; its arch language contrasts with the play's pop-cultural sensibility and lends insight into her desire to be part of a grandiose world.

Handelsman keeps the material light and the pace up, never overemphasizing Mary Brigit's rhetorical questions ("Am I pregnant...Does it matter?") and providing space for the audience to recognize the ridiculousness of the situation. Her father's rapid succession of clichéd reactions ("Congratulations! -- I'll beat you! -- I'll beat him!") embodies the play's irreverent questioning of authenticity.

The second act sends Mary Brigit from her hometown in Ohio to Fire Island, New York. There, she falls in with teenagers who teach her to abandon her fantasy life. It's exactly what the play does not need.

Once Mary Brigit gives up the pregnancy hoax, the play falls apart. The first act's colorful tables give way to barebones realism as Mary Brigit learns to become one of the gang. By the time her new friends let her know that she need not join them in smoking pot and gleefully suggest they all get some candy and Coca-Cola, Mary Brigit Poppleton is Writing a Memoir has become the after-school special that the first act sends up.

In the play's press materials, Walter says she wrote the play in part to create a strong female character, but the second act has Mary Brigit join a history of female characters who require a charismatic, grounded man to rescue them from their own neuroses. That's a shame because Mary Brigit's quirkiness is the source of her charm.

NOTE: This play appears as part of the 2007 New York International Fringe Festival

Cut It/Cure It

The Our Lady of Pompeii Church’s Demo Hall is the fringiest of Fringe venues. Sunlight streams in from long neglected gray windows, icicle lights and fake ivy from some long abandoned post-service reception droop gloomily across the room, vending machines hum in the corner, and the seats are all on one level. It makes sense that the hall is home to Cancer! The Musical, the kind of boldly titled but low on quality show audiences have come to expect from the festival. The surprise is that, against all odds, Cancer! is actually pretty good. Who’d have guessed it?

Our story begins with a sextet of rats in a testing lab, each hoping that they’ll be the one to nobly die and cure cancer. One rodent gets his wish. The lucky scientist behind the discovery is Dr. Bernard Bernard, who hopes his awesome innovation will finally get him laid. However, it isn’t long before sinister insurance and pharmaceutical corporations are hunting for Bernard, forcing him to go into hiding.

The show does a nice job of combining its many slapstick gags and bad puns with the serious side of its title disease. The balance is impressive, and helped greatly by Topher Owen as Dr. Harris and Inga Wilson as Annie, the play’s young lovers. Dr. Harris is the show’s emotional core, but Owen is equally adept at physical comedy. Owen and Dustin Gardner as Dr. Bernard have a fantastic number halfway through the first act called “Cut It/Cure It” that’s worth the $15 alone. The remaining actors also drive the script forward with their energy and commitment. The most exciting numbers are the ones where everyone is onstage.

Despite being a lot of fun and having varying musical styles, it seems like the Fringe is the show’s current final destination. Work needs to be done if this wants to become a full-fledged evening out.

Strengthening the book would be the place to start. The show has an unnecessary intermission that kills momentum. Too much time is spent with Mr. Murphy, a mildly amusing side character. Sometimes scenes go on for too long. In particular, an extended early exchange between the show’s two female characters created a murmur in the audience over whether someone had missed an entrance. With these and similar improvements, the show has a shot at the mainstream.

Three's a Crowd

...Double Vision is a work that is certainly hard to characterize. Part slapstick comedy, part naughty romance, part heavy drama, Barbara Blumenthal-Ehrlich's play is a funny, and ultimately hard-hitting, show about the ways men go about sabotaging their most important relationships. Presented at the New York International Fringe Festival and directed by Ari Laura Kreith, Vision focuses on three roommates with women problems. The biggest problem is Dave's (Shane Jacobsen): he keeps pushing away the women in his life. Mark (Quinn Mattfeld), meanwhile, gets involved only with married women to whom he never needs to fully commit. They could both learn a lesson from their other roommate, the oversexed, 50-something Ben (Chris McCann).

No single member of this mini-fraternity emerges as the play's protagonist; they get equal time making questionable choices. Dave, for example, refuses to ask his girlfriend, Mary (Rebecca Henderson), to turn down a job offer and stay in New York. Ben, who at first seems smitten with his significantly younger girlfriend, suddenly falls for—and woos—the nurse who lives nearby. But when Mark eventually decides to steal Mary, the audience should question his motivation. How could he be so cruel to his roommate? And, more important, why?

Blumenthal-Ehrlich provides a solid premise but never quite gets around to answering these questions. Nonetheless, Kreith has directed some solid performances. Henderson, McCann, and Mattfeld are all quite credible in their roles, but Vision is really Jacobsen's show to rule, and he does so in a committed, manic performance that, coming so soon after his comic turn in I'm in Love With Your Wife, demonstrates a great deal of range. He shows that Dave has a lot more brimming underneath the surface than one might expect. I just wish Blumenthal-Ehrlich had spent more time explaining what lit the fire in the first place.

The Winter's Tale: A Musical Miss

The Winter’s Tale, like many of Shakespeare’s plays, has its share of problems, not the least of which are the time and tone gaps between Acts One and Two. Generally, owing to Shakespeare’s venerable verse (not to mention the sheer reverence for his name), these are problems that can be overcome in production. But wipe away the verse and add music and The Winter’s Tale Project, a musical import from Edmonton, Canada to this year’s NY Fringe Festival, has to work extra hard to do what Shakespeare could accomplish with the flick of a quill. Unfortunately, this production is not up to the challenge. There is nothing inherently wrong with making a musical out of one of Shakespeare’s timeless stories (West Side Story, anyone?). But it isn’t foolproof either and The Winter’s Tale Project makes for a widely uneven production with a handful of foolish choices.

For example, it is not unamusing to watch King Leontes’ irrational jealousy overtake him so suddenly in the first act. What is upsetting, at least in Shakespeare’s original, is the vehemence with which he feels the need to take revenge on his supposedly traitorous wife. But The Winter’s Tale Project is mired in unnecessarily exaggerated melodrama and leaves no room for laughs in its first act (the show is intermissionless, which is all the better as it can be assumed that a good portion of the audience would leave halfway through if one existed). Conversely, the show pleads for more melodrama in the second half.

After a full scene and a would-be In One musical number (if there were a curtain to bring in or set to change) about that famed stage direction “Exit, pursued by a bear,” the audience finds themselves in Act Two: rural Bohemia. The play is abruptly awash with airy, comedic situations that The Winter’s Tale Project handles with a less-than-deft, but largely enjoyable, ease.

“Piggy in the Middle,” a song written to elicit amusement, isn’t nearly as successful as David Demato, whose Clown is pitch-perfect.

Sadly, by the end of the show the overwrought sincerity of Act One has returned. Furthermore, the last hope for redemption is washed away as The Winter’s Tale Project eliminates nearly all ambiguity about what is, arguably, the greatest mystery in Shakespeare’s play.

In case it isn’t already evident, The Winter’s Tale Project is not a show for Shakespeare purists, nor is it a show for those lacking saintly patience. The production does get better throughout its nearly two-hour run, but the payoffs aren’t worth the wait.

Yee of Little (Then Lots of) Faith: Byron Yee Denies and Discovers his Heritage in Paper Son

Byron Yee’s one-man show Paper Son opened August 13. For an hour and a half, Yee takes the audience on a funny yet touching journey. From his childhood as an outcast in Oklahoma, to his decision to move to San Francisco to become a stand-up comedian, to his quest to discover how his family came to America, Yee weaves his stories together with a delightfully entertaining and moving narrative thread. The show opens with Yee recreating an audition for a role in a film in which he would have to play a stereotypical Chinese restaurant owner, Pidgin-English and all. Yee reveals that he does not know how to do a Chinese accent, nor does he wish to learn. This audition experience triggers a desire in Yee to seek out his Chinese heritage and ask questions of his parents and family that he never had any previous interest in asking. The show is divided into five different segments, opening with the audition that beautifully lays the foundation for the rest of the show. Throughout the show, the audience is introduced to an endearing cast of characters while accompanying Yee on his sojourn. Most effective is a meeting Yee has with a tour guide at San Francisco Bay’s Angel Island (the West Coast equivalent of Ellis Island, where Chinese immigrants were interrogated and forced to stay until they were cleared for citizenship). The tour guide tells Yee the fable of how the rat and the cat became enemies, which becomes a poignant metaphor for the Chinese people’s plight in their new homeland.

Yee, who is currently a successful Los Angeles based actor and comedian, presents a fantastic performance, portraying every character from clueless Hollywood casting directors to his parents with humor, sympathy and pathos. Paper Son strives to emphasize that no matter how a person may deny his own past, it is always a part of him. Deeply entertaining and informative, is a delightfully moving lesson that any audience should be grateful to learn.

Sexuality Abused

The best moment of To Be Loved is walking in and seeing the interesting arrangement of space at the provocative Lafayette theater. Little stages hang to the sides and back, and a big deep space in front is inhabited by two actors on a ladder. Actor Deena Jiles moves about seductively, like an African princess, on a platform to the left. Shadows hang about the walls of the theater, and people fill the rows of the theatre. The first scene is interesting to watch. A monk and his young lover move about together in a sweet flying motion as they make their way off their ladder. Beyond this scene, there are interesting stage configurations, ominous mood lighting by Chris Ghaffoor, and attractive costumes designed by Mark Richard Caswell and Kate Pinner. But the play unfortunately meanders into meaninglessness within minutes.

Inspired in part by Japanese Kabuki,To Be Loved, written by Alex Defazio and directed by Jody P. Person, tells the story of a monk confronting the reincarnated soul of his dead lover, a young male prostitute. The story, although unclear and overly acted, is relieved by moments of interesting physical movement and shadows cast on different parts of the stage. This long show (2h 15m) does pick up somewhat in the second act. Nevertheless, To Be Loved is an exploration of sexuality, gay and straight, that leaves everyone but its creators out of the loop. The ongoing sexual action and innuendos, including actors gyrating on each other, young boys seducing older men, women seducing monks with twenty dollar bills, ultimately left this spectator decidedly dis-aroused, sexually and otherwise.

Crying Wolf

If second-wave feminist performance artists had video technology in the 1970s, their work would likely have resembled the opening of She Wolves: Women in Sex, Death, and Rebirth. Written and performed by Raquel Almazan, this powerfully visual production consists of nine vignettes, each depicting a different fierce woman. In the opening sequence, The Ritual, Almazan appears as Wolf Woman, dressed in furs that don’t obscure her body. Her prerecorded voice reverberates over the sound system as she skulks around the stage, releasing unironic, intensely committed howls. At times she joins with the recorded voice in telling of woman-as-wolf mythology and relating a history of taming women to a history of taming wolves.

Wolf Woman carries with her a bag of women’s bones; presumably the subsequent vignettes depict the women to whom the bones belonged. The next scenes feature strong, intriguingly weird female characters, including Dainty Lady, dressed in roller-skates and a crinoline, coquettishly waving a small fan; The Reporter perched atop a TV screen broadcasting scenes of wolves; and The Virgin Stripper violently deflating a blow-up doll.

Too few of the vignettes, however, exhibit the raw, underlying animalism expected from the wolf metaphor. Instead, the consistently strong visual images provide the evening’s connective tissue, starting with the first sequence in which a video montage behind Wolf Woman depicts Almazan in a Victorian home (writing with a quill, rushing down stairs, staring out windows and into mirrors), looking trapped and desperate. It’s an interesting juxtaposition with the taut, ferocious wolf that she plays onstage.

Director/choreographer Dora Arreola, with the help of lighting effects by Oveta Clinton and costumes by Francesca Mirabella, has a sharp eye for clean visual images that pop out in the busy mixed-media piece. The video art, designed by Tatiana Sainz, never achieves the magnificence of these onstage images.

A virtuosic physical performer, Almazan's Buhtoh-inspired movement lends strength and specificity to each of the women she portrays, just as she modulates her accent, rhythm and pace of speech.

A performance that uses mixed media to address wide-ranging issues of femininity runs the risk of losing audiences in a vague, frenetic world, but the discipline with which Alvarez embodies each character grounds this bold piece.

Game Over

Helmet is a play composed of two incongruous parts. The first half is intense physical theater at its finest, but has a mostly unintelligible storyline. The second half features a terrific monologue and some interesting interaction between the two characters, but it loses the corporal specificity of the first section. If the two halves were properly combined, they would create a highly compelling experience. As it stands now, Helmet is an intriguing but ultimately frustrating hour in the dark. Sal is a video game storeowner facing bankruptcy and living in the shadow of his more successful brother. Despite Sal’s financial and personal troubles, teenage gamer Roddy thinks he has a dream job. Roddy (aka Helmet) comes into Sal’s store every day to talk shop and buy the latest diversion. As the lines between game and reality blur, will either be able to survive the store’s imminent closure?

Playwright Douglas Maxwell, who formerly worked at a video game shop in Glasgow, shows his gaming knowledge in his dialogue. His play is peppered with terminology that might confuse audiences who grew up with the original Nintendo, an Atari, or nothing at all.

As Sal laments in one scene, his industry is so obsessed with the next best thing that three years ago is an unthinkable eternity for most gamers and manufacturers. Sal asks why graphics need to be continually improved to please consumers. A good game is a good game, no matter how old it is. Observations like this are more likely to hit home for players who follow the industry.

Maxwell repeats many of the scenes in his play as if each character had multiple lives, as do the characters in typical video games. The idea is cool, but it clouds his intent. Is Maxwell’s point that given the ability to relive moments in their own lives people might choose to make things easier for themselves rather than facing the grim nature of reality? This seems to be what the play is trying to communicate, but it is difficult to know for certain.

Both Michael Evans Lopez as Sal and Troy David Mercier as Roddy/Helmet fully commit to their Viewpoints grid physical score in the tiny Players Loft space. With the limited rehearsal time generally available for Fringe productions, it’s great to see two actors genuinely working together. Now if only the two sections of the play could do the same.

Ring in the New

The cast members of End's Eve: The Feast of 2012 congregate to ring in the new year, but they do so on Dec. 21, a few days earlier than tradition dictates. Why? Because, according to ancient Mayan prophecy, on that date in 2012 the world will end and be reborn. And so Leo (Nic Few) and his partner, Davis (Ethan Matthews), have decided to throw a costume party commemorating this passage. Written by Jennifer Gnisci and Hilary Park, the play follows the lives of these characters as midnight nears. Tuly (Marnye Young) is an eccentric Southern belle who relies on the comfort of Jack Daniels and special mushrooms, and has a habit of taking her beloved Mick (Tony Naumovsky) for granted. Xi (Devon Berkshire), hints that the personal demons she expelled when giving birth to daughter, Pi (Lauren Orkus), may indeed be returning.

Unfortunately, with a cast this size, it is difficult to familiarize the audience with all characters equally. I found that some important details explaining their backgrounds and histories with one another were missing.

Still, Young does an exceptional job conveying the play's theme of freedom and fear with a bold performance that's dynamic enough to draw viewers in but warm enough to show why the other characters are drawn to her. Orkus is also worth noting for effortlessly playing a young child quite younger than her actual age. And Timothy Smallwood hits the appropriate enigmatic notes as the mysterious guest Bardo.

As is the case with many shows at the New York International Fringe Festival, the play sometimes suffers from a kind of slapdash mayhem. For example, at certain times various party guests retreat to what is supposed to be a rooftop, but it appears as though they are merely walking to another part of Tania Bijlani's apartment set. Director Erik Bryan Slavin has a difficult task, always having to stage his full cast and move them around in various groups before the audience gets bored with the positioning in front of them. And when they're in the background, some actors appear to break character, simply watching the action, to which they should be indifferent.

Ultimately, what End's Eve portrays best is the mood. Slavin and the writers suggest an atmosphere of insecurity, where the world the characters know and the rules that govern it are coming to an end. It's both exciting and scary, just like real life.

A Musical Political Adventure

Terry Baum gets more than she bargains for when she volunteers with the Green Party. Fed up with the Patriot Act and the way the Democrats are responding, she soon finds herself running for Congress with no political experience. With fellow member Ilsa (played by pianist and composer Scrumbly Koldewyn in a lovely wig and leopard-print dress) as her manager, she becomes a write-in candidate on the 2004 ballot in San Francisco and journeys from stammering, apologetic neophyte to eloquent, confident politician. Baum portrays this transformation well, but BAUM FOR PEACE: The True Adventures of the Slightly World-Renowned Lesbian Playwright Who Ran for Congress, written and performed by Baum, ultimately suffers from inconsistent style and form. The songs, with music by Koldewyn and lyrics by David Hyman, are reminiscent of the 1960s/1970s political revues and vaudeville. With fun, silly rhymes like "arrow" and "Clarence Darrow" and “don’t have time to spare-o,” this musical style is fighting the straight-forward style of the rest of the show. Every time a song starts, the audience needs time to adjust. When the songs ends, Baum abruptly switches back to her more serious narrative (although there are a handful of jokes in the dialogue). One wishes that she would pick one of the storytelling forms, creating either a frothy yet smart political revue or a tighter narrative. Baum sells the songs, but going back and forth between the two styles throws her off at times, creating a shaky and uneven performance.

There are some nice elements despite the consistency problems. Baum’s character is engaging and inspires empathy, and the political process she navigates is fascinating and enlightening. The best moment of the piece occurs when the results of the voting come in. Baum has gotten 2.9% of the vote and is dismayed at the tiny percentage. Ilsa, however, is overjoyed. This is the largest percentage any small-party write-in candidate has gotten in United States history. It is then Baum realizes that with all her optimism, she never really had a chance. Her face falls as though she’s known this fact inside all along but ignored it with all the campaign excitement. She accepts her small success with a smile and moves on.

In spite of its weak points, BAUM FOR PEACE’s story lingers after the performers have left the stage, perhaps because the audience is much like Baum-- outraged citizens who want to be heard.

Putting Away the Hater-ade: BASH’D Keeps it Real

On August 12, I hit the Village Theatre for a performance of Chris Craddock and Nathan Cuckow’s Bash’d: A Gay Rap Opera. I must admit, the title is what attracted me to this production, because the words Gay, Rap, and Opera don’t appear in the same sentence very often. In this case they go together brilliantly. Craddock and Cuckow (with help from music coordinator, Aaron Macri) have constructed a smart, funny and affecting piece of theater told entirely through the rap medium. Their rhymes are tight, clever, refreshingly out of the closet and above all, successful in conveying the tragic story that is the foundation for Bash’d. The show opens with Craddock (a.k.a. T-Bag) and Cuckow (a.k.a. Feminem) donning angel wings and encouraging all the “real faggots” to “limp their wrists in the air.” After this in-your-face introduction, the pair go on to narrate a story about two “star-crossed lovers” named Dylan and Jack who meet in a gay club, fall in love, get married (the show takes place in Canada, right after gay marriage was legalized) and seem primed to live happily every after, until, one night, Jack is gay-bashed by a gang of straights. Angered and frustrated by the police and the community’s failure to do anything about it, Dylan seeks revenge on his own terms.

Throughout the show, these two performers play every character from the lovers to their parents to the various faces that occupy the gay club scene. Both actors give an intensely energetic and convincing performance in every role they assume, eliciting both laughs and tears from the audience sometimes within the same line. Utilizing humor and their incredible “gift of gab” they put across an anti-hate message that is poignant without being preachy. The most effective moment in the entire show comes at the conclusion, when Craddock and Cuckow step forward and offer up shout outs of “Rest in Peace” to those who have been killed as a result of being gay-bashed. Overall, I left the theater thoroughly entertained and affected by this piece and would recommend it to not only gays, rap fans, or theater aficionados, but anyone who enjoys a great piece of storytelling.

Adrift at Sea

Married to the Sea, Irish playwright Shona McCarthy’s first full-length play, both compels the audience and leaves them adrift. Jo, an eight-year-old girl in Galway, Ireland’s Old Claddagh sea-faring community, longs to join her father at sea. She is left at home, where she struggles to understand family secrets and her father’s disappearance. When the secrets are revealed, however, they leave the audience bewildered and uncertain of their meaning. Siobhan Donnellan (Jo), has the difficult task of pushing the story along, as she is onstage throughout the entire play and has several long narrative monologues. She not only succeeds in her mission but is a fascinating actress to watch. Her face twists as she tries to comprehend her mother’s lunacy and widens into a grin when she’s telling a joke. McCarthy also brings depth to her role as Jo’s mother Mam, with haunting, vacant eyes that gaze out somewhere beyond the water.

The father’s character is a crucial missing piece of the story. His scenes never have the emotional weight they need to account for his strong effect on Jo. This might be due to the fact that Fiachra Ó Dubhghaill, the actor playing him, also plays six other characters (all seamlessly). The father’s character needs to anchor the story, yet he floats in and out.

The appearance of a woman named Queen of Sheba (Agnes Carlon) could be put to better use. When her name is mentioned, she emerges from behind the curtain, moves exotically and then disappears. Since she is the one who lures Jo’s father away, she demands a stronger presence, even if it is just a longer dance, so that her and Jo’s father’s actions are not as fleeting and insignificant as they currently seem to be.

In spite of its flaws, the play is imaginative and features enjoyable, lyrical language. The sea’s mystical quality permeates the story, almost suspending time, as the characters look out at the water with longing. The stage, bare save for a low table, a clothing rack, and a curtain, perfectly evokes the sea-faring town and the emptiness that both inhabits the characters and surrounds them. It would be nice to stay in this real yet magical land longer once the story elements are worked out because Married to the Sea has the potential to be an emotional and transcendent theatrical experience. As it stands now, see it for an original and compelling premise but be prepared for a wave of confusion.

Playing the Game of Life 2.0

If Brian Bielawski, the co-writer of and solo actor in Gamers isn’t a player of Massively Multiplayer Online Games (MMOGs), he must have done some intensive research for his role. As Steve, a drop-out from MIT working in tech support for a software company, Bielawski has the stereotypical gamer look, mannerisms, and lingo down frighteningly well. But unlike many gamers, Bielawski has a good sense of humor about the MMOG phenomenon and the people caught up in it, and he makes the short play very entertaining to watch. The set consists of Steve’s tiny office cubicle, its walls papered with anime and sci-fi posters and its desk cluttered with toys and Mountain Dew bottles. He would seem to be just another office drone, irritated by his “jack-in-the-box” cubicle neighbor, an annoying boss who keeps insisting for some reason that he work, and, of course, by the idiots calling tech support. But Steve is actually the leader of what he believes is the best MMOG army ever assembled. Today he’s leading that army into enemy territory to reclaim a “relic” stolen the previous month. At least, that’s the plan, if he can avoid getting sabotaged by inconvenient intrusions from the real world, such as his girlfriend.

The army’s progress to and through battle provides a convenient dramatic plot hook that keeps the audience on the edge – will Steve’s team win, or will his newbie protégé mess things up? But the game also offers a backdrop to the exploration of slightly more serious subjects. As Steve hunches in his chair, clad in a baggy sweatshirt and jeans, typing frantically away on his computer or juggling his cell phone and work phone headset, one can’t help but contrast this weak, skinny gamer with someone who might have led real army legions in the past. Have humans actually evolved? Less subtly, Gamers shines a critical light on Steve’s inability to grow up. He concentrates all his energy on a fantasy world instead of working on his relationship or reapplying to MIT and figuring out a real career.

Bielawski’s acting is good enough and Gamers moves along well enough that he and his co-writer Walter G. Meyer could have conveyed this message without spelling so much out, but in the end they take the easy route of telling rather than showing. Fortunately, audiences will be too busy laughing at Steve’s grandiosity and geeky antics to care. Gamers manages the neat trick of making the isolated MMOG player’s world into something others can enjoy watching.

Act of Faith

The Gospel According to Matthew, written and performed by Matthew Francis, probes fundamentalist Christianity’s approach to homosexuality on both a philosophical and a personal level.Francis melds autobiographical storytelling with documentary theater to produce a compassionate examination of the topic –- and a compelling theatrical work.

In an hour and 40 minutes, this impressive production, adeptly directed by David Drake, distills eight years of Francis’ interviews with prominent religious and intellectual figures (Rev. Fred Phelps, founder of www.GodHatesFags.com; Rev. Mel White ; Rene Girard ), gays, evangelicals, gay people who once identified as fundamentalist, fundamentalist who once identified as gay, and more. Francis’ quiet ease embodying each character belies the ambitiousness of such an undertaking.

Francis studied extensively under Anna Deavere Smith, whose ground-breaking solo shows blurred the lines between theater and journalism, and it shows. His portrayals are expertly executed, never veering toward broad caricature or vague abstraction. Like Smith, Francis uses simple costume pieces (a sports jacket, eyeglasses, a do-rag) to visually denote each character and seamlessly transition between them.

Francis proves equally deft at relaying his personal history as a gay man who once aspired to become a leader of fundamentalism. Sharing his own stories – and they are heart-achingly good – allows space for Francis to develop a rapport with his audience and humanizes what might otherwise be a stark presentation of frequently unpalatable opinions.

A recurring theme in the production holds that in Christianity, speaking is an act of faith. By giving voice to diverse –- and divisive –- ideas, The Gospel According to Matthew embodies that ideal. Speaking as an act of faith also describes Francis’ style of performance, in which listening likewise functions as an act of faith. Audiences of Francis’ storytelling will find their faith aptly placed.

Going Out With A Whimper

Larke Schuldberg has a powerful subject to work with in BANG/whimper, her brief two-character suspense play. Tensions in the former Yugoslavia haven’t faded with the end of war in the 1990s and the death of Milosevich. As a result, the stakes are bound to be high when Goran (Drew Bruck), a Serbian working as a painter in Berlin, brings Sabina (Risa Sarachan) back to his apartment with the intention of painting her and maybe getting some play, and instead she confronts him about what he did in the war. Unfortunately, neither actor seems fully invested in the conflicts (the immediate one between the characters or the distant ethnic one that provoked the other). As a result, the play mostly falls flat, in spite of all the threats and shouting that erupt. As the show begins, Sabina refuses to tell Goran her name. She has good reason beyond coyness for being evasive, the audience finds out later, but to reveal that here would ruin much of the nervous energy that the play possesses. As Sabina poses in an armchair, she asks pointed questions about Goran’s past and mentions that she is searching for her beloved older brother, who disappeared some time ago. Both these fixations point toward the eventual revelations about her own history, but when those come they are nonetheless surprising for the audience.

Though Schuldberg’s writing at times lacks nuance, the surprise is caused more by Sarachan’s utterly nonchalant, indifferent presentation of the character. At the outset, Sabina is supposed to be acting normal, so there such casualness is warranted to some extent. But even when Sabina shows all her cards, Sarachan seems detached, which makes it difficult for an audience to feel engaged by and concerned about the character she portrays. Bruck brings more urgency to his role, but still fails to effectively and consistently communicate his haunted, lonely persona.

It’s admittedly hard for most people outside the region to comprehend the conflict in Yugoslavia on more than a news-based, intellectual level; it has been going on for centuries. However, it is an actor’s job to feel foreign emotions personally and to cause audiences feel them in turn. This doesn’t happen in BANG/whimper, so its potentially provocative ending does not reach its potential, and neither does the show as a whole.

Hamlet Lives Again

Given all the bloodshed that brings Shakespeare’s Hamlet to a close, there would seem to be limited opportunities for a sequel. However, as the box office success of countless horror movie sequels, and the artistic success of Tom Stoppard’s Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead have shown, there is no reason to let a pile of corpses get in the way of spinning off a new story. In her ingenious but difficult new play, Isabelle Assante took that lesson and extended the life of Hamlet past the title character’s death. She did so using Shakespeare’s text: cut up and rearranged, the original play’s lines, plus a few incidental additions, have become Horatio. The new production is born from a verse spoken by the dying Danish prince to his friend Horatio, in which he implores him to tell the world the story of what has happened. This scene is reproduced by a group of five actors who form a sort of chorus for the play and whom Horatio (Richard Gallagher, in an outstanding performance) has engaged to fulfill his dead lord’s request. Horatio plays his own part, but it is visibly hard on him. Afterwards, he decides he can bear the pain no longer, and before long he and the chorus are in the cemetery. When Hamlet (John Pasha) enters he’s crazier than ever, and not happy to see Horatio; Pasha, wild-eyed, terrifies those on stage as well as everyone in the audience.

Although the lines and characters are familiar to anyone who has read Hamlet, Horatio can be hard to follow. Elizabethan theater conventions are challenging anew, and the Shakespearean diction is as puzzling as the first time a viewer sees one of his plays. Hamlet is a part of the English-speaking world’s cultural consciousness, but Horatio doesn’t have that familiarity to aid comprehension. The lines are not totally reshuffled – a few scenes appear nearly whole, like the play-within-a-play The Murder of Gonzaga, the apparition of the king’s ghost, and Hamlet’s soliloquy. But in new contexts and on different lips, the words are utterly changed in meaning.

This is exciting, but challenging. Shakespeare scholars and anyone who enjoys parsing difficult plays should plan to attend at least twice in order get the most from the experience that is Horatio. Others who don’t have such interest or patience for a production that doesn’t reveal everything upon first viewing will be frustrated. Assante’s bold experiment with the hallowed Hamlet will linger in the mind long after its much less bloody conclusion.