In Case You Forgot, Election Day is Nov. 4

It's almost here. The day that most of the country can't wait for: election day, when we will choose who will replace President Bush (love him or hate him). In case the constant media coverage isn't enough, Nero Fiddled is presenting a fun new musical, Life After Bush, in which a cast of familiar politicians and other temporary celebrities guides us through the primaries all the way up to that future fateful day. Although the topic is getting tired at this late stage, the show is able to make current events seem fresh and invigorating again, reminding us that, come what may, on election day, we all have a responsibility to ensure that America can be the best country it can be. Life After Bush is a series of short scenes and musical numbers. The first scene presents America as a patient suffering from a bad case of “Bush.” However, it may be all uphill from there, as she soon meets the superhero Barack Obama (Tarik Davis, clad in spandex and a cape). The scenes are chronological, depicting the events of the past few months using caricatures. President Bush wears a giant, somewhat distracting, foam cowboy hat as he struggles to floss his teeth and delights in Cadbury crème eggs. The material is mostly ripped right from the headlines. In a standout number, former presidential nominee Rudy Giuliani sings about how he is “9/11 Rudy”, echoing Joseph Biden's statement that all Giuliani's sentences contain “a noun, a verb, and 9/11.” In another scene, John Hagee and Jeremiah Wright, while waiting for a bus, discuss the Bible and candidate endorsement.

Don't think that the musical is all wicked satire and fun, though. One scene features a woman ripping up a piece of paper which has “Roe Vs. Wade” written upon it, as the laws and judgments passed that have eroded the original decision away are recited. What is left is a shred of the original decision. The scene feels a little out of place in a world where Dick Cheney is a snarling dog and “Al Qaeda in Iraq” is two chorus girls. However, the show doesn't stay in the land of seriousness too long, as an advertisement for “Abortion Land,” a spa where two for one abortions are offered, quickly follows.

The musical wears its politics on its sleeve—it's unlikely to find an audience of McCain supporters or even anyone who is undecided in their politics. Yet, even a full fledged Obama supporter might groan at the idea of yet another spoof on the what the Republican party hath wrought. However, the show never feels like a progressive hammer, pounding the same jokes about Bush and the last eight years into its audience's head. The message is obvious, but the delivery is light.

The run up to the presidential election is wearing on us all, as candidates resort to personal attacks and media coverage becomes incessant. i>Life After Bush is just what the doctor ordered to inject a bit of jazzy humor into the proceedings.

Long-Distance Haul

British playwright Kate McGovern has said that the plot of Blue Before Morning was inspired by a taxi ride from New York to Philadelphia, but the road trip in her own play pushes the boundaries of both geography and credibility. A young woman, Ava (Kether Donohue), hails a cab in New York City and urges the driver, Jerry (Chris McKinney), to take her to Port Authority. Missing her bus, she then badgers him to take her to Columbia, S.C., claiming it’s urgent but explaining nothing. You might think her evasiveness would send up more red flags than a May Day parade in Moscow—stories of cabbies being murdered are more common than those of long-distance jaunts—but it doesn’t. In New Jersey they rescue a pregnant woman, Ella (Jenny Maguire), from a downpour, and the three share the cab. Now, New York to Philly is a ride that’s plausible, but the idea of a cab excursion that goes beyond the Mason-Dixon line also goes beyond belief. The improbability of a cabbie driving his taxi to South Carolina with two strange, often abrasive women—and for no money—remains a 500-pound gorilla in the back seat, as it were.

To be fair, Jerry has reasons for succumbing to Ava’s pleas, but they aren’t revealed until too late in the play to dispel skepticism. As the trip progresses, each traveler summons recollections of a relationship in scenes that take place outside the replica of a car interior that, with an upstage wall of gray suitcases stacked like concrete blocks, constitutes the set.

Ava’s relationship involves her mother, Eileen, a former drug addict who gave her up for rearing by Ava’s grandmother, who has died. Now back with her mother in the flashbacks, Ava is deeply embittered. She resists every heartfelt attempt by Jennifer Dorr White’s contrite Eileen to connect, and she flees for college in New York City.

The pregnant and lubricious Ella, meanwhile, is on the run from her boyfriend Steve, who is given a lackadaisical dependability in Flaco Navaja’s winning performance. However, Ella has no bent for nurturing.

Jerry’s story includes a wife, Rita, whom he met while studying to become a teacher. Rita is initially impressed by Jerry’s commitment to teaching, but after she becomes pregnant unexpectedly she too balks at mothering. “I can’t have a baby right now,” she tells him, claiming it’s too soon in their relationship. But, she adds, “I can’t not have it.” It’s no reflection on the excellent Phyllis Johnson that Rita, presented initially as elegant and composed, loses credibility as the character’s objectives change. She worries about Jerry’s income after he decides he can’t afford to continue school with a baby coming. When she walks out, she tells him: “You could be one of those executives you take to work! You could be going up into those high-rise buildings instead of waiting curbside in front of them.” What happened to the woman who was impressed with his career goal of teaching? Did she not know what teachers are paid? The transformation in the character feels arbitrary.

Faced with characters sitting much of the time and an inevitably talky script, director Gia Forakis supplies mimed food breaks, as they get out and stretch, accompanied by projections of dawn and dusk and a digital clock ticking off seconds (thanks to S. Katy Tucker). Nonetheless, the play can’t escape feeling static.

Jerry tells Ava at one point, “Mothers are born. Fathers have to be made.” It’s an ironic and foolishly romantic statement, given the play’s action. The women here are often whining harpies, and sympathy falls to the men, in spite of some feminist digs at them. (As Ella and Ava observe two flies copulating, Ella says, “It’s a straight-up business transaction.” And Ava adds, “They’re finished. And he doesn’t hold her at all. Just flies off.”)

In fact, it’s Jerry and Steve who accept parental responsibility in the play, while the women lack dependability and behave selfishly (apart from the reformed Eileen). McGovern may be saying that some women aren't prepared to be mothers (or loving spouses), and that may be true. But if she has a solution to the problem, it’s not readily apparent.

All The World's a John Hughes' Movie

Maybe most people do not want to admit it, but there is certain joy to be had in watching those high school movies from the 1980's. Most people would also admit that there is a joy in watching Shakespeare's plays. So what better way to get the utmost joy and entertainment out of a piece of theater than by combining the two? An adaptation of As You Like It, Sammy Buck and Daniel S. Acquisto's new musical Like You Like It does just that and the result is a cute and entertaining evening filled with identity confusion, high school politics, and ultimately, the right couples getting together. The year is 1985 and the enchanted Arden forest has been cut down to make way for the Arden Mall, where “who knows, you might find enchantment in the shops.” The students of Courtland High School are excited about the mall's opening and the big dance-off that evening. However, bookish and shy Rosalind is beating herself up over her inability to talk to Orlando, on whom she has a crush. Meanwhile, Orlando, who secretly likes Rosalind, is under the clutches of the rich and beautiful Audrey Shepherd. When the two finally do get to speak to each other, Orlando's geeky, hall monitor older brother catches them skipping class and suspends Rosalind and her cousin Celia.

Threatened with expulsion, Rosalind and Celia hatch a plan to show up at the dance that night—Rosalind becomes Corey, a college aged boy, while Celia dresses like a Madonna-wannabe. Their disguises cause much confusion in the hours leading up to the dance, and if the story weren't such a familiar one, it would be uncertain whether all would work out in the end.

Like You Like It is a successful adaptation and update. The politics of state translate well into the politics in high school. As the love between the characters in As You Like It never develops beyond the superficial, that also translates well into a high school setting. The comedy and interest lies in the present action, not in where the characters will be after graduation.

The music successfully imitates the pop from the time period. The script is rife with pop culture and Shakespearean references. For instance, the band is called the “Seven Stages of Man.” The costumes bring back the cringe worthy fashions (crimped hair, popped collars, ruffly taffeta dresses) from the era while the set is painted in boldly hideous 80's colors—teal and purple. The ensemble cast is unified and strong and features many high school stereotypes—the lemmingesque cheerleaders, the “goth girl,” the jocks. Hollis Scarborough is delightful as the frivolous Celia while Alison Luff is genuine as Rosalind. Her schoolgirl awkwardness is nearly palpable as is her exuberant confidence as Corey.

Like You Like It is a fun filled show and is perfect for when you want something Shakespeare but with an 80's beat and a teenage vibe. Everything about the show is delightful, from the cast to the music to the source material.

Fable in a Factory

13P was founded in 2003 with the intention of enabling each of its member playwrights to see a full production of one of their plays, produced in accordance with their own creative vision for the piece, within a ten-year period of time. Crawl, Fade to White is 13P’s seventh production, the midpoint of the organization’s endeavor, and writer Sheila Callaghan has taken full advantage of her opportunity at the helm. Crawl, Fade to White is a tale of love, relationships, and loss with mythic overtones. Single mother Louise (Carla Harting), struggling to pay for daughter April’s (Jocelyn Kuritsky) college tuition, sells an antique lamp that is her only remaining connection to April’s father, Niko (Shawtane Monroe Bowen), and her own estranged extended family. In the meantime, April and her boyfriend Nolan (Matthew roi Berger) have dropped out of school after burning down a student dorm. They are intercepted by Louise while attempting to break into her house to steal the lamp.

The lamp’s new owners, the quirky, agoraphobic couple Dan (Matthew Lewis) and Fran (Black-Eyed Susan), plan a yard sale to finally rid themselves of mementos of their long-deceased twin children. April and Nolan invade their home, hoping to take back the lamp, and the elderly couple attempt to adopt them. The intermingling of the two households sets off a chain reaction of revelations, confessions and vengeance which climax in an ending that no one expects.

A plot summary, however, does not do justice to the full experience of this play, as much of the meaning arises from the language the characters speak and the images presented onstage. Director Paul Willis does an excellent job grounding the characters in the emotion of each moment while allowing the larger metaphors to operate freely. The acting choices are specific and effective.

The show’s venue, the Ideal Glass Gallery, has never been used to present a play before. In fact, in order to stage Crawl, Fade to White here, 13P had to construct the entire lighting grid from scratch. Their efforts, however, pay off. The cavernous space features irregular walls, exposed brick chimneys, and a pair of spacious balconys with ladders leading to the main floor and staircases leading to the roof. One of the balconies, with its ladder and staircase, is used to great effect as a secondary playing area for the scenes from Louise’s teenage romance with Niko. The industrial architecture and sheer volume of space in which the action is suspended contribute to the feeling of distance between the various characters and their floating sense of loss.

Additional elements of the ambitious set, desiged by Anna Kiraly, include spinning platforms with partial walls and windows that represent the two houses. The light, sound and costume design are all effective and contribute to the show’s coherent visual style.

13P’s Crawl, Fade to White is a superior production of an innovative script. It is unusual enough to interest the veteran theatergoer, accessible to the casual viewer, and not to be missed.

Bed, Laugh and Beyond

“In married life, three is company, two is none,” Oscar Wilde’s witty altruism, could have easily derived its inspiration directly from the pages of Alan Ayckbourn’s personal diary (or blog for all you post-Gen X’ers). No stranger to dysfunctional relationships, Ayckbourn relied heavily on the theme of marriage in many of his plays from the early 1970’s and Bedroom Farce is no exception. And what this piece lacks in the “creative title” department, it more than makes up for in its facetious attempt to examine the nature of connubial bliss. First written for the National Theatre in 1975, Bedroom Farce is a voyeuristic peep into the lives (and bedrooms) of four British couples in various stages of their marital tenure (think Love, American Style with a through-line). The play takes place over the course of one Saturday evening and concerns itself with Trevor and Susannah, a couple on the verge of divorce who naively impose their respective burdens on friends and family alike. The result is a blithe, insightful examination of both human nature and the institution of marriage.

Given the play’s 30-year absence from New York audiences, it is no coincidence that the acclaimed Actors Company Theatre/TACT – whose mission is to produce “neglected or rarely produced plays of literary merit” – celebrates the launch of its 2008-09 season with what is arguably one of Ayckbourn’s most charming, if not overlooked, comedies.

Under the skillful direction of Jenn Thompson, the production appears effortless and comfortable on Robin Vest’s exposed, multi-leveled (and sometimes a bit too confining) set, which consists of three separate bedrooms occupying a split stage configuration. Thompson’s staging, much like the text, takes few risks but maximizes the space efficiently and capitalizes on her undeniable mastery of physical comedy.

Rhythmically, the show stumbles a bit early on, but hits its full stride with the introduction of Trevor (Mark Alhadeff); a wonderfully adorable, self-absorbed psychoanalytic who has trouble communicating effectively and is innocently impervious to the reprimands of others. Alhadeff’s portrayal is, at the very least, genuine and apologetic and is reminiscent of a child who, oblivious to the consequences, continues to reach across the hot stove for the forbidden cookie jar. Trevor may have a lot to be sorry for, but Alhadeff is the joyful opposite whose performance alone is worth the price of admission.

Other noteworthy performances include TACT founding member Larry Keith (Earnest) as Trevor’s misplaced and somewhat abstract father, who is more concerned with the leaky roof than his own wedding anniversary. Similarly, Scott Schafer (Nick) as the sarcastic, bedridden husband of Trevor’s ex-girlfriend, Jan, is both hysterical and, at times, wonderfully inappropriate.

Despite its lackluster title, Bedroom Farce is a lively, if not altogether astute, commentary on the state of our unions which legitimizes itself in the masterful hands of TACT. With a lean running time of just under two hours (including a 15 minute intermission), Bedroom Farce leaves plenty of time to analyze your own relationship with your significant other on the subway ride home. After all, if marriage was this fun, Ayckbourn would be one comedy short and Wilde one short of comedy.

Misery Loves Company

Sarah Kane’s first play, Blasted, written when she was just 21, is making its New York debut at SoHo Rep nearly fourteen years after its London premiere. Blasted is neither the “disgusting feast of filth” that Jack Tinker of that city’s Daily Mail once called it, nor is it the masterpiece that it’s been mythologized to be in the wake of Ms. Kane’s 1999 suicide. Cleverly directed by Sarah Benson, Blasted is brilliant in places. Its over-the-top violence tracks the brutality of which Ms. Kane is reported to have believed the world is largely composed. The legendary violence of the play, while not gratuitous, is frequently exaggerated and redundant. It's needed, though, to illustrate just how one can be de-sensitized, over a span of years or even a few hours, to unbelievable acts of destruction and examples of human misery. The redundancy is also endlessly fascinating as one braces for the next act of savagery or assault—they only get more horrific. Only later does one realize that Ms. Kane has told us the same thing over and over. While the production’s press notes state that, ultimately, the play is a vision of “redemption and love,” I’m not sure I entirely buy that, and I wonder whether that bit wasn’t injected to pre-emptively soften the script’s many excesses.

The violence in Blasted follows a trajectory. Slights and insults start out small but hurtful in the microcosm of a hotel room, turn into physical assaults and later reach catastrophic proportions. Ian (Reed Birney) is habitually cruel to the tender Cate (Marin Ireland), a former lover who naïvely visits Ian’s Leeds hotel room because she wants to comfort him in his obvious physical (Cirrhosis? Cancer? Both?) and psychic distress. He rewards this act of kindness by calling her “stupid,” and makes fun of her stuttering and her tendency to suffer seizures when stressed. When she refuses his crude and pathetic sexual overtures, he rapes her.

Mr. Birney gives a startling performance as the prematurely decrepit and spiritually bankrupt Ian. Ian’s work as a journalist may or may not be a front for work with some sort of violent underground political movement. An unapologetic racist, he also chain smokes, downs gin the way others drink water, and carries a gun. He’s already had one lung removed and appears to be coughing out the other one. And he doesn’t care. He claims to welcome death.

Yet, Ian is not as tough as he pretends to be (Cate at one point calls him “soft”) and he has a strong instinct for preservation. Intrusions from the outside world—a ringing phone or room service—are suspect. We know we’re in a war zone but we don’t know why. There is much evidence that Ms. Kane was inspired by the horrors then taking place in Bosnia, and the apathy of her native England and the rest of the world.

The events on the outside invade the room in the guise of a depraved soldier (Louis Cancelmi) who holds Ian hostage. Soon, there is a bomb blast which not only destroys the hotel room but explodes the boundaries of this play itself—we are no longer dealing with space and time as Kane initially presented them. The characters are now in a world over which they have not even nominal control.

Cate has already escaped through the bathroom window. The soldier makes a confession of sorts to Ian about all the horrible things he has done and seen and why he does them. Then he brutally assaults Ian in various ways. If you’re concerned that I might be giving away the plot, don’t worry, the best—or worst—is yet to come.

Mr. Cancelmi struggles with some sort of accent that turns much of his communication into grunts. Perhaps that’s the point — to demonstrate just how human beings can become hideously bestial. The soldier, though, is the least credible “character” in this play. Anyone so informed by viciousness is unlikely to explain his rationale. Remarkably, Ian has several chances to attempt resistance, and perhaps hasten the death he appears to crave, yet never once takes the chance.

Blasted strives, really, to hammer home one major and fundamental point, and the orgy of violence, sexual and otherwise, that ensues is the vehicle through which Ms. Kane blasts us with her message. This play isn’t about the violence, per se. We’re inured to violence like this from watching films like Saw and Pulp Fiction. What this play appears to be saying is just how easily and unthinkingly we, when conditions are ripe, will commit physical and mental violence on other human beings.

The production itself is superlative. Louisa Thompson’s set efficiently replicates an upscale hotel room in all its coldness and antiseptic qualities. Later, the very same room is thoroughly transformed into a bombed-out ruin. It’s quite remarkable just how quickly Ms. Thompson and Props Master Sarah Bird accomplish these alterations. The play’s ending, too, is astonishing and staged, believe it or not, quite beautifully. Kane figuratively blasts the characters through the violence to another side, whatever that might be.

As bleak as Blasted is, there’s still humor in there. Ian’s vulnerability allows us to resist the temptation to loathe him completely; his reaction to his inability to commit suicide with an empty gun elicited chuckles among the audience members. He knows that Cate sees through him when he tells her that he does bad things to her because he loves her. We have to laugh at such exchanges. In the end, Cate is the one who rises above and adapts to this new wicked world.

Ultimately, Blasted illustrates just what contemporary theater can do when we let it. When much of what we see these days worships the trite and the transparently contrived, Blasted serves as a potent reminder that theater can be a trenchant political and emotional force.

Camera, Action

“A good fight” says Bruce Lee’s martial arts teacher in Soomi Kim’s production, “should be like a small play, played seriously.” If the martial artist’s maxim holds true, then the production is like a good fight. A cleverly titled deconstruction of gender in the life of Asian-American action star Bruce Lee, Lee/gendary is remarkable for its graceful aggression and unapologetic self-seriousness. The play tells Lee’s life story in a mostly linear fashion through a variety of contrasting performance techniques: found and imagined dialogue, live music and filmed projections, martial arts fight sequences and stylized dance all find their way into the single act production. Under the direction of Suzi Takahashi, the multidisciplinary performance achieves a fast-paced fluidity without ever growing sloppy or even rushed.

The talented ensemble plays a variety of roles, from nameless school bullies and adoring fans to lovers who deeply influenced Lee’s life. At times, the cast is divided into racially “appropriate” roles (for example, the white actors play British bullies and the Asian actors play Chinese bullies; both, it seems, motivated young Bruce to take up martial arts in self defense). In other moments, the cast functions as a chorus, where presence takes precedence over ethnicity.

While the other performers shift between a variety of recurring characters, Kim plays Bruce Lee at various stages of his life. A Korean-American theater performer trained in gymnastics, dance, and martial arts, she says in publicity materials that she was inspired to craft a piece about Bruce Lee after learning that he had been given a female name at birth in order to ward off evil spirits. Kim inhabits Bruce without irony. Her female body draws attention to the issue of gender; her committed performance disregards it as a non-issue. It’s an effective dichotomy, especially given that Lee’s identity is more often examined through a racial lens than a sexual one.

Although the production sometimes features male and female perspectives of Lee and of martial arts in general, it’s too smart to ascribe particular gendered meanings to different aspects of his identity; his human complexity is never diminished. The play missteps in its final moments, when Lee literally battles different aspects of himself to the death. Surrounding Kim with full-length mirrors, the ensemble would fit at home in a chorus scene of Lerner and Leowe’s Camelot as the play’s rapid-fire indications of Lee’s inner turmoil give way to heavy-handedness.

A more sophisticated use of the chorus occurs in a scene during which the courtship, wedding, and marriage of Lee (Kim) to Linda (Ariel J. Shepley) is enacted in pantomime to the Everly Brothers’ All I Have to do is Dream, which sets the sixties time period. More essential to the ambiance than period, however, is the ensemble, which lines the dimly-lit stage while executing slow, repetitive martial arts infused choreography and, occasionally, holding tea lights. Thanks to the performers' sense of intent and Takashi’s steadfast direction, the scene achieves a whimsical aesthetic just short of ironic. That impressive balance suits the spirit of Lee/gendary beautifully.

About the only time irony enters the picture in Lee/gendary comes when the performers act out scenes from Lee’s movies while lip-synching the soundtrack. Isolating the use of irony to those scenes highlights the discrepancy between Lee’s inner life, which Lee/gendary purports to explore, and the life the films imply he led. It’s a cute choice that reminds audience members less familiar with action films of the qualities of his success while providing his fans an opportunity to enjoy the hero’s famous lines.

Lee/gendary has returned to the HERE Arts Center after premiering two summers ago in HERE’s now-defunct American Living Room Festival. The show then received a slot in last year’s First National Asian American Theater Festival. That production history makes itself apparent in this clean, confident production.

Small Mercies

Adam's Rapp new play, Kindness, currently running in a limited engagement at Playwrights Horizons, is suspenseful, funny and tightly written. Under the author's own discreet direction, the members of the small ensemble cast take their time on stage and seem to revel in the quality material. The result is an act of kindness in itself for weary theatergoers. The play centers on Dennis (Christopher Denham), a small-town high school student who has come to New York with his terminally ill mother, Maryanne (Annette O'Toole), ostensibly to have a close-to-the-end bonding weekend attending an uplifting Broadway musical.

The potent opening scene touches on the uneasy sexual tension between mother and teenaged son. In this bland midtown hotel room, impeccably designed by Laurie Helpern, the minutes pass painfully in a chasm of enforced gaiety and impending loss, and in the absence of a father saddled with a chronic gambling problem.

After several rounds with her surly non-Broadway-musical-loving son, Maryanne invites Herman (Ray Anthony Thomas), an attentive cab driver, to attend the show in his place. Left in the hotel to face a lonely evening, Dennis encounters a striking and quite elusive woman named Frances (Katherine Waterston).

While it’s difficult to discuss more of this play without divulging its plot, it’s easy to talk about the elements that make this production so good. Need drives this play, in the best possible sense. There is a palpable chemistry among its characters, as they bang against each other in a desperate push-and-pull attempt to survive. Rapp’s direction is subtle, and his use of the stage (including periodic disappearances into the bathroom) is excellent. There is also an underlying element of suspense that keeps the play constantly in-the-moment.

Denham, who also appeared in Rapp’s Red Light Winter, is a wonderful blend of bravado and longing. There is great humor in his scenes with his mother, which he handles with verbal skill and timing. Quirky and beautiful, Waterston’s performance is also acutely intelligent. While she may have been given one too many Mae West style lines (some are terrific), she executes an offbeat impromptu dance with pluck and vulnerability. Thomas is a completely believable and likeable cab driver, a sort of moral beacon to whom kindness is a way of life, and the focus of much of O’Toole’s rabid second act hunger.

Kindness is a stone-thrown-into-the-pond kind of play, the ripple effects of which expand outwards from the action itself. Equally the play leaves a growing impression on the viewer much after its ending. I strongly recommend that you catch this gem of a play before its limited run is over.

A Tale of a Fateful Trip

Based on a play as wild and fantastic as the storm that opens the show, Classic Stage Company’s take on Shakespeare’s The Tempest deftly navigates the uneven seas, with its jolly highs and dull lows. When Prospero, the magician controlling the weather, restores calm, the play conforms to the expectations of a comedy, albeit with bizarre tangents, ending in marriage and applause. With impressive staging and clever sets, along with brilliant comic performances, the show is riotously funny and visually stunning. However, there are some disconnects, particularly involving Prospero’s speeches. Adherence to the letter of the script guides this production, which, though admirable, does not make it consistently accessible, and the viewer can sometimes feel lost at sea. As the lights go up, accompanied by a thunderclap, we see a small white ship, seemingly made of paper, perched atop a suspended quadrangle—a reminder of scale that also cleverly brings sublime natural phenomena to the stage. The ship’s inhabitants include Alonso, King of Naples, Antonio, Duke of Milan, Gonzalo, the King’s counselor, and Sebastian, Alonso’s brother. In the face of the storm they are weak and afraid, traits that will figure into their comeuppance. Also on board is Ferdinand, the King’s brave son.

The tempest that deposits the ship’s passengers on an island off the African coast is the work of Prospero, a magician with a score to settle. Mandy Patinkin plays up the ferocity and capriciousness of Prospero, his booming voice resounding with grave authority. Prospero inhabits the island with his beautiful daughter Miranda (a charmingly naïve Elizabeth Waterson), to whom he explains his reasons for raising the storm, and thereby fills the audience in on the history. The play’s weakest points are these explicative passages, which are long-winded and convoluted. Yet, such speechifying exemplifies Prospero’s boorishness, one of several character flaws that make him an unusual hero.

Prospero’s rage seethes as if the betrayal occurred yesterday when he recounts his usurpation by his shamelessly opportunistic brother, Antonio, and his flight from Italy that landed him, his daughter, and, amazingly, his entire library, on the island. Prospero’s supernatural powers derive from his books, and besides raising tempests, he spends his time commanding the spirit Ariel and the native Caliban, the disfigured son of the witch Sycorax, who died before Prospero’s arrival. Caliban is the opposite of the learned man: coarse, unintelligible, and obviously Other. Yet, despite the play’s judgments of Caliban, Nyambi Nyambi’s nuanced rendering can be discomfiting and touching.

As he enacts his vengeance, Prospero makes use of Ariel (an exhilaratingly shrill and mischievous Angel Desai). Ariel works her magic on Ferdinand (Stark Sands), whom Prospero wishes to marry to his daughter. Assuming the form of a sea nymph, she likewise charms the King and his retinue, sowing seeds of jealousy and anger, ultimately leading them to Prospero’s cell, where all of this scheming results in a slightly anticlimactic reckoning.

With many simultaneous plots, the playwright is forced to abruptly tie his loose ends. There is a hasty wedding ceremony, the pardoning of Antonio, the release of Ariel from servitude, the embarrassing comeuppance of the play’s fools (Stefano, Trinculo, and the hopeless Caliban), and Prospero’s restoration as Duke. Ends neatly tied, the play concludes with a gentle epilogue from Prospero, who directly appeals to the audience for their indulgence and his release. Finally, he and the rest of the cast get the applause they deserve.

The production is worth seeing for the perfect buffoonery of Trinculo (Tony Torn, playing the silliest, most enjoyable drunk I’ve ever seen) and Stefano (Steven Rattazzi), whose performances recall a Three Stooges bit. Similarly, Antonio and Sebastian trade sarcastic barbs, mocking Gonzalo and the King’s other attendants. In these scenes, Shakespeare’s language glows with vitality.

Under Brian Kulick’s skilled direction, and with a marvelous set from designer Jian Jung, the play becomes a comedy of sublime proportions. Jung’s set makes use of Classic Stage’s cavernous space, and Kulick positions his cast across its many levels (in dirt, on ladders, atop a wildly spinning table, in the wings, and on platforms set into the back wall). Furthermore, the use of the quadrangle as a representation of sea and sky (on alternating sides) is ingenious and lovely. The golden sky, with touches of darkness, is painted, but is so lit and tilted as to seem to change with the tenor of the scene. The color of the clouded sky is echoed in the sand beneath it, and in Oana Botez-Ban’s lustrous but simple costumes of rich yellows and crisp whites.

The show is an energetically acted, brilliantly staged interpretation of one of Shakespeare’s most disjointed comedies. Despite its odd plot and unsympathetic hero, it can be a crowd-pleaser, and this production focuses its exquisite attention on the high notes.

In the Zone

With the economy in the throes of collapse and a historic election looming, I think everyone can agree that this is a unique period for the American experience. At the core of the TMZ-esque obsession with Sarah Palin and the good intentions leading to this fiscal perdition, the root problem seems clear – a fundamentally misunderestimated sense of priority. This predicament is expounded well in Spin, the stageFARM’s bite-sized treatise on lop-sided public opinion, currently playing at the Cherry Lane Theatre. Spin is comprised of five short plays, each slickly directed by either Alex Kilgore or Evan Cabnet, exploring the crossed-up ethics of the current American zeitgeist. Spin provides novel juxtapositions, such as those between prisoner torture in Guantanamo Bay and the world of Fetish Porn, and also the search for a line between reality television and infotainment. Though at times ridiculous, this dialogue merrily sums up the current landscape with equal parts honesty and satire.

The first entry, “America’s Got Tragedy” by Gina Gionfriddo, provides the most on-the-nose commentary of the evening, by staging a reality show where an Aristotle-quoting literature professor judge must decide whose life is more tragic according to the classical definition: Brittany Spears or a soldier recently killed in the Iraq war. While Gionfriddo’s piece is delicate in the right places, it sometimes errs too much on the side of preposterousness – for instance, Brittany and the dead soldier eventually hook up. All told, the piece fulfills its primary goal in exposing the scope of American concern very well, and Dreama Walker plays a very relatable, compelling Brittany.

“90 Days,” written by Elizabeth Meriwether, was my favorite of the five plays. On Elliot’s last day of rehab, he speaks to his wife-to-be Abby on speakerphone, and becomes painfully aware that his drug problem probably wasn’t the only thing wrong with their relationship. This play works well within Spin’s broader concept, when you consider celebrity rehabilitation centers like Promises and the current fad of checking in and out without really solving the problem. Here, the simplicity of having one character walking around, talking to another who can’t see what he’s doing is a brilliant conceit, making for much comedy and visual irony. Patch Darragh’s silent, secret reactions to a fiancée whom he is clearly very mixed on are hysterical. Rebecca Henderson also gives an amazingly clear and textured performance, considering she is only heard via speakerphone.

In Judith Thompson’s monologue “Nail Biter,” a Canadian CSIS agent, David, attempts to justify his torturing of a fifteen-year-old detainee in Guantanamo Bay. As the soberest piece of a predominantly comedic evening, one wonders if “Nail Biter’s” guilt-inducing testimony about human rights in the age of Youtube will land the way that Thompson hoped it would. The script’s downbeat tone notwithstanding, there is no denying either the power in examining a torturer who believes himself vindicated or Jesse Hooker’s honest, restrained performance.

“Fun,” by Mark Schultz, has much to say about trust, human connection and art through the lens of the fetish porn industry. Grady is a seasoned politico-porno actor, who often stars in X-Rated films with a social or political bent. (One vague description involved Nazi’s, but beyond that it’s up to our imagination.) He’s sharing a ratty waiting room couch with Jamie, whose unique ability – vomiting on people – the avant-garde producer wants to feature in his films. Where Schultz could have hung everything on the vibrant cat and mouse game between Patch Darragh and Dream Walker, he instead takes “Fun” into a surprising realm of significance, suggesting that living in the exciting now, which may or may not include bloody psycho-sexual fistfights, is a good way to blot out a much regretted past. Darragh and Walker are fantastic here: natural, funny and not afraid of the rawer material.

By the time “Tone Unknown,” the final piece by Adam Rapp, came around, Spin had already been through reality television, rehab, torture and fetish porn. Wondering what could possibly finish off an evening like this, I was not disappointed. The Rapture, of course! In this piece adventure journalist Victoria Houselight (who uses a fake British accent) has brought her cameraman on an expedition to find Cerval Hyler, a reclusive rock legend, said to be able to recreate the sounds of The Rapture on his electric guitar. And in a move that echos the opening ceremony of the Olympics in China, Houselight hired an actor with better abs to stand in for the shirtless, bag-headed musician on camera. Rebecca Henderson absolutely owns this piece as the haughty Houselight, and though there seems to be a lot that Rapp wants to say about fake news, theater school and repressed sexuality, the script swings into full-blown absurdity before it reaches any sort of profundity.

Spin largely succeeds in humorously contrasting the disparate elements of the early 21st Century climate and even more so in asking us to distinguish cultural importance from media nonsense.

Something In The Way They Move

Right away you know something is very wrong here. The mannequins with their glassy eyes and waxen complexions, an insane “hostess,” the Nickelodeon-on-a-meth-binge kids’ show, plus other bloodsuckers, can only lead to one result, which Something Weird... In The Red Room readily provides: dances with death. Directed and choreographed by Rachel Klein, both of the evening’s pieces are dominated by their movement, and executed with accomplished nuance, from the creepy mannequin stirrings of Sir Sheever to the amazing dream ballet and reenacted video sequences included in the twisted Aenigma. Aenigma, written by Sean Gill, is a brilliantly integrated piece, moving from live action, to impressions of video playback, to fantasy (or nightmare) cycles by way of key lighting and music changes which trigger the audience’s subterranean understanding without missing a beat. The Body Rock Crew dance breaks, the slo-mo replays, heightened by psychedelic lighting effects and a soundtrack featuring pop tracks and even an inspired bit from Alfred Hitchcock’s favorite composer, Bernard Hermann, all work together to evoke something even deeper and more sinister than the already-problematic situation which two TV/pop star sisters face after a cast party goes terribly awry.

The structure, pace, and storytelling are satisfyingly non-traditional, which helps to achieve a more credible and complimentary texture for the darkly funny circumstances of Aenigma. Gill’s dips into the surreal are masterful, while surface dialogue, humor and character quirks seem perfectly natural and coexistent as well.

Jillaine Gill, the playwright’s sister and frequent collaborator, gives a remarkable performance as Diana, one half of the troubled pair. As the heart and (sold-out) soul of the piece, she artfully communicates her dark and confusing journey somehow without missing one beat of honesty or belief. She magically allows everything to simply play upon her face, her stance, and her movements. If this work is any indication, the Gill siblings as a brother-sister team could rival other talented relations known as Gyllenhaal, Arquette, or even demented Osmonds. Adding their own brand of wonderful sickness, of course.

Elizabeth Stewart as Diana’s sister Charlotte is delightfully cloying and also fun to watch as she glides herself in and out of each precarious situation. The Body Rock Crew as chorus (and participants) both ground, as well as heighten the bizarre action, which crawls out from the crevice somewhere between fantasy and reality from whence this captivating piece emanates.

The evening's opening piece Sir Sheever is also something of an atmospheric accomplishment. The premise of Ralph the burglar happening into Miss Elise’s house of horrors works, but I’m not sure the play fully hits the heights (or the depths) of what could be imagined. First of all, I didn’t understand why he couldn’t escape – after all, he got in. Ok, bitch was crazy, but still. But with the suspension of that disbelief, by the time the delicate balance of mannequin, as well as the house manners, is struck and Ralph begins his transformation into Sir Sheever, the audience is fully along for the ride. We can’t wait to see the mannequins’ revenge on their captors and tormentors. How are they going to come to life? Are they going to revolt? Can they kill on demand?

The ensuing action feels somewhat slow in advancing, but Bret Haines as Ralph does convey a bit of the resigned “ok, I’ll just go along with this so I can get the hell out of here” vibe like the beleaguered Griffin Dunne character in Martin Scorsese's 1985 black comedy After Hours. Part of him seems to be getting into his new role, and maybe he doesn’t really want to escape anymore anyway. A touch of Stockholm Syndrome perhaps? Kari Warchock plays the psychotic Miss Elise, who manages to maintain her frantic intensity throughout the piece. I wish playwright Benjamin Spiro had provided a few glimmers into her psyche, or a line or two about whatever events may have led to her current state, but otherwise she’s perfectly suitable as the requisite nut job.

Supporting this cozy tête-à-tête is the cast of twitchingly eerie mannequins, Abigail Hawk as the cool Eunice, Candy Bloise as the disinterested Euripides, Michael Porsche as the corpse-like Robert, Ted Caine as the randy, agile Fredrick, and Megan O’Connor as the grotesquely beautiful pull-string plaything Miss Prissypants. The hair, make-up and costume of O’Connor especially all amalgamate to a horror-doll masterpiece (also excellent on Warchock and the others) and she delivers Miss Prissypants’ deadpan sound bites in a haunting and hilarious fashion. The manipulative choreography and performances by all are wonderful. Spiro makes a great stab (so to speak) at the genre, and the comedy works, but I would have liked to see, or be more scared by, an even darker exposition. But still, The Red Room calls... And you, must, go. Boo!

Joining Tales of Humanitarian Leadersip

Much like In Conflict, a collection of modern soldier accounts currently playing at Culture Project, Journeys is a theatrical work heavily grounded in journalism. Through the access provided by Vital Voices Global Partnership, an NGO advocating women's leadership, the seven participating playwrights based their on-stage narratives on first-hand interviews with their subjects. In a collection of seven monologues, Journeys showcases the real-life stories of women activists from Northern Ireland, Cambodia, Pakistan, Russia, Nigeria, Afghanistan and Guatemala. During its three-week run at La MaMa, the work is divided into two blocks that are performed at separate times; Series A includes the stories of Inez McCormack of Northern Ireland, Mu Socha of Cambodia and Mukhtaran Mai of Pakistan, while Series B includes the remaining four monologues. The decision to split the work is a wise one, as the emotionally hefty, often heartbreakingly understated nature of the narratives requires an audience to consider each as an independent entity.

Giving an artistic context to these narratives is, in fact, so valuable an effort that one begins to wish for the opportunity to hear these stories directly from the women who lived them. At points, the work's reportorial approach and strict monologue format awaken questions about the necessity of its theatrical execution.

Series A begins with the story of Inez McCormack, an Irish writer and human rights activist who has led grassroots peace-building and labor union efforts in Northern Ireland since the late 1960s. McCormack is portrayed by Terry Donnelly, who approaches her subject's collected energy with unassuming rhetorical gestures. When she recalls a friend's murder or a police mob's attack, a simple shake of the head shows her struggle to comprehend the violence. Donnelly's portrayal reflects deep admiration for her character's wisdom, but because Carol K. Mack's narrative jumps frequently from scene to scene and often focuses on individuals other than McCormack, it also seems to run a tad too long.

The story of Mu Sochua, founder of the Cambodian women's rights movement and Nobel Peace Prize nominee, follows McCormack's. Catherine Filloux's text is notably lyrical, effectively connecting her character's gentle rhetoric with Cambodian mythology. As Mu (Christine Toy Johnson) describes the ceremony she conducts to help rescued trafficking victims rediscover their souls, the audience is immediately drawn to her world. Johnson's delivery never wavers from her composed, melodic tone, but as she narrates Mu's exploration of a country in crisis, her eyes reflect the pain driving her humanitarianism.

Perhaps because writer Susan Yankowitz took the approach of a chronological, first-person narrative to Pakistani women's right activist Mukhtaran Mai's story, her segment is also the most affecting of the three. The monologue allows actor Reena Shah to re-enact several scenes of the story and thus keep the audience engaged throughout. While Shah delivers a carefully studied performance that translates into authentic emotion, writer Yankowitz also had the most powerful narrative to work with; born into a low caste in Pakistan without an education or a comprehension of human rights, Mai was raped by four men of a neighboring tribe. But instead of committing suicide or remaining silent in fear of dishonor, Mai went on to become the first woman in the country to take her case into court. She has later worked actively on improving the rights and education level in Pakistan.

The stage is unadorned, short of a chair and a white background screen that provides a canvas to a set of colored, subtly changing lights. An elevated structure also allows each actress to move between different sections of the stage as their narratives progress. The chair, located at floor level, helps them speak intimately to the audience, while the elevated portion of the stage offers a setting for more climactic or declarative moments.

Aside from entrances and exits, no two characters appear onstage simultaneously. Their stories are, after all, defined by their realism. When the three actresses of Series A took the stage for a curtain call, however, I found myself wondering how their exceptional characters would have responded to one another's struggles in an imagined conversation. What separates traditional nonfiction from theater is, after all, their differing levels of allowed artistic freedom. Journeys reflects an invaluable effort, but had its writers been given the freedom of a more experimental structure, its artistry could have more closely matched its sources of inspiration.

Retro Girl Power

With the surprising introduction of Governor Sarah Palin to the presidential race, and the subsequent media coverage, the gender politics of Nowadays, a play written circa 1913 by George Middleton, seem fiercely, if bizarrely, relevant. Though some of the positions and jokes can feel as outdated as petticoats, The Metropolitan Playhouse’s exuberant production brings the play to wonderful (newfangled electric) light. As Middleton’s contemporaries did in the early 1900s, Americans continue to argue over the “proper” roles of women in society; for instance, whether it is fair to question a woman’s capacity to handle her maternal responsibilities in addition to those of the vice presidency. It is fitting that The Metropolitan Playhouse, an organization dedicated to unearthing unrecognized American works, focuses on such an American preoccupation, with hilarious results. To provide historical context, the early 1900s saw the gradual rise of the call for women’s suffrage, including the publication of Rheta Child Dorr’s “What 8 Million Women Want” (1910). That title happens to be a headline in the “Women’s Suffrage Edition” of the newspaper Will Dawson reads at the start of Nowadays. Dawson tries to dismiss the issue, but finds that his wife and daughter embrace the cause and its principles. As a proponent of women’s rights, Middleton pokes fun at its critics. At one point Dawson says to the newspaperman Peter Row, “… if we had woman suffrage, women would all vote like their husbands.” Row replies, “They say it would double the ignorant vote.”

Nowadays reduces the scope of such a grand debate by focusing on the issues of the Dawson family of a “middle western state.” The family includes a patriarch, Will, a comically gruff Frank Anderson, his lovely but lonely wife, Belle (Lisa Riegel), his cad of a son, Sammy (Matthew Trumbull), and his self-called prodigal daughter, the play’s spirit, Diana (an energetically wistful Amanda Jones). It is Christmastime and the holidays have drawn the Dawsons back to the homestead—their father hopes for good. As with many family gatherings, the expectations of the old generation grate against those of the new, and arguments ensue.

Thankfully, Middleton’s imagined family rows are much more entertaining than the real thing. Whereas the wayward habits of his son do little to ruffle Will’s feathers, Diana’s insistence upon leaving the roost to follow an artistic “calling” leave him red and stammering. Belle, being a progressive mother, encourages Diana, for she was similarly ambitious in her youth, but sacrificed her goals for marriage. In the role, Riegel is stoic and strong without sacrificing maternal warmth.

Belle’s choices and Will’s reactions form a referendum on women’s rights, but the gravity of the discussion is relieved by Will’s buffoonery, which also highlights the wit and charm of the women in his life—women who are capable of subverting his antiquated expectations to carve out unique identities.

In addition to prodding her father at every chance and inspiring her mother, Diana interferes in Sammy’s affairs by bringing a surprise guest. Betty Howe is a young woman who shares a secret with Sam, threatening to make a worthwhile man out of him. Where Jones’s Diana is chirpy, Trumbull’s Sammy is wormy and pale, his constant snarl obviously identifying him as the villain. However, given the tone of the script and its jokes, such caricatured portraits are in good fun. Indeed, as the patriarch, Anderson huffs in the familiar way of sitcom dads.

For all of Diana’s bouncy girlishness, Jones holds her own in battles with Anderson, proving that a domineering attitude can not only be practiced by a woman, but also used to propel her forward, rather yoke her to the past (as it does for Dawson). That Diana should succeed in her career as well as in her love life is an essential goal of the play, and she doesn’t have to sacrifice the feminine to achieve traditionally masculine goals.

As set designer and director, Alex Roe uses a cleverly arranged, intricate set to emphasize the strengths of the space. It is a delightfully intimate setting, which reinforces the lived-in charm of the home and highlights themes of claustrophobia and stagnancy. The presence of the audience and the absence of walls perfectly reflect Middleton’s efforts to bring the concerns of the private sphere to public attention.

However, as radical as the play was (it was rejected by producers), the institutions of marriage and motherhood are not torn down. Middleton playfully chips away at their foundations, but in the end, when his heroines follow their hearts, they do so in a progressive and a traditional sense. They can have their cake and eat it too, just as Middleton does when he mocks, but adheres to some standards of his day. Yet the play’s retro attitude and cheesy jokes are refreshing antidotes to the crude jokes of pit bulls and pigs that currently preoccupy the nation. Chalk it up to the timelessness of good timing!

Tales of Novice Veterans

College journalism instructors are known to devote hours of class time to the importance of simplicity. The best story ideas, many of them say, are ones that can be explained in less than a sentence, in between gulps of a happy hour special, and still inspire immediate curiosity. That author Yvonne Latty is also a journalism professor at NYU comes as no surprise, because the basis of her book-turned-play, In Conflict, is an example of a textbook story pitch. Her motif, she says in a film clip that opens the staged work, was to do what most news reports had not: turn the spotlight on Iraq veterans. Latty's book of interviews with soldiers was published in 2006 and turned into a staged version last year at Temple University. In Conflict's cast of Temple graduates and current students traveled to the Edinburgh Festival Fringe this summer, and has remained intact for its Off-Broadway debut. Their connection to the material and their real-life characters is jarring and memorable--so much so, that the show's double-casting occasionally works against its focus on the individual.

The narrative opens with a video of a U.S Army recruitment commercial, complete with its familiar and inexplicably rousing jingle. The play's overall message is politically ambiguous--its characters speak against both anti-war protesters and the Bush administration--but the opening carries an ironic, tragic tone onto the brief scenes of drills and combat that follow. Both the actors and most of the characters they portray are young, handsome and spirited, increasing the element of war as tragedy before the audience even hears their individual accounts.

Most of the show's two acts are devoted to monologues that recall Latty's interviews with each soldier; some sit in wheelchairs at the Walter Reed hospital, while others sit slumped on chairs at coffee shops, hotel lobbies, military cafeterias or rental apartments.

While each story is different--Latty's group of subjects included immigrants, a Native American, a college girl, a gay man and a young father, for example--most of them share a structure and mood. Whether or not these veterans admit to post-traumatic stress at the start of their interviews, each begins with an aura of tense self-preservation that dissolves into anger, sadness or desperation. "I miss my strong, healthy body," says an amputee, despite insisting in a wavering voice that she feels grateful. "I went to die for weapons that weren't there," says another veteran, his knee furiously twitching under a cafeteria table.

The narrative evolves from one monologue to the next with short montages of war photos or pre-filmed clips of Latty reflecting on her research process. The stage design, consisting of overlapping panels that flip to alternate between a stylized American flag and a map of Iraq, offers a visually powerful, symbolic element to the story, and aids with scene-to scene transitions.

The narrative arc is vague at best, however, and although one should commend Latty for including such a variety of accounts in her research, there are times when the staged work feels much longer than its actual running time of 90 minutes. A potential need for an edit becomes obvious in the second act, in which many of the actors return onstage to take on a second character. The fault is found more in the play's organization, however, than in its stories. With a larger cast and a less monotonous structure, the work might feel less dragged-out.

In the end, however, this constructional flaw carries minor weight. Each war in recent history has certainly bred extensive first-hand accounts, but Latty's work reinforces the continuing need for Iraq-specific cultural examination. Until viewing In Conflict, one doesn't quite realize how little we comprehend about this particular war.

Inside Out

Their mission, which The Talking Band challenged themselves to accept: to construct a play around a set first created by a talented visual artist and designer, Anna Kiraly. Their result, the quirky Flip Side, is a two-dimensional piece exploring the surfaces of and gaps (or at least slivers) between two disparate, yet somehow connected, worlds. Don’t ask whether that means function follows form, or vice versa, or even which is which here. The best one can hope for is trying to be amused by its busy characters, terrific visual effects and cutesy music. The Hungarian-born Kiraly’s cubic set design is appealing especially in its mutability, as it evolves throughout the play, written by Ellen Maddow and directed by Paul Zimet, co-founders of The Talking Band. The set, being reconfigured by the actors and/or projected upon, is probably the play’s most intriguing and developing character. The geometric shapes become rooms, outdoor walls, or part of the background scenery. The set piece’s moveable, extendable parts seem to be constantly in flux by reshaping, adding scrims or plastic sheeting on which to project larger-than-life images or to provide other interactions with the actors. The creative use of the projected images is captivating, with the video also designed by Kiraly.

The play explores the collision (or at least co-existence) of two worlds, one of a Brooklyn Heights promenade-type of public space, called Drizzle Plaza, and the other, the crowded home of an extended family named Waterfall. (Hence all of the water imagery, more on this later.) Both sides house unhappy people with their share of domestic squabbles and general dissatisfaction with life. Billed as a comedy of “longing, misperceptions and mismatches,” the action seems too contrived and cartoonish to make much of an impact other than a visual one. The songs only heighten this effect, with a kind of sugarcoated, superficial sound.

The actors are given plenty to do, and they do play their various roles to the hilt, especially Will Badgett as old biddy Aurora and Uncle Oscar & Sue Jean Kim as Celeste and Cherimoya Waterfall, but overall, most characters seem fairly flat as written. At times they also are annoyingly shouty. With all the running around and doubling roles and funny costumes, I couldn’t help but picture the opening credits to The Simpsons, with the family members scrambling in from different places to wind up all together on the ubiquitous couch. I guess these characters are longing for something, but it doesn’t seem like there is much investment, or actual stakes (other than the writer’s manipulations in trying to tie it all together). From this, hilarity is supposed to ensue. A bit of puppetry designed by Ralph Lee and operated by Badgett and Kim is a bright spot amid all the chaos.

There’s plenty of water imagery, which works nicely as a special effect when characters are swimming, discussing the flooding out of a meddling downstairs neighbor, or when swept out of a neighborhood café and tossed unceremoniously into the street by inexplicable rising waters. There’s quite a bit of overlap made between inside and outside elements, natural and unnatural spaces. But there seems to be no real mystery or fascination about the oddity of these spaces that the characters inhabit (or the crossing over thereof), just a kind of general acceptance about it. Magic glasses, telescope powers, blips in their sightlines and/or consciousness all seem to be set up to entertain and amuse, but I wish there were something more interesting to see than fairly predictable people spying on each other, having nothing much to gain or lose, to whom “weird” things happen. It’s a laudable, ambitious effort, but maybe less maneuvering and a bit more wonder could have ultimately served this experiment better.

offoffonline Congratulates 2008 IT Award Winners

On Monday, September 22, 2008, the IT Awards (New York Innovative Theatre Awards) announced the 2008 recipients at the Fourth Annual IT Awards Ceremony held at the Fashion Institute of Technology.

Energetic host Lisa Kron kept the audience in laughter and high spirits throughout the evening. Blue Man Group performed an opening number and some additional segments.

Highlights included the presentation of the 2008 Artistic Achievement Award to Judith Malina by Olympia Dukakis, the presentation of the 2008 Stewardship Award to Martin and Rochelle Denton by Kirk Wood Bromley, and the presentation of the 2008 Caffe Cino Fellowship Award to Boomerang Theatre Company by Leonard Jacobs and Akia.

Nested inside in the attendees' swag bags were full-size, hard plastic white frisbees. At first, audience members regarded these merely as pleasant keepsakes. However, during his introduction of the Outstanding Ensemble award, presenter Michael Dahlen asked the audience to form a temporary "ensemble" of their own by hurling these frisbees towards the stage en masse. After a pregnant pause, it became clear that he was not kidding, and 300-plus discs sailed through the air, striking the co-presenter squarely in the forehead, yet not, surprisingly, causing any lasting damage to either people or expensive equipment.

The event closed with a moving speech delivered by Edward Albee in conjunction with the presentation of the Outstanding Production of a Play award. He spoke about the original Off-Off-Broadway theaters, the great plays that he saw produced there 50 years ago, and the impact that the movement has had on his own life and artistic work. Finally, he concludes, "There are two theaters in the United States: the commercial theater, and the theater that matters. Tonight, we celebrate the theater that matters."

offoffonline congratulates the award recipients and nominees for their fine artistic work and the event's organizers for their valued support of the Off-Off-Broadway community.

More information about the IT Awards is available on their official website, www.nyitawards.com.

Scrambled Genesis

Don’t go to Adam of the Apes expecting a Scopes-level debate of evolution vs. creationism. There are plenty of references to those philosophies, as well as a nod to intelligent design, but the tone of Oliver Thrun’s first full-length play—about Adam, Eve, and their primate relatives—is mischievously unorthodox and scrambles the Bible and Darwinian theory freely. It’s a mildly amusing burlesque that revisits touchy issues in an inoffensive way. Director Nora Vetter invests the story with the same spirit as that of Mel Brooks and Carl Reiner in their skits about the 2,000-year-old man. Adam of the Apes has a gentle, winning humor, and it plays off old myths by adding a knowing, contemporary wink. The eclectic music (chosen by Thrun) helps to set the tone, from The Monkees—naturally—to Jean-Joseph Mouret (the Masterpiece Theatre theme) to Harry Belafonte, singing “Day-O!” (aka “The Banana Boat Song”). And, of course, the theme from 2001: A Space Odyssey. It’s the kind of show that gets a chuckle from a chimpanzee declaring, “Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.”

This sort of humor can easily become tedious and precious, and it does here, too, at times, but what helps it tremendously are the game, young, energetic actors, led by the gifted Jonathan Craig as Adam, who is descended, with Eve (his sister here), from a chimpanzee, and is an evolutionary leap rather than a direct creation of God. Craig conveys affability and an easygoing manner, along with intelligence and dignity—particularly impressive, given that he has virtually no clothing and no props. Adam may be smarter than the others, but he’s not condescending. He’s a natural leader, blessed with a resonant speaking voice, an Everyman ancestor.

“You can’t ignore science,” warns Adam as he explains to his chimpanzee relatives the way semen works (somehow he’s got a sample into a glass vial). And that’s long before he and Eve (Sana Haque) eat the apple offered by the snake. The consumption of that fruit from the tree of knowledge doesn’t bring on shame at their nakedness either, since Adam and Eve are already sporting the latest fig-leaf fashions. The lady Eve, meanwhile, has written a set of monologues about her lower orifice. Guess what they’re called? Unfortunately, Haque seemed uncomfortable with some of her lines and speaks with less authority and musicality than Craig, creating an imbalance between the two.

Working with a shoestring budget, Vetter creates nifty stage pictures: Three chimps in the “Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil” mode; a line of “chimps” (the actors playing chimps dressed simply by David Zen Mansley in black long johns and long-sleeved pullovers) representing the evolution of man; and Craig as Auguste Rodin’s The Thinker. There’s a strong trio of male chimps—with Al Miro providing a sweetly dense foil to the two smarter ones (Bill Bria and Matt Gerathy)—who adopt a repertoire of scratches, cocked eyebrows, and slouches that evoke their species. The women chimps sit together and pick nits off one another. As for actual scenery, some vines cling to an upstage wall, and a couple painted cutouts show high grass and a pile of apple cores. But the scenery is scant and leaves the black box space virtually untouched (and with an unfortunate echoing that muddies some of the louder scenes.)

For all its cleverness, Thrun’s crazy-quilt approach eventually wears out its welcome. He doesn’t dwell on any subject too long, but includes penis envy, male chauvinism, a woman’s right to choose, and men’s appropriation of God—in this case called Super Chimp—in their image. There’s a semi-important element in Adam and Eve’s discovering that they have a father, and then which chimp it is, but the play is essentially a shaggy-dog story that ultimately admonishes mankind to use the reason God gave us rather than to follow faith blindly.

Theater for a New City is committed to giving young playwrights an opportunity to have new work staged, and Adam of the Apes makes one hope that Thrun, a young playwright willing to deal with serious issues in a humorous way, will develop his talent by creating his own characters from scratch.

A Wonderful Aroma

To love lowbrow humor – specifically, in the world of theater – is to love Jacob Sterling, the deluded D-list theatrical celebrity brought so lovingly to life by the gifted veteran actor David Pittu in What’s That Smell: The Music of Jacob Sterling. Of course, the lead character is a legend only in his own mind, but while this Atlantic Stage 2 show that may feature a talent-free hack, Smell itself is nothing short of terrific. Pittu is paired with a fellow comic genius, Peter Bartlett, who plays Leonard Swagg. Swagg is the host of “Composers and Lyricists of Tomorrow” (CLOT), which one imagines is a very seldom-seen show dedicated to the die-hard troubadours of the stage. But Sterling is essentially talent-challenged; like many locals, he lives for the theater, but has very little to contribute to the art form.

Ultimately, Sterling’s career has been one long case of arrested development. The sycophantic Swagg alternately praises Sterling as both an up-and-comer and also as a has-been, though his act never was and likely never will be, making him the celebrity equivalent of an Oreo cookie without the center filling. Yet Pittu’s performance prevents him Sterling from being a blowhard. His earnestness makes Sterling eminently likeable.

Sterling’s explanations – er, excuses – as to why he never enjoyed a more fruitful life in the limelight hit at the key strength of Smell: its knowing references to the world of musical theater. Sterling refers to the “two international crises” that stalled his career during the 1980s: AIDS and the British invasion of the American musical theater. Lines like these make it clear that Pittu understands its core audience of musical lovers. More importantly, the show’s lead demonstrates the right instinct by approaching the role with sympathy instead of cynicism. The actor – a two-time Tony nominee – modulates his arch sense of humor. Sterling’s life is one of self-delusion: he thinks his emotions are genuine, his ideas are original, and his bad luck is due to external circumstances rather than his own dearth of talent.

Pittu wrote the script and lyrics for Smell, while Randy Redd composed the music for the numbers in this show within a show. The miracle of this duo is that the songs work on two levels. First, they function as a mockery of commercial theater; but they are also substantial show tunes that stand on their own.

Take, for example, Sterling’s senior thesis musical, an adaptation of the Goldie Hawn comedy Private Benjamin, which includes the song “He Died Inside of Me.” Or Mademoiselle Death, a musical re-enactment of the French action thriller La Femme Nikita. These ideas sound silly and implausible, at first, until one realizes that the existence of such film-to-stage productions as Legally Blonde, The Wedding Singer and the forthcoming 9 to 5musical are more topical than implausible. Additionally, these songs are catchy and irreverent enough to blend right into what can currently be heard in theaters both on and off the Great White Way.

Similarly, Sterling composes a musical called Real Tough Cookie in tribute to pop star Pat Benatar, following a template set on the Great White Way by All Shook Up, Good Vibrations, Mamma Mia and the upcoming Rock of Ages, a musical devoted in part to…Pat Benatar. This is what makes Smell so subversive: Pittu takes seemingly innocuous material and holds it up as a mirror to real life and exposes a lot of the clichés and hypocrisy that currently exist onstage.

Co-directors Pittu and Neil Pepe (artistic director of the Atlantic Theatre Company) do a wonderful job moving Smell along; it ends long before anyone has a chance to want it to do so. Pittu’s fellow cast members play a large role in this enjoyable distraction. Bartlett is outstanding as the overly ebullient talk show host, played with more than a nodding wink to James Lipton of Inside the Actor’s Studio. Then, close to the show’s end, a trio of young performers join the cast to sing an extended medley from Sterling’s upcoming Broadway debut, the fictitious Shopping Out Loud: Brandon Goodman, Matt Schock and Heléne Yorke, all of whom acquit themselves quite well.

It is rare to find a show that blends old-time heart with new-school skepticism the way that Smell does. Talented as the show’s fictitious star may or may not be, it is a testament that it is spirit which keeps the stage alive.

Williams's Modest Craft

Tennessee Williams's best plays are known for their brutal emotional honesty. This was gleaned from his confrontations with his family, his society, and, always, with Thomas Lanier Williams, the complex flesh-blood-and-mind person who sometimes was able to escape into the role of the great American playwright. Then, sometime after the critical failure of his play Orpheus Descending Williams started taking talk therapy from the wrong kind of psychologist -- virtually the only kind licensed to practice in those days. Dr. Lawrence Kubie convinced Williams that his homosexuality was a disease that needed curing, and tried to "cure" it. Williams had the sense to quit seeing Kubie, but homophobic self-hated would haunt his characters for decades. Williams spiralled further downward after the catastrophically young death, from cancer, of his longtime lover Frank Merlo. Williams "seethes with something like self-hatred," a Time magazine reported in 1962.

The plays that followed these events are disappointing, somewhat disingenuous, and increasingly unbelievable, from Suddenly Last Summer, in which the homosexual tourist gets his alleged just deserts by becoming dessert for a crowd of malnourished third-world street children, to the 1972 comparative critical triumph Small Craft Warnings, which is now being revived at the WorkShop Theater by White Horse Theatre Company. Billed as the best of Williams's "later" plays, is it actually a good play?

That depends on what you mean by "good." Psychologically realistic it is not. The most obvious autobiographical figure, jaded, lonely, and intellectually overqualified gay screenplay-doctor Quentin personifies every stereotypical defect that the psychologists of Williams's day ascribed to aging gay men. He even compares gay sex to an addictive intravenous drug, and claims to seek sex only with straight hookers. When his latest underage (of course) pickup not only confesses to reciprocating his desire but also refuses payment, Quentin flees.

Then there are the women. Williams's women come in three varieties, which sometimes overlap: the hysterical, domineering, and ultimately powerless wingnut, based on his mother; the helpless, hapless, witless basket case, based on his mentally unsound and ultimately lobotomized sister Rose; and the various unbelievable women who stand in for gay men, including, sometimes, as autobiographical figures. The two women in Small Craft Warnings fit the pattern. Obese, overbearing beautician Leona is a mean drunk who keeps a cynical, crude gigolo in her trailer home and mourns morbidly and with entirely too much erotic interest for her "faggot" (Williams's word) brother, who died of what she claims was "pernicious anemia," which, in her delusional protestations, made him gay by decreasing his virility with his red blood cells. (Remember the obnoxious sister-in-law of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof who is always bragging about her "red-blooded" Neanderthal sons?)

Far more monstrous in her pit-bullishness and hypocrisy than Lucrezia Borgia and Sarah Palin combined, Leona is not a real woman: she isn't human enough. Leona's sometime surrogate daughter-figure, sometime sexual rival Violet is the Rose Williams type, a skinny, filthy, battered and homeless prostitute who spends most of the play crying in the toilet. The most interesting character of the bunch, de-licensed, negligently murderous obstetrician and abortionist Doc, is merely a one-dimensional shadow of a character from Williams's lost better phase: the destructive yet insightful defrocked priest T. Lawrence Shannon in The Night of the Iguana.

These people are an unconvincing cross-section of human society, but they're a pretty good weather map of the storms that, by 1972, were raging at gale force in Williams's mind, and, to some extent, in his often hateful society. If we see this distorted cast of characters as as a Cubist portrayal of Williams at his nadir, writing from the wrongnesses he imbibed from the lips of docs who should never have been licensed in the first place, they reveal something truthful, and horrific. The play is over two hours long, however, and the point is made by the end of Act One.

The characters, damned to their drinking and other destructive behaviours, cannot, for the most part, change, grow, or learn. Occasionally, a moment of sublimity happens when Leona plays a recording of Tschaikovsky's "Souvenir Melancolique" on the juke box: it was her brother's song, she recalls. Leona talks over the recording, and Williams's language dances with the music. The cast try to animate these thinly sketched people, but except for Linda S. Nelson, whose Leona is a masterpiece of stormy charisma, it's a Sisyphean task.

The title refers to a weather report: the storm-stirred seas off the California coast will be dangerous for small boats. Each of the people propping up the play's bar is a small craft, defined by their lonesomeness and vulnerability, but also their beauty. Every person, Williams was able to recognize, even through the haze of fear, bereavement, homophobic brainwashing, professional disappointment, and alcohol, is a "craft," invested with the beauty of Tschaikovsky's wordless "souvenir" ("memory.") Unfortunately, all these people are also clearly "crafted" in the obviousness -- unintentional on the author's part, apparently -- of their artificiality.

Neither Here Nor There

Female? Educated, with good genes, whatever that means? Age thirty-one or younger, a non-smoker, with no history of STDs and regular periods? You're in luck, young lady: you can find employment as a pregnancy surrogate! There will be a cycle of regular “blood draws” (yes, needles!) some travel, an invasive procedure and then of course the pregnancy, but it's a good way to make a life, and a living. Especially if you're broke. A quick Google search of the phrase “surrogate mother” throws up lots of clinics across America, from New York to Cincinnati to Portland, Oregon where women can give this gift to richer, less fecund women. In 2006, Oprah reported that increasing numbers of American women are exploring cheaper surrogates – the women of India. Screenwriter and playwright Jennifer Maisel saw that show and decided to write a play about the issue, There or Here. Maisel created Neera (played by Purva Bedi), a poor Indian woman who decides to put her body up for rent, and, later, starts rethinking the decision.

Unfortunately, Maisel also decided to limit Neera's scenes to a very few, give us zero insight into the character's thoughts, feelings, or struggles, and to focus her play on the self-centered, boring, and incoherently-rambling upper-class American woman who avails herself and her husband of Neera's gestational assistance. That decision weakens the potentially powerful concept --that decision, in combination with the play's many instances of bald exposition, psychologically improbable action, reduction of the complex subcontinental nation of India to a vaguely-depicted monocultural dystopia, and apparently purposeless nonlinear chronology.

Hypothethetical Productions's staging of the play, at the Fourteenth Street Y Theater, is made watchable by a few good actors. These are Bedi, playing, among her several roles, an Indian call center employee with an impressive range of facial reactions to her American callers' babbling rants; and Shalin Agarwal in the doubled roles of stoical, angry Indian cab driver Rajit and as Raj, a cheerful, pleased-to-serve Indian-American techie who is also the American mother-to-be's equally self-obsessed mother Ellen's (Judy Rosenblatt) improbable toyboy. Agarwal differentiates his two characters clearly, and is most expressive when his characters are silently watching and listening to the arguments of others. In these instances, his expressions and body language reveal more than the dialogue does.

Maisel's view of human nature often goes against the grain of observable life. The audience is expected to believe that the love of American couple Robyn (Annie Meisels) and Ajay (Alok Tewari) is worth saving, and makes it a shame that they haven't got kids with whom to share it. However, Robyn talks mainly about herself and her supposed needs. She and Ajay need a baby because Robyn has been diagnosed with cancer, so they'd better harvest the genetic material while they can -- without delaying the chemo, hence the surrogate. Ajay's hobbies include loudly declaring his total alienation from India -- where he was born -- in all but the genetic sense and buying phone sex from Indian sex workers at a call center.

Robyn also talks on the phone very often with a technical support worker at an Indian call center, who claims to be "Angelina" from "Tulsa." Angelina tolerates Robyn's use of her as a free psychoanalyst, best buddy, and general sounding board, even though it seems unlikely that this would not get found out and jeopardize Angelina's employment. Call workers do not generally have one-person offices, and, as anyone who has called a call center recently knows, "calls may be recorded for quality-assurance and/or training purposes."

Robyn and Ajay are so unsympathetic and one-dimensional, I did not care whether they got anything they wanted, be that babies, phone sex, marital bliss, a cancer-free life together, or all of the above.

Making everything worse is the play's oversimplified India. For example, the play uses two languages: each scene is subtitled in both. They are English, and, well... Hindi? This reviewer doesn't speak any of India's languages, but recalls that there are more than one.

There or Here tries to say a lot of insightful things about intercultural interactions, India's economic boom, American outsourcing of vital and not-so-vital jobs, commerce in human bodies and lives, motherhood and metaphysics, but Maisel never digs deeply into any of these. Consequently, There or Here is neither here nor there.