Less is More

The ten-minute play has become a genre in its own right. As the producers of Stage THIS! A Evening of F-----n Fabulous Ten-Minute Plays note, the form was “originally intended as a way for playwrights to audition their work in small-scale productions.” There are many reasons for the increasing popularity of the ten minute-play—some of them have to do with distressingly short attention spans among theater-goers. Ten-minute plays generally do not require complex staging and more playwrights get to see their work come to life. And, if a particular piece is poor, well, they’ll be another one in ten minutes. The producers of Stage THIS!, Sydney Stone and Frank Blocker, are remarkable for the respect they accord playwrights and their work, an attitude to be applauded. They want to give everyone a chance; no fewer than twelve plays are featured in this production of Stage THIS!. The production is a microcosm of what is good and bad about the 10-minute play genre. The producers’ main flaw is perhaps being overly magnanimous to more submissions than this production should logically accommodate, since most of the pieces are light comedy and the minority are grave and acutely sober.

It’s been noted elsewhere and often that the theater is currently suffering through an invasion of sit-com writers in disguise. That seems evident here; several of these plays seem to emulate “Must See TV.” Our Little Angel by Steven Korbar, about a husband and wife duking it out over a min-Hershey bar pilfered from their daughter’s plastic Halloween pumpkin, would fit in nicely as a plot in The Family Guy. I can easily imagine Larry David from Curb Your Enthusiasm arguing with the talented Emilie Byron at “Y-Mart” over the last package of condoms in J. Michael Harper’sThe Last Box . And Moti Margolin might as well be playing an anxiety-riddled George Costanza as he confesses to his friend Carl (Eric C. Bailey) in John Tyler Owens’Blue-Collared Dreams his recurring nightmare about performing oral sex on a male co-worker. All three of these plays are entertaining and as funny as anything you will see on television.

Yet, all this comedy sometimes confounds the earnest and solemn plays on the same bill. Piney Ridge by La’Chris Jordan, though not original in the slightest, and hobbled by poor acting by both of its male actors, grapples with the bloody 1920’s lynching of a young black man accused by a white woman of rape. While occasionally powerful, it just seems thrown in for good measure. Moonshine on the Rocks, a syrupy remembrance of love past by a now elderly woman, benefits from some exceptional slight-of-hand directing by Frank Blocker, but goes in a different direction entirely from what immediately follows, Whatever Happened to…the Three Sisters? by Bill Cosgriff, an absurd psychotic riff, anchored by the consistently excellent (she stars in three of these plays) Stacie Theon, on Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?. The fictional Forrest Gump’s maxim, “Life is like a box of chocolates…you never know what you’re gonna get,” may be even more applicable to a wide-ranging collection of ten-minute plays, such as those in Stage THIS!. While most of the plays are invigorating in their own ways, here are the standouts to watch for, if you go:

By the Australian playwright, Alex Broun, Saturday Night Newtown, Sunday Morning Enmore is a gentle and poignant piece about two lonely hearts who share a night of drunken romance and how the awkwardness of the morning after can be assuaged with a little light-hearted imagination. Remarkably, Night Nurse was the first play that playwright Cara Vander Wiel ever submitted for competition; it’s superb. A demented and desperately lonely nurse working the night shift, played by Ms. Theon, reveals deep and dark secrets to a comatose patient. Bobby Abid is convincing and outstanding as a high school senior tutoring a junior and falling in love with him in Johnny Ramirez Really Wants to Kiss Me.

There’s only one flat-out bomb: Evelyn J. Pine’s nonsensical and irritating Terror, Astonishment, Love, which, unfortunately, closes the show. There are some real gems here, and much accomplished acting. A bit more discrimination—-cutting out two or three of the buzzkillers or staging them elsewhere--would make a big difference in the cohesiveness of the offerings, since most of this is unmistakably comedy. That being said, this is a worthy effort that makes for an enjoyable evening of theater. I recommend seeing this if you are adventurous, enjoy all types of one-acts, particularly quick-paced comedy, and don't mind sitting through two or three slower pieces.

A Harder Nut

In 1991, choreographer Mark Morris shocked and delighted audiences with The Hard Nut, a witty, gritty, revisionist Nutcracker inspired by R. Crumb cartoons and 1960s kitsch. Now, director and choreographer Angela Harriell's The Nutcracker: Rated R, at Theatre for the New City through December 23rd, is a harder and nuttier interpretation than Morris's, and dynamically, engagingly danced as well. Performed by healthy, human-looking dancers of a variety of body types, The Nutcracker: Rated R fuses traditional pointe work with other dance styles, including an adeptly executed breakdance, comically faux-drunk ballroom, burlesque, hip-hop and modern. There is something for everyone in Harriell's work -- except traditional ballet purists. In this variation of Tchaikovsky's classic Christmas ballet, little Clara Stahlbaum (the sylphlike Juliana Smith) is grumpily attending her restauranteur parents' annual Christmas party, in the restaurant. She has upset her mother by wearing a goth sweatshirt. Her gay, shy, artistic brother Fritz (Adam Pellegrine) is equally out of place among their football-fan guests. When the children's hippie uncle, Drosselmeyer (David F. Slone Esq.) crashes the party with a messenger bag full of fantastic presents, Clara and Fritz both get the night of their dreams. That's right: in this version, Fritz gets to share Clara's adventure, and ultimately undergoes a transformation no less magical than that of the original Nutcracker Prince.

Smith has an amazing range as a dancer, stretching from graceful to edgy. She seems equally at home on pointe during the grande pas de deux near the end as she is with faux street dance and mime. As Fritz and the 1980s rockstar "Firecrotch," Pellegrine shows great versatility, blossoming from a gangly, awkward teenager into a campy, out-there star and finally a figure of more fragile grace.

Harriell's visual witticisms are wonderful, from her update of the Battle with the Rat King (now involving the not toy soldiers, but boiler-suited minions of the Health Department, and fought for dominion of the Stahlbaums' restaurant); to the towering Empire State Building that replaces the Christmas tree; to a sad, haunting pas-de-deux by a pair of half-sleeping homeless people.

Jean Luc van Damme's video images, shown on a screen at the top of Adam Pellegrine's minimalist set, are used sparingly and help to clarify the narrative. The video never steals attention from the dancers. Harriell's costumes are vivid, memorable, raunchy when appropriate, and help to define clear, strong characters. The "Queen of the Blow Fairies" is decked out in white sequins and platinum hair, and Times Square stripper Svetlana ("From Russia With Nuts") looks freezing in her ridiculous fur panties. The rats are adorable in hot pink wigs, ears, and tails. Harriell's The Nutcracker: Rated R might not be Tchaikovsky's vision of sugar plums, but it's certainly visionary. Running in the holiday season at Theatre for the New City, it ought to become a New York Christmas tradition.

Ham and Cheese and Storytelling

Upon entering the performance space for No Dice, a former indoor playground in Tribeca, audience members have to make a choice: ham and cheese or peanut butter and jelly? This is just the first of several questions posed by the Nature Theater of Oklahoma’s exuberant new production. With its emphasis on engaging audiences through a close examination of everyday life, the experimental company is a good match for Soho Rep, which aims to produce unconventional theater that embraces performer/audience relationships. No Dice, with an original development process and a performance style at once vivacious and intimate, succeeds on both accounts.

Nearly everything about No Dice is ambitiously innovative, beginning with its script: there isn’t one. Or, rather, there is no written script from which the actors work. Instead, the text of the four-hour play comes from over a hundred hours of recorded phone conversations conducted with family and friends of creators Pavol Liska and Kelly Copper, directors of both Nature Theater of Oklahoma and No Dice. Rather than memorizing transcriptions, the actors listen to the conversations, which loosely focus on livelihood, life aspirations, and the nature of storytelling, on headphones.

That technique calls to mind the work of playwright and performer Anna Deavere Smith, who creates texts from interviews and trains herself to recreate her subjects’ speech by listening to their recordings. But with ridiculously goofy accents and overemphasized intonation, Anne Gridley, Robert M. Johnson, and Zachary Oberzan are not listening to their source material in an attempt at realism.

Likewise, whereas Smith edits her work in an attempt to examine dramatic revelations about her subjects’ lives, the conversation selections depicted in No Dice reveal a collection of people mired in the mundane. Therein lies a central enigma of the play: within the drawn-out caricatures, the daily lives of the people who inspired them become startlingly evident.

No Dice’s ensemble of dedicated actors appears to have a boundless store of comedic energy. The highly stylized nature of their performance extends into their movement, which involves seemingly random sequences of incongruous gestures, as well as their simple yet outlandish costumes. From wigs to facial hair to funny hats, a spirit of play pervades nearly every aspect of the piece.

Among the few components of the production not infused with a sense of playfulness are the words themselves. From a discussion of how many office breaks cubicle dwellers are permitted to chats about indulgence in alcohol, the ordinary concerns articulated by the performers contrast with their exaggerated performance style and raises interesting questions about what is – and isn’t – required in order to make entertainment out of the everyday.

Designer Peter Nigrini’s set, which features rich green curtains hung over ionic columns and adorned with gold comedy and tragedy masks, contrasts with the space’s florescent lights and padded walls, providing a nice frame for the production’s investigation of theatricality. A found space, as opposed to a conventional theater, is an important component of the play, though there is little about this particular space that feels organic or inextricable from the production.

For the majority of the performance, audience and actors are in the same light, an effect that creates an intimate atmosphere, not an intimidating one, largely because of the warmth of the performers. In addition to the three main actors, Thomas Hummel and Kristen Worrall appear onstage off and on throughout the production, sometimes playing music and mostly staying silent. Their presence is essential to the ambience of the play. Hummel’s perpetually shocked expression and Worrall’s pinched concern make the actors appear less alone within the world of their performance while making that world more accessible to the audience.

The intimacy of the production is further enhanced by Liska and Copper, who do everything from appearing briefly onstage to making sandwiches to introducing the production. Audiences should note that when Liska jokes in the curtain speech that they’ve saved the best parts for the second act, he isn’t really kidding. Not that the first act is lacking. On the contrary, the first act feels like a complete play in and of itself, and for a less ambitious company, it would be.

At nearly four hours, No Dice is a demanding production. It helps that the second act utilizes a lot of repetition, guiding audiences through the material while leaving ample room for contemplation. Then, just when the repetition begins to grow old, everything changes. The final moments of the production, in addition to granting audience members welcome insight into the creation of the piece, are transcendently joyous.

Were it shorter, funny costumes and exaggerated diction would make No Dice a charmingly off-kilter comedy. Creating such a lengthy production forces audiences to either engage more deeply with the material or check out completely. Audiences interested in the former will find themselves richly rewarded.

Pacific Island Winds

In one of the many touching moments in Bembarang, Kinding Sindaw’s delightful Philippine dance drama now playing at La Mama’s Annex theater, an island princess struggles with one of the several colorful cloths that make up her costume. As she dances she moves it from her stomach to her chest, brings it above her head and back down, and finally rolls it off into her hands in a bundle. Now she holds in her arms her newborn baby boy. The imaginative treatment of the production elements, from costumes through music, props and set, all drawn from the dramatic tradition of the Philippines, give this performance a breath of fresh ocean air which is so rare even in this multi-cultural coastal city. Bembarang is a successful amalgamation of an ancient Philippine tale of love and loyalty, Darangen, and a historical event from the turn of the twentieth century, known as Perang sa Bayang. The evening opens with a glimpse of the latter, which takes place behind the risers of the beautiful Annex. American soldiers in drab uniforms hold local women in fiery colored dresses in captivity. They treat them in a rough, demeaning and insensitive manner as the children cry aloud. The tone is set for the rest of the piece, far from the realistic acting style that permeates our city’s stages. It is this distance that allows the spectator to observe how history repeats itself in our own time, rather than to be offended by an overly simplistic portrayal of a political event. After this prologue the audience is led to their seats, the islanders are led to their onstage place of captivity, and the ancient drama begins.

There are few words spoken. Some are sung in Tagalog by the talented dancer/narrator. The story unfolds through movement, accompanied by a strong ensemble of musicians on gongs and drums. We watch a courting scene, a wedding celebration, some juicy scenes of female rejection, a double birth that smoothly rolls into the next scene, years later, in which the kids are acting up as kids do. We even get some battle scenes to complete our craving for that kind of excitement.

Like other theatrical forms from the east, the story is not confined to one place and time. The clever use of props and costumes is all that is needed to transport the scene not only from one locale to another, but also from one emotional state to the next. In one scene each of the twenty dancers holds a tall bamboo shoot up from the ground, as the princess (the poised and concise Amira Aziza) wanders through a forest. The bamboo shoots sway like trees in the wind and the music fills the space with mysterious sensations. Suddenly there is a break, the rhythm accelerates and all the ten-foot-high shoots fall gracefully to the ground, adding punctuation to the drums as they hit the floor on beat. The bamboo now becomes a dangerous field which the princess must cross. She dances, as if walking on snakes, evading the danger. The long poles then rise from the ground to surround her. She is caught. But there is one more transformation for these props. They form a chariot and raise the princess to bring her back to the prince, as the scene's tone of fear gives way to one of relief.

By the time the American soldiers come back into the picture, we feel like we have a full picture of what life was like in the Philippines when the US army showed up in 1902 and committed the massacre in the Battle of Bayang. When the heavy soldiers dance their way into this ancient epic they seem like a grotesque bunch of clunky aliens floating into a planet to which they do not belong. The political point that director/choreographer Potri Ranka Manis is making presents itself viscerally as the intruders crash the beautiful party of the traditional dance form. In opposition to the soldiers, we watch a different attitude towards battle, that of the island men who honorably and regretfully prepare themselves for war. The word “defense,” as in ''Ministry of,'' suddenly takes on meaning. The men dance their war gear on, sword, shield, bandana, and begin to practice the only kind of battle they know, face to face combat. The bullets come flying at them from behind.

Go get a breath of some Pacific Ocean air, and see Bembarang. While the dancers vary in talent, Ranka Manis has put together a stage picture that tickles the senses, and provides a different way of thinking about theater, one which has the capacity to enhance the work witnessed on our stages here in what we like to think of as theater headquarters of the world. Through a classical form, she uses her tradition to make an important statement about what we see happening in our world today.

Christmas Special

What is it about the holidays that lends so easily to excess? With marathons of Christmas movies on television and Christmas music dominating radio stations, it is only fitting that experimental theater have its own version of a holiday-themed marathon. The Brick Theater, with a history of producing innovative festivals, makes a fitting home for such a production. Anyone looking for a crash introduction to talented writers and directors of contemporary downtown theater would do well to check out The Baby Jesus One-Act Jubilee: Second Coming. The excess of the cheekily-titled marathon, which features twelve one-acts divided into two programs (the “MARYS” and the “JOSEPHS”, as when The Brick produced a similar program in 2005) comes from an amalgamation of different styles and themes. In a shift away from the material excesses that often accompany the holidays, the emphasis of these barebones plays is squarely on the texts; most design elements go uncredited in the program.

When the plays do use strong design choices, it is usually to good effect, as in Robert Saietta’s Uncomplicated, the first play of the JOSEPH program (9pm Thursdays and Saturdays, 7pm Fridays), which takes place in the home of Wendy, whose living room is as full of clutter as her life is of complication. Under the tight direction of Buddy Peoples, Uncomplicated opens to Wendy’s ex-boyfriend Peter (Peter Lettre) sneaking in to deliver her a Christmas present. Her new girlfriend Tink calls him “a pedantic windbag,” a description Lettre takes to heart in his portrayal of Peter, while also lending him a drunken desperation that makes clear what Wendy may have once seen in him. Even Tink, played with confident pluck by Jessica Hedrick, senses that there is more to him than his jealous stalker tendencies. At the center point of the triangle, Alana Jackler successfully creates a character not frequently seen in popular media: a smart woman who is both likable and stable while leaving open the possibility that she struggles with her sexuality.

From there, the JOSEPH program makes a leap into absurdism that continues – and develops – over the course of the evening. The whimsy begins with Mack Schloff’s The Revellers, a charmingly quirky riff on how a couple’s energy and heat affects its compatibility. Key (Brick Associate Artistic Director Jeff Lewonczyk, who also directs) suspects his girlfriend Con (Brick Associate Artistic Director Hope Cartelli) of harboring a secret crush on Ed, a fellow guest at their holiday party. She admits that he's right: she keeps imagining their names together at the top of an envelope.

The Revellers continues in brief sections over the course of the program that moves quickly enough to keep the gimmick from growing stale while also creating the rhythms of the endless string of holiday parties that the characters attend: “It’s more than just a circuit,” complains Key of the Christmas party rounds, “It’s practically a grid!” When the story of Key and Con concludes, it does so with the best placed light cue of the marathon.

Eric Bland’s the aptly titled Mother Mary Come to Me, the third play of the program, poses unspoken questions concerning the importance of Mary’s virginity. Directed by Scott Eckert, the mixed-media piece provides welcome variation in the marathon’s performance style. A newly widowed father to Baby Jesus, Joseph’s anachronistic courtship of Mary – he meets her jogging in Prospect Park – is projected onscreen, while their real-life counterparts wait onstage, effectively dwarfed by their larger than life images.

The sketch-comedy style of the video, which is captioned with Mary’s self-affirming narration, contrasts with the characters' quiet onstage presence. With Michael Cera-esque awkwardness, Brian Barrett’s Joseph makes uncomfortable attempts at foreplay and talks about “real sex” while Siobhan Doherty’s clear-eyed Mary worries about Jesus, asleep in the next room.

The following one-act, And the Spirit of Christmas Passed, takes contemporary controversial issues of global warming and military families of perpetually absent servicemen, and draws them out to extremes. Set in a climate-changed future on Christmas Eve, the play features a talented cast (Nancy Lee Russell, Rufus L. Tureem, and Meghan V, Tusing) that commits admirably to bizarre circumstances not fully elucidated by David Barth’s direction of Jakob Holder’s ambling script.

The following play is among the more imaginatively absurd of the marathon. Trayf, written by Matthew Freeman and directed by Kyle Ancowitz, features what perhaps no play has before: a drunken, depressed rabbi relaying the story of Hanukah to a gigantic lobster bent on a conversion to Judaism. The incessantly cheery lobster (Mathew Trumbull) seated beside a disgruntled, disheveled rabbi (David DelGrosso) makes for an entertaining premise that wears thin by the time lobster Jim lights the Hanukah menorah and ends the play.

The JOSEPH program concludes with the marathon’s most stylized play. Performed largely in song, Sincerely, Raven Harte, by Emily Conbere with music by Michael Sendrow, depicts a man with a troubled family life attempting to write a Christmas newsletter. A chorus of masked, Christmas sweater-clad women (Bekah Coulter, Nicole Stefonek, and Lisa Zapol) create a rich balance of comedic and creepy which, under the direction of Dominic D’Andrea, pervades much of the piece. The effect is at once disturbing and uplifting, an impressive achievement and a refreshingly complex note on which to end the JOSEPH plays.

The MARY program (7pm Thursdays and Saturdays, 9pm Fridays), with more diverse styles of performance, doesn’t build toward a climactic absurdist point as do the JOSEPH plays, rather, the MARY evening provides a smattering of performance styles on a variety of holiday themes. On opening night, a stalled MTA train prevented the presentation of one of the plays (Carolyn Raship’s A Bender Family Christmas, directed by Daniel McKleinfeld), and likely threw off the balance of the evening; it’s clear that curators Lewonczyk and Michael Gardner, Artistic Director of the Brick, have put a lot of thought into the running order of the plays.

The MARY plays open with Jason Craig’s The Baby Jesus Conversation, which Gardner directs. Two young men in jeans, sneakers and sweaters (Tom Lipinsky and Randall Middleton) spend the short play earnestly exchanging their wacky ideas and suspect reminisces about the nature of the Christ child. The strange, energetic chat from otherwise normal-seeming young men sets an appropriate tone for the evening.

Boyish enthusiasm continues in Qui Nguyen Action Jesus, which features apostles Judas and Peter (Gregg Mozgala and Chris Smith) plotting a second demise of Jesus (a cartwheeling Jason Liebman). With pop-cultural references ranging from Superman to the Wizard of Oz, Action Jesus is the Christ story as influenced by tough guy action flicks. Such a premise has the potential to come across as awkward sketch comedy, but director Michael Lew understands exactly what Nguyen is getting at, and expertly paces the production, eliciting performances from the actors that are both vengeful and goofy.

From there, the program takes a softer turn with Jason Grote’s A Christmas Carol, directed by Shannon Sindelar. The solo performance piece has a senile Scrooge recount the events from the evening of Dickens’ story, expertly delivered with subtle desperation and longing by Ralph Pochoda. The production does more than use a narrator suffering from dementia to prompt audiences to question the validity of the Christmas classic. The play narrows the focus of A Christmas Carol in order to pose quiet, pointed questions about the story’s use of capitalism. It’s a welcome thought piece amidst the high energy, zany program.

A Christmas Carol is followed by Marc Spitz’s Marshmallow World, which brings a literal return to the craziness. Set in a support group, the play features a collection of colorful oddballs all suffering from “sonic” addiction. Victor (Brick Technical Director Ian Hill, who also directs, in addition to serving as marathon light designer and tech director) is among the group’s more senior members and seems strangely sweet given his criminal record, substance abuse, and obsession with NPR’s Terry Gross. Meanwhile, Angel (Alyssa Simon) yearns for a better sense of aesthetics as she tries to move beyond her love of bad music at intimate moments, while Ray (Aaron Baker) fears a particular infamous string of notes. All three deliver comedic performances that embrace their characters’ quirks while resisting the urge to play them as simply insane.

From the beginning, however, audience attention is drawn to Boris (Jason Liebman), who sits alone in a corner hiding in a black hoodie and looking as though he wants to disappear. Fortunately, he instead reveals why he has come: he’s a religious Jew obsessed with Christmas music. As Boris, Liebman is at once deeply distraught and charmingly amusing. Elsewhere in the program, Liebman is engaging as anachronistic Biblical thugs, and it’s fun to see him succeed here at something different.

The MARY program closes with Eric Sanders’ Hollow Hallow, a dark play set on a U.S. military base in Iraq on Christmas Eve. Directed by Jake Witlen, Hollow Hallow utilizes a neat bit of audience interaction that, as this reviewer can personally testify, raises interesting questions about boundaries, power, and empathy. Yet the American soldiers (Alec Beard, Gavin Star Kendall, and Joyce Miller) fail to exude the disciplined authority that one might expect of them. They deliver committed performances that make their characters seem more like cruel kids stabbing at power than like trained members of the U.S. military. That may be part of the point, but the production would be stronger if it showed how the characters’ military identities relate to their acts of unbridled fury.

After moments of terror, Hollow Hallow ends on a startlingly warm note that effectively emphasizes the discontinuities of celebrating a cheerful holiday season during wartime. It’s a surprising ending to both the play and the program as whole and it works. With its twelve different plays, such juxtapositions are part of the delight of The Baby Jesus One-Act Jubilee. Anyone seeking an unconventional take on the holiday marathon will not be disappointed.

Practicing Divinest Sense

The private world of Samuel Finkelbaum is both a purgatory and a haven, a tragic and tender place brought to life in exquisite detail by the Blue Heron Theatre and the Mirth A Theatre Company. In their bitterly humorous production of The Puppetmaster of Lodz , by Gilles Ségal, the presence of the minutiae of daily life and the performance of household rituals make the lives of the Holocaust victims immediately tangible. However, rather than simply elicit shock and sympathy, Gilles Ségal’s clever structure and the cast’s solid performances present a complex meditation on the unique guilt of a “survivor." It is a testament to the strength of Ségal’s writing and of Robert Zukerman’s nuanced performance that Finkelbaum can be seen as both exceptional and representative—the survivor whose life is proof. Within Finkelbaum’s apartment, his day is composed of normal activities, performed for the audience in real time. There is something cozy and hypnotic about the execution of familiar tasks, and about the uncomplicated dialogue between two people in love. The audience soon discovers that the dialogue is only a wistful monologue that Finkelbaum speaks to a puppet. His world is anything but normal. This is Berlin in 1950, and outside his apartment great changes are happening. At least, that is what those on the other side say. Throughout the play, the building’s concierge (played by Suzanne Toren) tries to convince Finkelbaum, a Holocaust survivor, that the war has ended. However, as someone who knows the cruel fate of those who blindly believed, Finkelbaum resists her explanations and refuses to leave.

Zukerman is nothing short of astonishing as he follows the manic turns of Finkelbaum’s monologue. With his skilled performance, the Puppetmaster’s seeming insanity is at once charming, funny, and deeply sad. There is never a moment when his humorous lines alleviate the sadness or guilt of his life, and the viewing experience is appropriately uneasy. As a puppet master, Finkelbaum is at his happiest and most entertaining when he is composing his grand show: “The Tragicomic Life of Samuel Finkelbaum." In this performance within a performance, Zukerman’s comedic talents range from hilarious slapstick to bitter satire. Ralph Lee has designed a varied cast of eerily human puppets to star in Finkelbaum’s show. Throughout the play, Zukerman manipulates these forms with haunting dedication. In particular, the reenactments of crimes committed in the camps are scenes of horrifically wanton destruction.

As the concierge, Suzanne Toren shifts between the morbid curiosity and tentative guilt of an average citizen. With stubborn insistence, she presents what she believes to be credible witnesses to the American and Russian occupation of Berlin. That these witnesses (all played with entertaining variation and pitch-perfect accents by Daniel Damiano) recall the puppets Finkelbaum uses to fill his life and tell his story, cleverly demonstrates that stories are being told on both sides of the keyhole.

The distance between the inside and outside of the apartment appears to be an unbridgeable gap until Finkelbaum’s companion in escape makes a sudden appearance. Schwartzkopf, played by Herbert Rubens, is a calm and commanding presence, unlike his wild and distrustful friend. Their very real affection is a heartwarming change from the previous scenes with puppets. But the heartwarming interlude quickly turns heart wrenching. Though Finkelbaum has lived, he has not escaped, and the world holds nothing for him. After the reunion, he holds his real friend and his imaginary wife, and laments the fact that he is unable to go mad.

The cataclysmic horror of the Holocaust is emphasized by the complicated set and lighting designs of Roman Tatarowicz and Paul Bartlett, respectively. Because Finkelbaum moves through a cozily cluttered apartment and performs the routines of any man, his life assumes a familiarity that contrasts with the singularity of his past and present. The faithful recreation of a lived-in apartment is achieved with the detailed set and the wonderful lighting design. The small overhead light in Finkelbaum’s apartment casts a consistently homey glow. In the play’s grotesque moments, the light turns greenish, Finkelbaum’s complexion appears sickly, and the room becomes unfamiliar. It is clear that he will always be alternating like this between darkness and light, and that for him the war will never be over.

The play’s power is timeless in a very disturbing way. As the playwright points out, the human world is always the home of horrors, whether cataclysmic or comparatively small. The crimes of men against men are constantly renewing themselves. Perhaps, then, it is not so crazy to live in constant disbelief. The Puppetmaster of Lodz is not a self-contained story, but part of a narrative of human history that continues to this day and demonstrates that it is not Finkelbaum who is mad, but the world on the other side of his keyhole.

'Scapades

Commedia dell'Arte troupes began in Italy in 1540. By the 1570's, troupes were all over Europe, including France, where they were able to influence the great playwright Molière. The basic scenario featured old, grumpy fathers preventing their sons and daughters from pursuing their romantic interests. Often, the sons and daughters would seek the help of their servants. In the world of Commedia dell'Arte, Scapin is the rascally servant character. The title character of Molière's comedy, Scapin, is just that. He plots against his masters and envisions himself to be better than he truly is. A new translation of the play by Scott McCrea seeks to remain close to Molière's intent by focusing on the comedy of the play and depicting Scapin as a social climber. Turtle Shell's production creates a bright, animated atmosphere. The play is set in “Itty Bitty Italy,” the smallest city in Italy, sometime in the 1970's. The sets, by Keven Lock, create a truly carnivalesque backdrop to the action of the play. Paper lanterns hang along the wall; neon pinks and purples abound. The costumes, by A. Christina Gianini, complement the set: Scapin is dressed in double knit lime green pants, a nod to the traditional scapin costume but with a 70's flair.

A musician (Jay Painter) is present from the minute the house doors open to take the audience into the world of the play. His performance of interacting with the audience and welcoming them to the theater initially felt forced, as though he were still warming up to the role. However, by intermission, he had the audience rolling in laughter as he sang songs to certain audience members and made balloon animals.

The physicality of the actors was remarkable. The two porters (Emile Nebbia and Jay Painter) were constantly at war with each other, battling with a set of suitcases at one point and stripping down to have a wrestling match at another. The famous scene, in which Scapin tricks his master Geronte into a sack and then pretends to be evil swordsmen who beat and stab him, is sublime. How long will the beating last until Geronte pops out of the sack and discovers Scapin's connivery? Moliere cuts the beating off at the third one, perhaps as a relief to the audience, perhaps not, as opinion of Geronte may be considerably low at this point. He has lied about Scapin to his son, and is so miserly he had difficulty parting with 500 crowns to supposedly free his son from pirates.

The performances of the cast are for the most part strong. Spencer Aste is great as Scapin, introducing himself with a flourish of the arms every time his name is said. He elevates himself to such a degree that it is easy to forget that he is, ultimately, the servant of Leandre and Geronte. Catherine Wronowski pulls of a great performance as Zerbinette, the gypsy girl whom those 500 crowns are really saving. In the second act she tells Geronte, not recognizing him as the father of her love, Leandre, of Scapin's plot to get the 500 crowns. Her animated monologue is accompanied by the heavy guitar strumming of the musician, who despite seeming to know that she is telling all to a man she should not, eggs her on.

Scapin accomplishes its goal of focusing on the comedy: it is hilarious. The brightly colored set, costumes, excellent and subtle lighting by Eric Larson, and physical portrayal of the characters by the actors ensure a funny and fun evening of theater for anyone looking for a classic laugh.

Beavers Take Manhattan

Legend has it that Peter Minuit purchased the island of Manhattan (or Manhatta) from the Lenape for the impressively trivial sum of $24 in 1626. The legend fails to mention the existence of Kitchi Amik, a six foot beaver with somewhat magical powers, the guardian of the other beavers and to some extent, of humans. The number of industrious and independent women populating the colony of New Amsterdam in the 1600's is also largely unmentioned. New Amsterdames , a new play by Ellen K. Anderson receiving its world premiere by Flying Fig Theater, seeks to correct these omissions of history by depicting several lesser known historical figures and, of course, the giant beaver. The play provides an alternate, slightly comedic view of history, seen through the eyes of those whose stories commonly do not get heard. In 1659, the deed to Manhattan, if it ever existed, is missing. Shipping entrepreneur Margriet wants the deed so that she can rule the island, making every business hers. The beavers Een and Twee want the deed so that the island can be restored to them. Everyone else wants the deed to keep it away from Margriet. Thus begins a wild hunt: where is the deed? Does it even exist? Who will get it in the end?

While the women are hunting for the deed, trouble is brewing in modern day Manhattan. The city is facing dramatic changes in the weather and an onslaught of beavers. Lightning flashes underneath a wooden platform, ominous thunder peals, and heavy rain pounds. All this is reported by newscaster Sweetie Chin, who has some connection to Kitchi Amik and the laws of nature herself.

The play provides a full immersion into all things Dutch: wooden clogs are worn by Sweetie Chin and adorn two pillars, suggesting a trail of shoes. The cast sings and dances traditional Dutch folksongs and Anna Joralemon, creator of the donut, distributes some of her olykoeken to the audience as a way of introduction.

Certain parts of the show drew laughs, for example, a little dog dressed as a baby beaver caused some audience members to shriek in excitement. However, at times the jokes in the play felt forced. In the midst of the search for the deed, Sukalan, the Lenape woman (played by Andrea Caban), runs on stage looking for her friends. Not seeing them, she exclaims: "Where'd she go? I've never lost anything in the woods. Except the time I mislaid a trap and found it by stepping into it myself.” The wooden jokes suggested a larger issue: is New Amsterdames trying to say something that has not already been said before? Women's role in history and society, the question of who the land belongs to, and the issue of race and nationality have been explored by many other stories and plays before.

And yet, one gets drawn into the plight of the women and the beavers, as modern day Manhattan is also at stake. How do the actions of people almost 350 years ago impact the world today? And by extension, how will our world's actions impact the world 350 years from now? New Amsterdames subtly raises this issue while taking its audience on a journey down a uncommonly explored path of history.

Philosopher's Stone

Who am I? Why am I here? What do I want? Nothing encourages deep, introspective thoughts like putting together a video for a dating service, or a press meeting, or the inquiring eyes of a room full of strangers. Each situation requires a person to look into the distance and tell whoever is out there - camera, press or audience - who they are and what they want. This is the groundwork Will Eno lays for his series of reflective, existential plays, Oh The Humanity and other exclamations, featuring five short stories that examine the human condition through an intensely philosophical but often comic lens. The two actors Marisa Tomei and Brian Hutchinson sometimes address their probing questions to the audience, breaking the fourth wall to ask, “What do you think?” They never wait for an answer. They know they don’t have to. Their questions are presented in such a way that it is hard to resist internalizing them.

Tomei and Hutchinson speak in engaging and conversational tones. They act like real people living in a real world, not abstract symbols representing something greater than themselves. Their topics may weave through a maze of complexity, but the dialogue stays simple, clearly designed to relate to audiences rather than confuse them.

In Tomei and Hutchinson’s first skit together, Ladies and Gentlemen, The Rain, Gentleman (Hutchinson) and Lady (Tomei) stand onstage staring into a camera as they record their profiles for a dating service. The Lady is squinty-eyed and uncertain; the Gentleman is nervous and overly-revealing.

They speak fearfully of life’s sudden endings, the kind that happen before you know what hit you. Lady smiles thinking about the little things in life that make her happy, such as people applauding for something they really love. They talk about the naiveté of childhood, the broken relationships of adulthood, the illnesses and quirks that define them and the way they deal with stress. As Lady and Gentleman’s realizations intensify the lights dim until you can see nothing but their illuminated faces surrounded by darkness. And then the lights go out.

Most of the pieces end with a fade to black, with the exception of The Bully Composition, a truly memorable story that literally goes out with a flash. This vignette offers an unsettling examination of the photograph, specifically its purpose to capture a fleeting moment in time. Photographer (Hutchinson) and his Assistant (Tomei) ask: what does a photograph really capture? We do not know what the people are feeling, what they were doing before they posed for the picture or what they did after it was taken. We know their image but not their story.

Photographer then turns the camera to us, the audience. He wants to take our picture and muses at the many different stories that could come from each of us. He points out that we are all strangers to each other, yet each of us has our own unique history, a set of circumstances that brought us together to this time and place. The Photographer and his Assistant behave as if they can see our personalities surfacing on our faces, implying that if we could see it too we would be amazed to learn how deceiving an image is. Then the piece ends with an exploding flashbulb, a signal that the moment is gone, leaving us as just another image without a story.

Oh! The Humanity is the kind of play that rattles your world and makes you think. Eno’s writing forces you to contemplate both the intricacies of life and the intricacies in yourself. Fortunately, the process is not all headaches and misery. This is the kind of play that makes you want to run outside, share a story with a friend, get to know a stranger better and announce your presence to the world. After all, no one wants to end up as just another image.

Wit and Whimsy

Imagine that it is December 1803, and you are among the guests invited to join the Austen family and their friends as the writer Jane, that famed observer of both sense and sensibility, is to have her first novel published. The Austens who have gathered at the home of family friends the Bigg-Withers act, sing, and recite letters and poetry in celebration of both her imminent success and the holidays. Except one does not even have to imagine this scenario, so lovingly reenacted as Theater Ten Ten’s “Innocent Diversions: A Christmas Entertainment With Jane Austen and Friends,” directed by Lynn Marie Macy, who also wrote and adapted this show. Macy treats the audience to a revue in which various cast members, in character, reenact Austen’s early writings.

Karen Eterovich makes for a fine Austen, carefully delivering Austen's often locquacious dialogue, and meshing with a host of colorful co-stars. Eterovich is matched by an equally talented ensemble, including David Arthur Bachrach as Austen’s father (who nimbly recites her “Verses to Rhyme With ‘Rose’”), Eyal Sherf as the slightly bumbling (in true Austen-fashion) Mr. Harris Bigg-Wither, Talaura Harms as Madame Anne Lefroy, and Chelsea Jo Pattison, as Fanny, the youngest Austen in attendance. Pattison was a marvel in each of her “scenes,” demonstrating wonderful poise, elocution, and full of pep. Her bio lists Diversions as Ms. Pattison’s Ten Ten debut, having recently hailed from the mid-West. Let’s hope she stays here for a very long time.

Macy’s writing perfectly captures Austen’s humor and understanding of the way both men and women and families relate to each other. Works of hers include "The Beautiful Cassandra," "A Letter from a lady in love to her confidante," and "On a Headache." However, the smaller vignettes succeed far more than Macy’s longer ones. A performance entitled “The History of England,” which features the entire cast reciting trivial bits regarding the English monarchy may be historically educational, but it goes on too long and provides no additional commentary on any of the characters. There are two other longer vignettes that feature the entire cast – “The Visit” and “Jack and Alice” – which start promisingly but overstay their welcome. Additionally, Esther David’s line readings were sometimes a little too rushed, and combined with her accent, caused her to garble some of her dialogue.

The staging also leaves something to be desired. Set in Ten Ten’s basement, with just some folding chairs positioned a little too far from the front of the stage, Macy’s acoustics were less than ideal. Sound traveled in odd directions, and some quieter moments failed to be fully absorbed by the audience.

Nonetheless, Diversions is mostly just that – wonderful, light fun for audiences of any age. I was also impressed by Deborah Wright Houston's period costumes, which could have easily come straight from the recent film Becoming Jane. Minor production bugs aside, Diversions remains a great holiday treat, with some wonderful performances. It is yet another reminder of why Austen is one for the ages.

Prancing and Pawing

You know Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen. Or do you? Jeff Goode’s comedy The Eight: Reindeer Monologues, staged by the Dysfunctional Theatre Company, takes audiences to would-be familiar North Pole territory and twists the terrain: Santa Claus is a pervert. Though best known for original work, the Dysfunctional Theatre Company has produced The Eight: Reindeer Monologues each holiday season since 2005. With its playful characters and simple structure –- a series of tell-all style monologues from the reindeer who pull Santa’s sleigh -– the The Eight: Reindeer Monologues makes a smart annual Christmas special for a company dedicated to irreverent ensemble material.

The cozy North Pole dive bar where the play is set enhances the production’s sense of festive seediness. The North Hole (designed by Jason Unfried, who appears on stage as a disturbingly funny Donner) features a cluster of tables, a fully stocked bar, and, in keeping with the holiday spirit, bits and pieces of clever Christmas décor. An erect blow up palm tree strung with lights is a particularly inspired touch.

Over the course of the play, each reindeer seizes an opportunity to head to the front of the bar in order to fix a drink and reveal to the audience his or her unique perspective on the crises at hand: Vixen has accused Santa Claus of sexually assaulting her. Will the scandal bring about the downfall of Santa Claus, and, by extension, the end of Christmas itself? More importantly, should it? Among the members of Santa’s prestigious sleigh team, vocal and opinionated employees who have a lot at stake, it all depends on whom you ask.

Dasher (Robert Brown, who also directs) is a Hawaiian shirted, baseball-capped yes-man proud to lead Santa’s team. As Dasher, Brown displays dumfounded agitation toward the members of the sleigh team who question Santa’s integrity, yet lacks the charisma required for the leadership skills that the character so desperately wishes he had.

Rachel Groundy stands out as Blitzen, a feminist reindeer deeply troubled by the rampant corruption in Santa’s workshop. She delivers Blitzen’s direct address with a delicate thoughtfulness that is as much a rallying cry as it is an articulate examination of right and wrong. Groundy nails the demeanor of a smart young activist who has had just enough to drink that the she is delighted at an opportunity to deliver an enthusiastic lecture to anyone present.

Not all of the performers maintain the high energy levels needed to sustain an atmosphere of juicy scandal. Still, at 75 minutes, the production clips along at an appropriately brisk pace.

The Eight: Reindeer Monologues has sufficient references to classic Christmas stories, especially the 1964 stop-animation Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, to delight theater goers immersing themselves in the holiday spirit and all of the entertainment – plays, movies, music – that the season brings. For those suffering from an overdose of holiday festivities or anyone seeking refuge from requisite holiday cheer, the production’s adult-themed version of the sugary reindeer story will provide welcome relief.

Thus, the darkly comedic scandal that divides the reindeer community can, ironically, unite the characters’ real-life, human counterparts. For holiday enthusiasts and cynics who are looking for a Christmas play that they can enjoy together, The Eight: Reindeer Monologues would make for a fun evening.

Cardboard Catharsis

Fictional human cruelty is a lucrative subject for the theatre. There is something righteous in our need to witness representations of horrific acts by some theatrical barbarian, and then see that barbarian brought to justice in the final act. In Bread and Puppet Theatre’s arcane new production, The Divine Reality Comedy, the infamous political action group attempts to dramatize the plight of prisoners indefinitely detained in Guantanamo Bay. The point is that there can be no catharsis as the end of this piece—the only barbarians that can be brought to justice, according to Bread and Puppet, are us. With a structure on loan from Dante’s Divine Comedy, Bread and Puppet’s Divine Reality Comedy breaks down into the three sectors of the afterlife: Paradise, Purgatory and the Inferno. No fewer than thirty-four cast members use cardboard cutouts, instructional drop cloths and remarkably engineered puppets to teach audiences the inner workings of each realm. Except this isn’t Dante’s afterlife; Bread and Puppet intend for these short skits to present a compelling metaphor for the contemporary United States.

Heaven is a land of gross (but nonetheless policed) excesses whose citizens wallow in their status at the top of the divine ladder. The ringleader of the “Paradise” is a vaudevillian scarecrow Santa Claus, who takes sardonic glee in the oppression of his subjects. “Post-Paradise,” which apparently didn’t make the cut in Dante’s version, is a dainty cardboard horse dance. In “Purgatory,” all metaphors are abandoned in favor of hard facts about detainees in Guantanamo. Finally, in “Inferno,” we witness disquieting stage tableaus representing the cruel photos taken of detainees.

While Bread and Puppet’s new piece is visually arresting, even heart wrenching at times, it is also frustratingly opaque. While I don’t mean to diminish the efforts of Peter Schumann’s team in tackling these issues, it cannot be ignored that the execution is usually too casual and just plain confusing. For instance, the material is handled with very high levels of whimsy, like the Santa-crow and the horse dance. This is fine, but when wanton silliness commandeers the stage for too long – as in the horse dance – audience members might just give up on the piece. It is likely that the horse dance was an intensely profound metaphor that merely went over my head. Even so, it was far too silly for far too long.

Speaking of metaphors and silliness, both of these elements seem to gallop off with the horses once we get to “Purgatory.” After some highly effective non-literal recreations of society in the “Paradise” segment, the company jarringly presents clinical particulars about the indefinitely detained. This shift in mode quickly sobers the audience, but it also disrupts the overall unity of the piece. Had I seen the “Paradise” and “Post-Paradise” segments in another sitting, I would have never believed that they were part of the same play as “Purgatory” and “Inferno.” While each segment of the Divine Reality Comedy keeps true to its own tone, none of them sync with any of the others.

In spite of this unevenness, one can easily appreciate the jovial air with which the massive cast of volunteers commits to the material and the Christmas Pageant Aesthetic of its choreography, puppets and set pieces. The staging by no means attempts to preserve the suspension of disbelief. Heaven, Purgatory and Hell are denoted by cardboard signs scrawled out in Sharpie marker. When a cast member dons one of the vividly imagined and executed puppet costumes, like the “Paper God,” the change is performed on stage without mysticism. The stoic witnesses to Guantanamo are not sent careening by their response to the horrific acts being committed in front of them, but rather by a push broom.

One scene in the “Paradise” segment offers a glimpse of Bread and Puppet at their best. As the cast members walk from one side of the stage to the other, they find themselves occasionally pursued by two giant black boots (made of cardboard, of course). The cast members swerve to avoid the boots, or else change their direction altogether, ever mindful of the presence of authority but determined not to let it interfere with their lives. Finally, the boots have backed the entire cast into a corner of the stage and will soon be treading on the lot of them. Then, one cast member clearly yells out “Hey!” A few more sporadic shouts follow. One by one, the tyrannized citizens of Paradise shout “Hey,” until they are shouting together as one voice. The power of this determined chorus backs away the boot heals of oppression, and the cast is free to walk in peace again.

This simple but dynamic scene galvanizes the purpose of Bread and Puppet, not only in regards to the Divine Reality Comedy, but also regarding the company’s entire manifesto going back to the Vietnam era: the ghastly truths of the world are sometimes best understood in their plainest terms. While I wasn’t enraptured by this particular piece, I recognize and applaud the work for its willingness to stand up and shout “Hey!” at the revolting events taking place at Guantanamo Bay.

The Oud Couple

West Bank, UK is a musical romp through a political minefield: a musical comedy about a Palestinian and an Israeli forced to share a rent-controlled apartment in London’s West Bank. While playwright Oren Safdie and composer and lyricist Ronnie Cohen deserve credit for a certain measure of creative and political audacity, they bear responsibility for an almost juvenile rendering of a poorly developed storyline and puppetlike characters. When Israeli ex-patriot Assaf Ben-Moshe Benvenisti (Jeremy Cohen) breaks up with his German girlfriend and returns home to his rent-controlled flat, he discovers that Palestinian refugee Aziz Hamoud (Mike Mosallam) has taken over his lease. Their American landlord is torn between the two men and urges them to work out their differences and learn to live together in harmony. The allegory is in place and the timing of this show’s run in New York lands conveniently at the close of the Annapolis talks, offering journalists a soft angle to the story of renewed American efforts in the Middle East peace process.

This premise of personalizing a raging conflict is an ingenious one but the choices made here reduce the complexity of Israeli-Palestinian relations to a sitcom punctuated with catchy tunes. Or rather, a series of catchy tunes run together with sitcom dialogue since the musical numbers almost overrun the straight dialogue. This may be a good thing because some of the songs have clever moments and the singing is quite good.

One regret of this reviewer is that the purely instrumental interludes aren’t more substantial. These interludes provide a welcome break from the camp of the show; in these moments, the pain and loss of the Middle East conflict come to life. Jessie Kotanski’s performance on the oud (Middle Eastern lute), in particular, offers a haunting, if losing, call for quiet contemplation. Three of the musicians’ (Scott Baldyga, Jake Shulman-Ment, Chriz Zaborowski) placement on the stage in a sort of central, windowed cage seems emblematic of their caged-in relation to the action, while the oud player is exiled to a balcony above the stage, making its notes all the more plaintive.

The two stars of the show are truly gifted performers and do an admirable job of infusing their highly limited roles with strong emotion and individuality. Jeremy Cohen spends a lot of the play in an undershirt flexing his considerable sex appeal and this is a great contrast to Mike Mosallam’s grandfatherly, overweight persona, corduroy- and cardigan-bound. And yet it is Mr. Mosallam’s homespun physicality that offers the most electrifying moment of the show when it suddenly explodes into dance in one of the final musical numbers.

In addition to the two main players, a parade of caricatures troops through the action, including a lesbian suicide bomber and a nymphomaniac Orthodox Jewish woman. The latter two are played, among other roles, by Michelle Solomon, who camps up each performance to the same painfully exaggerated degree. Antony Patellis offers a series of somewhat muted counterpoints to Ms. Solomon’s performances; it’s almost a relief to focus on his quieter version of the silliness.

Having voiced so many complaints about this production, I need to break a rule of criticism and describe the audience’s reception. It was glowing. Hearty laughter and applause greeted every short scene. I was reminded of my strongly negative response to one of the biggest musical hits of the decade: Avenue Q. If my evaluation and last night’s audience are any indication, West Bank, UK may be a runaway success.

GUESS WHO'S BACK IN TOWN

The curtain opens on a dishevelled Bubba (Travis York) lying on the floor wearing only one orange sock, yards away from a contraption of bottles and gongs he has rigged to periodically go off and force him to pay attention. Pay attention to what, one might ask? And ask again when this play's rather arresting beginning begins to disintegrate into too many scenes with slow pacing and mundane dialogue before tying up all its plot elements neatly in the end.

(Pay attention to his research is the correct answer.)

Bubba's research involves investigating the history of ghosts in the town where he has grown up and still lives, albeit housebound and morose since his former girlfriend D'Lady (a crisp Sarah Kate Jackson) ran off three years ago.

As it turns out, once on the road, D'Lady also abandoned her partner-in-illicit-getaway and Bubba's best friend Jimmy (Mark David Watson). Abruptly ditched in Colorado, Jimmy then fell in love with a mystical woman living in a melon patch named Betsy (Keira Keeley), who has since hitchhiked to town on a mission to find Jimmy.

Other local inhabitants include community pillar and resident kill-joy Gloria (a dogged Marielle Heller) and Roy and Amory, a young married couple trying to conceive. Gloria eventually rescues the homeless waif Betsy (decidely lacking in any discernable skills beyond the melon patch) and showers passive-aggression on her newly dependent boarder.

D'Lady returns to town as the prodigal bad girl, stirring up layers of buried emotion in those who previously knew her. These scenes stood out because the tension during them was real, including an uneasy exchange between D'Lady and the married Roy (Ben Scaccia) and a heartfelt confrontation with Bubba.

However, one gets the impression that the playwright lacked faith that the story of a woman returning to face the wreckage of her past and the commotion she stirs up would be compelling enough without the extracurricular ghost activities. Unfortunately, these forays into the supernatural are confusing and distract from the main plot. The supernatural themes that continue throughout the play (imagined ghost sightings and the endless melon patch monologues) never really work except as a vague metaphor for people who find their way to this small town for resolution of some sort.

Solid direction and moments of honest acting by some of the cast (Travis York and a physically expressive Havilah Brewster as Amory in particular) helped to overcome the more confusing etheral elements. Yet, despite its promising patches, the play did not succeed in commanding my sustained attention.

“On the piano top, a nest of souvenirs...”

The Piano Teacher offers a portrait of one of “those brave ladies who taught us/ So much of art, and stepped off to their doom,” in the words of the late poet Donald Justice. Julia Cho, the author of this successful play, seems almost to have borrowed her characters, plot and atmosphere from Justice’s poetry and memoir about his childhood piano teachers; the following one in particular: On the piano top, A nest of souvenirs: paper Flowers, old programs, a broken fan, Like a bird’s broken wing. —And sometimes Mr. L. himself Comes back, recurring, like a dream. He brings Real flowers. Thin, Demanding, his voice soars after dark In the old opera between them. But no one sees the blows, only An occasional powdered bruise, Genteel.

The Piano Teacher is the story of just such a couple, as told by the surviving wife, Mrs. K, a lonely, widowed, retired piano teacher. (Donald Justice’s work also features a Mrs. K.) Luminously played by Elizabeth Franz, Mrs. K addresses the audience so intimately that she actually offers cookies to each person in the front row. We are enveloped in her warm, grandmotherly lap, drawn into the heart of her cozy home so effectively that we nearly fall asleep there, lulled by her gentle voice telling her gentle, slightly boring, slightly formulaic story. The story of a simple piano teacher devoted to each of her sweet but ordinary students; only one of which had talent amounting to genius... and he—here, at the first intimation of complexity, Mrs. K breaks off and stoutly returns to her rosier memories.

When complexity—human cruelty—finally does enter the stage, the effect strains the balance of the play’s mood and plot. Suddenly this is a play dedicated to undermining audience expectations of sensationalist drama: hints of deeply buried pedophilia eventually add to up a more ingenious form of molestation.

Taken in sum, it’s an effective story and Kate Whoriskey’s direction and Derek McLane’s scenic design bring it to life beautifully. The extraordinary Elizabeth Franz bears most of the responsibility and can enjoy full credit in what amounts to a tour de force one woman show for much of the play. Carmen M. Herlihy adds a terrific dose of vitality as a grown-up former student and provides the first allusions to the troubled past with fine subtlety.

When trouble makes its full appearance, it is in the person of Michael, played by John Boyd. Michael was Mrs. K’s lone pupil of genius and he returns to haunt her with terrible revelations about her late husband. It’s a highly demanding role, not least because of its brevity. Mr. Boyd’s performance of the disturbed young man borders on the formulaic: a manic yet formal delivery and overstimulated hands. This would amount to overkill except that his scarcely contained physicality threatens a bodily attack on Mrs. K—an attack which never comes. Here again, the audience experiences a healthy frustration of Hollywood expectations.

In the end, The Piano Teacher plays best in retrospect, where we can savor the extraordinary performances and the fine plot tensions at our own pace.

Substantial Pleasures

The Constant Couple is a constant delight. The Pearl Theater Company’s production of George Farquhar’s turn of the 18th century play presents a perfect example of the playwright’s lines,“What more can most substantial Pleasures boast Than Joy when present, Memory when past?”

This is a play that offers laugh-out-loud entertainment, provocative themes and terrific performances of both comedic theater and period music, all of which echo for days like a fetching melody.

George Farquhar’s youthful comedy invites us into a London teeming with colorful characters. Steadfast Colonel Standard wants nothing more than to win the charming Lady Lurewell. But his way is littered with scheming rivals, troublesome fops, and bumbling rustics, all of whom seem to have some claim on his lady love. Combining all the wicked joy of the jaded Restoration stage with the “novel” notion that faithfulness and integrity might have their uses too, The Constant Couple illuminates a world merrily careening between deceit and honesty, cynicism and hope—between the follies of the past, and the glorious possibilities of the future.

The quality of the production is so uniformly high, it’s not easy to single out specific scenes. The action unfolds in brilliantly flashing intercut scenes that never allow our attention to flag (although the sum is a bit too long, more on this below). Director Jean Randich and the production staff have collaborated in crafting an ideal context for the encounter of outstanding performances. Among them, a few deserve special attention.

Eduardo Placer’s performance of Clincher, a purple-wigged fop, is utterly unforgettable. It’s a simply hilarious role and yet Mr. Placer injects a strange complexity through his unusual physical command and delicate timing that is as unsettling as it is funny.

Bradford Cover as Sir Harry Wildair is everything we want from a pampered gentleman hedonist: he delivers brilliant epigrams and strikes elegant yet foolish poses as if he were born to them. What a chin—and libido—leads this character in and out of trouble.

Rachel Botchan’s Lady Lurewell is a perfect counterpart to Sir Harry: her clever elegance is as deftly performed by her delicate hands and heaving bust as by her musical oration. David L. Townsend and Dominic Cuskern offer wonderful characters and John Pasha delivers a convincing, if somewhat stilted, hero of the heart. Finally, Jolly Abraham’s Angelica manages a fine balance between romantic idealism and moral clear-sightedness.

The supporting cast is consistently strong and the musical interludes are exquisite.

The only complaint this reviewer has to lodge concerns the length of the production. I wonder whether or not the absence of a running time in any of the PR materials is intentional. It clocks in at more than two and a half hours and I think that some minor editing would benefit the whole.

However, any such objection to a play’s length might run counter to The Pearl’s irreplaceable mission to bring classical theater to contemporary audiences. And so, as I pointed out to my 14-year-old date, my goddaughter, we can trust this theater company’s decisions to render a fully authentic experience and thus focus our 21st century attention spans on something longer than a Hollywood movie.

Speaking of 14-year-olds, The Constant Couple is a great family bet, although audiences should be prepared for some robust bawdiness. When the pawing of certain female (or apparently female) characters elicited a few “ewws” from my goddaughter, I enjoyed a discomfort I never see her experience when she watches the most explicit music videos!

Hearts of Darkness

Noah Haidle’s Rag and Bone derives its title from the concluding lines of William Butler Yeats’s poem “The Circus Animals’ Desertion”: Now that my ladder’s gone,

I must lie down where all the ladders start

In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.

The poem—the last stanza is an epigraph in the printed script—is about an artist whose creative juices have deserted him (the circus animals are a metaphor). Rag and Bone, a goulash of surrealism, fantasy, and absurdism, sporadically amusing and often confusing, feels like a dramatic version of an artist floundering for inspiration.

The central characters are George (Michael Chernus) and his brother Jeff, who run a ladder store. Jeff is enthusiastic about his work in an Up with People way. “I could sell a picture book to a blind man,” he tells George—a line that unfortunately rings false, since the dim but sweet-natured Jeff is too kind to do anything of the sort. Luckily, Matthew Stadelmann invests the role with a disarming innocence that makes Jeff the most sympathetic character.

George, meanwhile, is using the ladder store as a cover for selling illegally harvested hearts; he has told the gullible Jeff that they’re “widgets.” They’re quality hearts too: a pediatrician, a kindergarten teacher. Customers can even try them out. George performs the transplants himself, with the panache of Sweeney Todd—spasms of violence staged with arching spurts of blood by Sam Gold.

The latest person whose heart George has seized is a Poet (Henry Stram, chest bandaged bloodily, looking bewildered at his continued consciousness). He is befriended by a Hooker (Deirdre O’Connell, exuding shopworn sensuality and warmth) with a heart of you-know-what. The Poet and Hooker eventually cross paths with a Millionaire (David Wohl) dressed in top hat and tails, who wants a new ticker. “I can buy anything in the world but I can’t feel anything,” he tells George. “I want to feel the world, not just own it.”

Haidle’s use of archetypes is puzzling, and Gold’s production doesn’t clarify what the dramatist is getting at. Designer Oana Botez-Ban has decided the dress code for Millionaires is top hat and tails, but that also makes him look like a ringmaster—perhaps a private visual reference to Yeats’s poem?

Meanwhile, the Hooker's Pimp, who also goes by the nickname T-Bone, complains of being too kind-hearted for his business—even when he’s just smacked someone. Kevin Jackson deftly plays T-Bone’s surliness with just enough lack of conviction, but the towering black actor is flashily dressed by Botez-Ban in a white suit and hat, and plentiful gold chains. Unfortunately, among all the archetypes, a gaudily clad black man as Pimp reeks of bad taste.

Clearly the characters are all trying to find their way, and all are betrayed in some sense by their hearts, old and new. It’s unfortunate that Eric Shim’s sound design has percussion effect (perhaps a tympani) striking whenever one character punches another, effectively treating them as cartoons, since the actors manage on their own to keep a recognizable humanity in their character types.

Haidle’s talent for comic dialogue works only fitfully in this bittersweet work. One of the choicer exchanges occurs when George, who has kept his late mother’s heart in a cooler, wants a transplant of that heart. “The only problem is, I don’t know how to perform heart surgery,” says Jeff. Replies George: “I’ll talk you through it.”

But when the post-operative George, stocky and bearded, begins wearing a housedress and adopting his late mother’s alcoholism and smoking habits, it’s impossible to figure out what the point is. Or, at least, if there is a point that isn’t as obvious as: Love is unpredictable. Money can’t buy happiness. The heart betrays us all. Life is a bitch.

Survivors

Sara Falles does not fit the stereotype of an abused woman; in fact, she seems the least likely candidate to fall into such a relationship. She is strong, determined and unafraid to challenge her husband when she feels he is wrong. Playwright Jay Hanagan’s decision to focus on an abused woman with a clear sense of self-worth gives his play Softly Sara Falls a new and important take on the issue of domestic abuse. Softly Sara Falls is produced by Wizard Oil Productions, a relatively new company created to increase awareness of a variety of social issues. Domestic abuse is certainly a worthy issue of focus, though arguably an obvious one. Fortunately, the play does not merely state that Domestic Abuse Is Bad. Instead, it asks us a question that we do not consider often: How many times have you looked into the face of an abused person and not realized it?

The irony in Hanagan’s play is that even people who are abused miss the warning signs in others. The story does not focus on one suffering person, but several suffering people, all trying to avoid their crippling inner demons by concentrating solely on the future and never looking back.

A goofy young man named Reed (Michael Mattie) has a crush on Sara (Cecil Powell) but feels the wall she has put between them. He seems to always be happy, but the smile strains when the conversation turns to questions of his past. Sara’s best friend, Tanys, acts flippant and cute when she shows up at Sara’s house in cloud patterned pajamas hugging a bowl of popcorn to her chest for their big Saturday movie night. However, when Sara casually asks about the details of her relationship, she suspiciously clams up.

Even the antagonist Grant (Jonathan Ledoux) has a shady back-story, though the play does not use it to excuse his actions, only explain them. Sara knows from the beginning that her husband has skeletons in his closet; specifically a scarcely mentioned father who Grant’s siblings claim was prone to abuse. She urges Grant to confront these feelings rather than keeping them locked up inside, not realizing that she is lovingly encouraging years of repressed anger and aggression to rise to the surface.

Hanagan enhances this story by telling it in a non-linear format. Early in the plot Sara calls an advice hotline and narrates her story on-air as we watch it unfold before us. She starts with happy times, jumps to bad ones, and then switches back to the way things are now.

This forces Powell to run through a gamut of emotions ranging in extremes from frightened spouse to silly, playful friend. One scene ends with her cowering on the floor and another begins with her sitting poised and confident in a chair seeming sure that she has nailed a job interview. But in all scenes Powell comes across as a survivor, not a victim. There is a great moment where Grant pleads with Sara for a minute of her time when she tells him, in a controlled, furious voice, “No! Not even a second.”

Sara does not look like the face of abuse and she does not speak like a woman who would allow a man to abuse her, but it is important to acknowledge that her story is still plausible. All too often abuse is perceived to be written all over someone’s face in bruised lips and darkened eyes, but not all signs are so easy to read. Sometimes you find it in a bright, young woman who can speak enthusiastically of her future but never of her past.

Still Not Ready for Prime Time Players

The creators of spurn do at least two things right: they utilize films between set changes and they keep their sketch comedy show brief. Sketch comedy is not an easy art to master. spurn tries its best but, like other troupes before it, frequently comes up short. spurn has been together since 2001; this is the group’s tenth installment. The actors, particularly Greg London and Lara Jane Dunatov, are polished and intrepid, but their shine is repeatedly dulled by mediocre writing.

One gets the sense that the spurn creators really, really, really once wanted to work on Saturday Night Live; their whole act owes deeply to the legendary show. spurn’s sketches are at least as good as the current crop of SNL ones. However, since the experience of watching SNL right now is one of hoping desperately for just one gem in a growing pile of forgettable clunkers, that's not saying much. SNL is uneven at best and so, unfortunately, is spurn.

Several of the eight sketches fall flat because they are simply vulgar and hackneyed. Although the sketches average only five to seven minutes in length, during several of them I caught myself anticipating the endings, and wondering what the next one would bring. Many of the skits elicited curiously loud guffaws and hoots from a few members of the audience and, at times, I wondered if they were shills. After all, how loud can one laugh at punch lines about necrophilia and the word “vagina?”

Hard core sketch comedy fans will enjoy the show's fast pace and crispness. Others might wonder how it differs from a typical collegiate comedy revue. spurn shows flashes of brilliance; thy just don't come frequently enough. One of the stronger skits is “am i right, fellas?” in which four female college dorm mates try to pull off a television show about feminism. One of the cast members memorably refers to it as “The View with working ovaries.” The “show” predictably turns out to be anything but feminist and soon devolves into bickering among the cast members, one of whom later flees in tears after her mother calls the studio to tell her she has cankles. Another imaginative sketch is the final one, “shooters,” in which three guys at a TGIF’s bar compete to see who can insult girls the most quickly. One of them gets more than he bargained for, as the other two bolt in horror.

Another strong feature of the show was the use of inter-sketch films, a smart idea that alleviates the awkwardness of frequent set changes. One of the sharpest was “20th Century Fops,” a hilarious recurring bit about two lecherous eighteenth century dandies trying to make it in the modern world. The sketch is introduced by a classical music rendition of The Doors’ “Twentieth Century Fox.” The antiquated humor is absurd and the idea original. spurn’s videos are already big hits on YouTube and its own podcasts. Not all the films are equally clever, however: “Rape Lazer” is simply lame and offensive. spurn wants to offend, to push the envelope. That can be a good thing, but spurn too often takes an easy prurient path that results in the “been there, done that” kind of sketch that leaves one laughing only briefly. Well, maybe not really laughing—more like chuckling. I recommend this for folks looking for a quick evening of giggles and for those loyalists who are still fans of SNL.

Job Perks

Fans of bawdy humor, unite! Robert Farquhar’s Bad Jazz, at the Ohio Theater, pivots around a rather raunchy premise: Natasha (Marin Ireland) is an actress, and her director, Gavin (Rob Campbell), wants her to engage in an actual act of oral sex onstage instead of a stimulated one. Far from sensationalistic, however, Farquhar’s play uses this move as a starting point to address the blurry line between performance and reality. As Jazz unfolds, the audience is often unsure whether the actors are playing characters in real life, the play within the play, or some layer in between. In this way, Jazz is not unlike Tom Stoppard’s The Real Thing, similarly structured and posing similar questions. But is this play the real thing? That answer is yes, though perhaps not an unequivocal one. Jazz, directed by Trip Cullman, is not a play for everyone, as one devilish scene early on makes patently clear. Jazz may not be a dirty play but it is certainly an adult one. Though her boyfriend, Ben (Darren Goldstein) objects, Natasha opts to go on with the performance. What follows is the birth of a tangled relationship between her and co-star Danny (Ryan O’Nan) that bleeds on- and off-stage, leaving Farquhar’s audience to guess as to what exactly is going on. Are Natasha and Ben carrying on in real life or just in character? When are they themselves and when are they performing?

What makes Jazz so strong is that Farquhar never cowers behind his premise; he plays both the comedic and dramatic moments straight rather than opting for low-brow humor or self-referential witticisms. Ireland does a masterful job of shading in Natasha, making her sensual, determined and fragile with the right combination of both forced and tentative vocal delivery and posture. What is more, we get to see her evolve over the course of the show from naïve actress to experienced – and slightly bruised – lover. O’Nan, too, is fully committed. Ben is a physically demanding role, portraying coitus (the sex scenes are carefully, if perhaps not discretely, choreographed) and his bumbling character’s more nervous tics. Goldstein, too, is a forceful presence, one that I wish had appeared more often in Jazz.

All of the actors refrain from tongue-in-cheek banter, particularly Gavin. As the director with demons of his own, he is the catalyst for all of the action in the play. He constantly pushes the boundaries between Ben and Natasha’s relationship (and in doing so, their relations as well), stemming from his own frenzied pathos. As the play moves on, we learn far more about his self-hatred, particularly in a central scene involving rent-boy Ewan (Colby Chambers) that is as amusing as it is ultimately horrific. Susie Pourfar also plays several roles, most notably as the playwright of the play-within-a-play, but, unfortunately, none of them are sufficiently developed. I, for one, was left wondering what exactly troubled her.

Cullum also makes one tactical error in staging this two-hour play without an intermission. I think it would have helped audiences digest the plot without destroying its momentum, and his actors are so reliable that they could have helped the audience dive right back into the material. Bart Fassbender’s music and sound design and Dane Laffrey’s costuming choices are also to be commended.

For the most part, however, Farquhar’s oddball plotting results in a tantalizing evening that asks many questions about the invasive role of performance in an actor’s life. The same question can be posed as to the effect of any kind of art in any artist’s life. That he allows his audience to ponder these questions without directly providing an answer is Farquhar’s greatest feat of all.