Company's Coming

Levy lives in a museum of his own creation. Surrounded by keepsakes he has gathered throughout the years and records that he listens to on a ritualistic basis, he has a quiet little existence that is minimal and modest. And then he meets Lillian (Barbara Eda-Young) and her teenage son, Yidl (John Magaro). Lillian Yuralia is a character-driven play written by Barbara Eda-Young and directed by Austin Pendleton that blows the dust off the surface of a man’s life to reveal all the untold stories and quietly dying memories that lie underneath.

Eda-Young’s story, which runs only one hour and fifteen minutes long, crams a host of complexities from three individual lives into a tiny, succinct package that never once says too much or too little.

Lillian and Yidl barge into Levy’s life after they are evicted from their apartment. Moments before they must leave, Lillian overdoses on poison and awakens to hear her son sobbing and Levy (Ben Hammer) pouring a bucket of cold water over her. Panicked, they stumble into his one bedroom apartment against a flurry of objections.

Within moments of their arrival Lillian is vomiting in his bathroom, peeling off her wet gown and drying herself in Levy’s ankle-length robe. Yidl makes a beeline for a shadowy corner where he sits, silently sobbing. Levy stares, barely able to comprehend what has just blown through his door.

Eda-Young is both the star and playwright, which gives her exceptional insight into her flighty, but well-meaning character. She embraces Lillian’s faults without excusing them. Her pain as a mother and ruined woman is evident in her strained, desperate smiles. She steals longing glances at Yidl from across the room, searching for the carefree child she used to know.

Levy senses that something is amiss, which both sobers and baffles him. His guests eventually have a train to catch. He knows their presence is only temporary but what should he do with them in the meantime? Offer them tea? Insist Yidl sit on the chair when he seems determined to remain hunched on the floor?

While Levy tries to asses the situation Lillian gives him her lists of grievances: she fell in love with a man, they had a son, he took care of them, loved them …but he wouldn’t leave his wife. And then he died, too suddenly to provide for them. Yidl read about it in the papers, the truth knocking the words right out of him. In a matter of days he lost his father, his home and everything he knew to be true.

Though Lillian and Yidl’s unraveling relationship is the main focus of the story, it is Levy who provides the bittersweet center. He watches as Lillian brushes the hair off her son’s face, choking on some suppressed emotion. His family was killed in Jewish riots when he was only a teenager. Watching Lillian and Yidl together seems to stir something within him, perhaps because everything they are losing now reminds him of everything he has lost over time.

Levy spends most of Lillian’s visit trying to resist her incessant probing. He says, “I don’t remember,” when asked anything about his past. But when the topic comes to his family he remembers everything: his sister’s bright blue eyes, the sun on his mother’s face as she looked out the window and the games he played with his siblings in a meadow with flowers.

The play’s climatic end comes suddenly and unexpectedly. Until one small, but pivotal moment, it is not clear what kind of terms these new acquaintances will part on. Then something happens, a simple gesture, but enough to alter life’s course and leave the audience with some hope for the characters' futures. Like Lillian Yuralia, this gesture is unassuming and straightforward in its execution but deeply significant and heartrending in the purity of its meaning.

A Latter-Day Loss

Henry Stuart Matis was a 32-year-old Mormon who committed suicide in February 2000 after years of trying to reconcile his homosexuality with the teachings of his church. As gay icons go, Matis is far less known than Matthew Shepard, but Roman Feeser nevertheless has written a play that seeks to elevate Matis to a martyrlike status. Feeser, who is not a Mormon, has done a laudable job of absorbing the language of Mormonism as well as its teachings and some of its more obscure history. The unfamiliar, often startling terms in Missa Solemnis bring one vividly into the insular world of Latter-Day Saints—indeed, members refer to one another as “saints.” Watching over every Mormon is “Heavenly Father,” and daily Scripture reading is common practice.

But in spite of the trappings, there are dramatic obstacles. “The catalyst [for his suicide] has never revealed itself,” Feeser has said. “The reasons why are one of the biggest pieces missing from this puzzle.” One is left to infer that Matis wanted his death to spur changes to the Mormon church's view of homosexuality. But with such an emotional cornerstone absent, Missa Solemnis becomes a plodding case study with few dramatic surprises as it follows Henry’s coming out to his family and his declining struggle to reconcile his feelings and his faith.

The first moments of Linda S. Nelson’s production hold promise of dramatic excitement. Henry stands, gun to head, under flashy lightning effects by Graham T. Posner. Then, we hear roughly 10 minutes of speechifying from Henry’s mother, father, bishop (the term in Mormonism does not connote ordination), and Henry’s boyfriend Todd (Jai Catalano). In spite of some cinematic cutting among them, the monologues are talky and often sound like résumés: “When I became a mother,” says Marilyn Matis (Gail Winar), “I read The Book of Mormon and the Bible to my children and have continued to do so ever since. My husband, Fred, and I religiously attend the Temple, hold family prayer twice a day and have believed in Monday family home evening since the birth of our first child.”

Henry’s father claims to know that his son had engaged in a sexual relationship; Marilyn denies he ever did. “Henry had been struggling with his same gender attraction for quite some time,” says Marilyn, a dry and subtly destructive figure who, even when trying to help her son, makes him feel he hasn’t done enough. “I use the term ‘same gender attraction’ because Henry did not take to the terms ‘homosexual’ or ‘same sex attraction.’ … He preferred the term ‘gay,’ but I feel the term ‘gay’ connotes sexual activity, so I will use the term the Church prefers ... same gender attraction.” Prayer and Scriptures are her, and the LDS's, solution for Henry.

Todd describes his first encounter with Henry. (They “meet cute” and unconvincingly: Henry orders milk in a gay bar, and Todd, in a milieu that places a premium on good looks, is attracted to his milk "mustache." Would a man of 32 really not be able to drink milk without getting it above his upper lip? Do adults of any sexual orientation find that attractive?)

To be sure, Henry’s plight echoes that of another debatably tragic figure, Georg Buchner’s Woyzeck, who is victimized by others, and Henry certainly has more sensibility about what is happening to him. Matt Huffman lends Henry a striking man-boy quality. He giggles affectionately when talking with his parents, suggesting that his emotional growth has been stunted. (At 32, he still lives with them.) And he agonizes deeply about his sexuality.

One of the most effective scenes is between Henry and Bishop Bob Rhodes, played by Warren Katz with gruff sympathy and open-mindedness. Katz juices up the discussions of politics, religion and LDS policy with his nuanced portrayal. One learns that LDS founder Joseph Smith once delivered a warm eulogy in London for a man, Lorenzo Barnes, who slept with another man. Though Rhodes met Henry only once, he extracted a promise that Henry would contact him if he ever felt urged to end his life—but Henry didn’t.

Yet, although Feeser has marshaled a good deal of information, there’s much more of Henry’s story that one wants. What were his relations with his brother and three sisters like? Henry also apparently attended a party with 15 gay men, but was so assailed for his Mormonism that he never went back. Still, if he found 15 men at a party, how is it that he couldn’t find a confidant somewhere, given that he is handsome, easygoing, and loving, albeit a bit quirky? After all, Matis lived in California, not Utah, where such isolation might be insurmountable. Missa Solemnis, for all its good intentions, is more a solemn miss than a tragic hit.

Poetic Justice

When his ship set off in 1875, the captain of the Catalpa had a pretty demanding schedule ahead of him: sail from Massachusetts to Australia, rescue six Irish rebels from a prison there, and do some whaling along the way. Donal O'Kelly's approach to telling the story of this voyage seems equally daunting: conveying the entire epic by himself. Well, not entirely by himself. He has Trevor Knight, the composer and performer of the show's score, offering occasional backup. But for the most part, it's just O'Kelly and his firm grasp of imagery and language, guiding us through the journey in his one-man play, Catalpa. In a largely engaging two hours, he spins the fantastic and the mundane into a kind of poetry that is rarely seen on stage.

History gives him some fabulous material. The play introduces us to figures like John Devoy, the Irish patriot exiled to America who hatched the plot; John Breslin, another Irishman who went first to Australia to set everything up; and George Anthony, the American captain of the Catalpa. Judging by their plan, these men were quite the optimists: rendezvous in Australia, grab the prisoners, throw them in the boat, and pray for wind.

O'Kelly frames the adventure as a movie his narrator is pitching to executives. This format allows for easy transitions. Instead of long descriptions (or pesky set changes), O'Kelly settles for declarations ("Backwater dock.") or camera directions ("cut to") when switching scenes.

Presenting the story as a movie pitch also lets O'Kelly insert self-aware asides. The commentary is used to humorous effect, like suggesting that one particular scene should have "sinister music to suit." It also allows him to package character descriptions as spoken stage directions: one man's laugh, for example, is rendered as "Ah-ha ha laugh laugh grin cough/grimace swallow phlegm and stroke mustache."

With so many people to introduce, these quick snapshots are what often suffice for character development. It seems O'Kelly settled on just enough features to distinguish between speakers during their conversations. Breslin, for example, is the sum of his raspy voice, giant build, and "walrus" mustache. O'Kelly's female impersonations are his weakest, as they tend to err on the side of creepy - even when the context doesn't call for it.

To be fair, the playwright and performer has a lot on his plate besides portraying characters. He is the set: crafting giant ships and rising waves out of the air. He is the special effects: echoing the sounds of a drill works or steamboat. And at one point, he's even a convincing bird.

The script's rhythm and onomatopoetic touches also propel the story and pull the audience into this world. The musicality of words is crucial to how O'Kelly draws each scene. His only prop, after all, is a sheet. Imagining his characters inside a stagecoach, for example, he incorporates intermittent "clippa-cloppa clippa-cloppa's" into the dialogue that give the scene a clipped pace and make it quite easy to picture. In fact, the cadence of almost every scene is well suited to its content.

In addition to the aural quality of his writing, O'Kelly brings poetry to the stage in a way that is beautiful in its simplicity. He has a Hemingway-like ability to select descriptions so precise that few words often do the job of many. His minimalist portrayal of the prisoners is perfectly succinct: "scorched Australian bush./Six pairs of leaden legs in busted boots."

In organizing the monologue into a series of camera shots, O'Kelly zooms in and out of particular scenes, carefully selecting the images he thinks best tell the story. When he chooses correctly, it is crisply evocative. While the audience is treated to many of these close-ups in the first act, the second half of the show tends to settle on more generic, wide shots. This is the case for the pivotal prison scene. Depicted in a rushed way, it seems almost like an afterthought to O'Kelly, ranked behind stunning scenes of flying birds and surfacing whales.

But these flaws should not overshadow what O'Kelly has accomplished with Catalpa. Brilliant lyricism, an adventurous history lesson, and enough imagination to get you to Australia and back are reason enough to hop aboard.

Madness and Sainthood

Frozen in the center of Boomerang Theatre Company’s staging of Tennessee Williams’s Summer and Smoke, halfway between the homes of its two central characters, a stone angel casts a weighty shadow of symbolism onto the events that unfold before it. The angel not only marks a fountain that serves as a meeting point for Williams's characters, but its unchanging presence also reflects the imprisonment of Alma Winemiller, the play’s haunting leading lady. The recent recipient of the Caffe Cino Award at the New York Innovative Theatre Awards, Boomerang has taken on a hefty challenge with this work. Most of its inherent difficulty lies in the psychological intelligence that’s required of the actors playing high-strung, moralistic Alma and magnetic, self-absorbed Johnny Buchanan.

Summer and Smoke is set in 1916, in a small town in the Mississippi Delta. Alma and Johnny are neighbors, and both bound by the legacies set by their families. Alma, a preacher’s daughter, has been forced to take charge of household duties after her mother’s mental breakdown. Johnny is on his way to becoming part of his father’s medical practice, but he rebels against his family’s expectations by focusing on drinking and womanizing. Despite warnings from the community about Johnny’s irresponsible nature, Alma is smitten, and determined to reform him.

A master at providing a poetic context to deep-seeded and relatable emotions, Williams doesn’t let his characters off easy. We watch them display remarkable self-awareness and, in spite of it, fail at their attempts to change their lives; this level of cold realism is ultimately what makes Summer and Smoke a profoundly sad viewing experience, and an intensive undertaking for the actors who tackle this material.

As Alma, Jane Cortney puts forth a commendable effort. Her character’s tendency to hyperventilate, nervous speech patterns and an erupting sadness hidden behind her kind demeanor are as essential as the poignant lines she delivers. Throughout the work, she is required to convey exaggerated behavior as aspects of her character, not as parts of her acting process. At times her exertion is too obvious, but in the end it’s tough not to admire Cortney’s devotion. When Alma’s hope begins to give way to her family’s legacy of hysteric madness, the tragedy of her conscious defeat is likely to ingrain itself in an audience’s memory.

Jonathan Kells Phillips as Johnny is equally convincing. Intelligent but self-absorbed, he portrays the kind of unintentionally damaging nature that many audience members are likely to recognize in other emotionally scarred playboys. The earnestness and vulnerability he displays with Alma makes his subsequent selfishness all the more aggravating. There are times when we can clearly see Phillips focusing on his phrasing, but the otherwise strong performance makes this minor glitch easy to overlook.

The supporting cast also gives noteworthy performances. Beth Ann Leone as Johnny’s lover Rosa Gonzalez channels unspoken magnetism into the character’s looseness, and thus helps the audience relate to a character that could easily be interpreted as a thankless stereotype. Deborah Carlson, meanwhile, is heartbreaking, aggravating and unexpectedly amusing as Alma’s unstable mother. Despite the character’s handicap, we sometimes get the sense that Mrs. Winemiller is more aware of the conflicts around her than she lets on.

The small black box theater provides an ideal setting for the characters’ fine-tuned range of emotions. Watching them confront one another from such a close proximity triggers just the right level of discomfort; as audience members, we realize that we are dropping in on something private. Watching the work of great playwrights in such an intimate setting is a rare treat, and Summer and Smoke’s talented cast of actors only elevates the experience.

Shock Value

Thomas Bradshaw is a playwright known for shocking audiences and presenting taboos. He’s true to form in his new play, Dawn, now premiering at The Flea Theater. Yet, after one wades through the taboos he presents in Dawn one may ask, “What is the point of this play?” Hampton (Gerry Bamman), a wealthy man in his 60s, has wasted his family capital on alcohol. His first marriage has failed, he has alienated his family, and his daughter blames him for her personal problems. Hampton is an alcoholic with a capital “A.” He gargles Johnnie Walker, drinks a case and a half of beer when deprived of liquor, takes an inordinate amount of time to surreptitiously fill Poland Spring bottles with Bombay Sapphire, and then hides them throughout the house. Hampton’s new wife, Susan (Irene Walsh) is fed up with his alcoholism and impotence; she convinces him to go to detox. Laboriously, they then take minutes to dump the contents of the bottles into a large basin.

Another major plotline concerns Steven (Drew Hildebrand), Hampton’s 33-year old son, also a recovering alcoholic, who enters into a predatory incestuous relationship with his niece, Crissy (Jenny Seastone Stern), a seeming innocent who, we later find, masturbates on web cam during study breaks for paying middle aged customers.

With 25 scenes, each lasting a few minutes at best, Mr. Bradshaw is unable to develop these characters beyond the superficiality permitted by his chosen format. They become caricatures, stereotypes. As if his name alone doesn’t signal it, Hampton is the preppy, icy one. Susan is the spoiled desperate housewife. Laura is the acidic resentful daughter. And so on. Many of the serial scenes cohere only in an agonizingly linear way, like a soap opera.

There is no question that, with depictions of full frontal nudity, suggestively graphic pedophiliac sexual scenes, family violence and incest, Mr. Bradshaw is trying mightily to shock us. With each new transgression, though, I noticed that people around me rolled their eyes and giggled. They may have been shocked but only in the way that one finds a South Park episode shocking. And, yes, these parts are of the play are gratuitous, and, frankly, a bit insulting.

That’s because Mr. Bradshaw has got at least two separate plays here that he’s attempting to mash up, and it doesn’t work. Dawn wants to be a comedy but can’t seem to bring itself to make the leap. It oscillates between the farcical (the physicality of the fighting between the drunken Hampton and Susan is hilarious) and the solemnly didactic in the manner of a Davey and Goliath cartoon:

STEVEN: …I want you to know there is a solution. HAMPTON: What is it? STEVEN: Alcoholics Anonymous.

Another problem with the play is that solutions come so...readily. Hampton, after what appears to be a lifetime of agnosticism, abruptly finds religion after only token resistance. Laura (Kate Benson), his hysterically bitter daughter, who harbors a generation’s worth of vitriol for her father, unexpectedly blurts out, “Yes, Dad, I forgive you.” The ending, too, is wrapped up tidily, if violently and predictably.

Jim Simpson’s sometimes-questionable direction only adds to the contradictory nature of the play. Why, for instance, does an ensemble member pour a bottle of water on Hampton’s crotch, between scenes, in full view of the audience, to demonstrate that he has urinated in his pants? This drew peals of laughter from the audience.

Another ruined scene is one where Laura confronts Hampton for destroying her childhood. The script curiously calls for Steven to be in the laundry room, yet visible, masturbating with Crissy’s soiled panties. Despite plenty of physical room with which to work, Mr. Simpson situates all the characters so closely together that the spatial illusion is thwarted. Steven, rather than appearing shocking, looks like a child trying to distract the adults.

Gerry Bamman is strong as Hampton, urgently seeking his moral center. Another standout is the playful Laura Esterman as Nancy, Hampton’s first wife, with whom he improbably reconciles during the course of the play. Michael Goldsheft’s set is a serviceable room that must suffice as the setting for all 25 scenes. An LED board above the stage tells us when we are in “Crissy’s Room” or “Laura’s House,” but it’s more gimmicky than needed.

All in all, Dawn, generating more heat than light, is a disappointing effort by a celebrated young playwright.

Out, Damn Sword

Shakespeare’s Macbeth, often referred to as “the Scottish play” by those superstitious about the play’s legendary curse, has reemerged as Shogun Macbeth from Pan Asian Repertory’s vault. This original and highly stylized version, adapted by John R. Briggs, is set in 12th century Japan, in the midst of a samurai society during a time of warring clans. Ernest Abuba, who created the title role in Pan Asian’s original 1986 production, returns this time as director, stating that the intention for its revival was in order to “demonstrate the exceptional talent of the new generation of Asian American actors.” Like a master swordsman, he swiftly hits his mark. Wonderfully cast with Kaipo Schwab as Macbeth and Rosanne Ma as the fiery Fujin (Lady) Macbeth; three punk/Kabuki-styled Yojos (witches) played by Shigeko Suga (who also appeared in the 1986 version), Claro Austria, and Emi F. Jones; as well as Keoni Scott as a commanding Shogun Duncan, all of the players infuse the play with power and energy. Ma’s Lady Macbeth begins the play as tightly controlled and smoldering. The sexually charged relationship between her and Schwab’s malleable Macbeth is palpable, and their mutual descent into mania and madness threatens to alight them, as well as anyone else within range.

Punctuated by full-on spark-inducing swordfighting scenes choreographed expertly by Michael G. Chin, the violent action is also balanced by Japanese movement artist Sachiyo Ito’s touches throughout the piece, including the tea ceremony and other traditional behaviors. The choreography of the Yojos (here, ancient demons known as obake ) as yet a third movement style seems at once freeform and wild, while actually functioning expressionistically like some kind of grotesque ballet. Not to mention their creepy vocalizations. They are at once chilling, amusing, and adept in both observing as well as spurring the characters’ actions like rickshaw drivers gone mad. On the other hand, I found that the interjections of the traveling poet and holy man Biwa Hoshi (played by the talented Tom Matsusaka), who steps in between scenes to deliver a haunted poetic narration, almost detracted from the otherwise tight structure. It kept reminding me I was sitting in a theater watching “a production” instead of continuing to be swept along by the epic story.

E. Calvin Ahn plays Macbeth’s nemesis MacDuff as well as serving as the production’s Fight Captain. Sacha Iskra brings Fujin MacDuff’s own tragedy heroically to life. The supporting cast (and their exciting battles) adds lots of color and emotion, including the Shogun’s sons played by Marcus Ho and Claro De Los Reyes; Macbeth’s best friend Banquo played by Ariel Estrada; and the loyal samurai played by Ken Park, Ron Nakahara, and James Rana. Yoko Hyun and Nadia Gan, both in multiple roles, effectively play young family sons, servants, as well as the drunken gatekeepers in a welcome moment of levity amongst all the tragic events.

The costumes designed by Carol A. Pelletier were impressionistic of the ornate garb of the period, appearing to be well vented and layered to allow the actors to move and change easily throughout all of the complex proceedings. The brocaded shin and arm guards, and layered, sometimes flowing robes, or even basic warrior uniforms, were evocative while remaining functional. The almost-fright wigs and kabuki style makeup of the Yojos, and also the stylized elements on Ma, all worked to enhance the high drama.

The lighting design by Victor En Yu Tan helped to illustrate Charlie Corcoran’s Buddha-dominated set, with its multi-layered and cleverly pocketed spaces for the characters to inhabit. Richly colored pools of light, smoke effects, backlighting, and dramatic blackouts were used to transform the many environments, especially the floor-to-ceiling statue and archway entrance. After the pivotal murder scene where husband, wife, and the entire stage are bathed in bloody red light (pictured), their guilt, madness, and ultimate redress only begin to heighten.

There’s something else inherent in the Kamakura period (1192-1333) that informs Macbeth here, the original play having been written four centuries later. Maybe it’s the richer, longer and more turbulent warrior period, which elicits an even stronger feeling of sacrilege to the royal Shogunate tradition. Tisa Chang, Artistic Producing Director, explains that “...Briggs’ inspiration came from the parallels of Shakespeare’s tragic characters with the philosophy that guided the samurai way of life.” It makes Shakespeare’s most haunted tragedy that much more compelling. As does the omnipresent Buddha watching over the participants (as well as the audience) who partake in all the grisly action, while he bears his silent and unwavering witness.

Love or Money?

The age-old question, especially for those living in Manhattan amongst a wealthy set: would one “settle” for true love and a life of poverty, or attempt to secure the most financially comfortable lifestyle no matter what the personal cost? This is the struggle facing young couple Susy Branch and Nick Lansing as well as other characters in the new Jazz Age musical comedy, Glimpses of the Moon, now playing in the historic Algonquin Hotel’s intimate Oak Room. Such a charming 1920s theme, and my, how times have changed... uh, kinda. The show is based on the 1922 novel by Edith Wharton, written immediately after winning her Pulitzer Prize for The Age of Innocence. The less-remembered but sweet story, which became an international best-seller in its time, is neatly adapted by Tajlei Levis, who wrote the book and lyrics, with enjoyable music by John Mercurio. It makes good subject matter for a light romantic comedy, and is especially timely given our current economic climate. Any investment broker reference gets a wry laugh, both on behalf of the characters’ approaching future, as well as our own.

The characters of Wharton, who was certainly no stranger to excessive wealth herself, are predictable but likeable, demonstrating the struggles of those both inside and out of her moneyed class. The premise: what if the popular yet penniless Susy and Nick get married purely in order to cash in their lavish wedding gifts, and live on the proceeds for one year, while using their new access and status to meet and woo wealthier spouses? It just might work, unless while enjoying all of the invitations to vacation homes and fancy parties, they accidentally do fall in love... with each other.

The show was designed specifically to be performed in the Oak Room (formerly known as the Pergola Room), and happens to be the exact site where the auspicious first gathering of the legendary literary group later to become known as the Algonquin Round Table took place almost 90 years ago. (That luncheon was held in honor of then-New York Times drama critic Alexander Woollcott’s return from World War I.) Later moved to the main dining room and provided with the ubiquitous round table, the clever wits would lunch, socialize, create, and generally hold court there for the next decade; the very walls are steeped in literary and theatrical history.

The non-amplified acoustics of the Oak Room are wonderful, with cozy wood-paneling (hence its name), and a lighting grid, with creative lighting design executed by Richard Winkler, which rivals much of what is seen in most off-off-Broadway theater spaces. Used mainly for cabaret performances, you can even drink or dine there beforehand if your budget (or your sugar daddy) allows, making it truly feel like an old New York nostalgic treat. But think Stork Club, not your father’s dinner theater.

This element is even incorporated into the show. In one scene, set coincidentally in “the Oak Room,” Susy and Nick are moved by a singer’s heartfelt performance. The singer role, played effectively by actual New York cabaret songstress Lisa Asher, will revolve to feature performers known on the cabaret circuit, ostensibly to entice new audiences and further enliven the production. Look for other special guest stars to come: Robert Newman, Lonette McKee, and Tony winner Chuck Cooper.

With a new producer, Sharon Carr, and some casting changes since its previous mounting earlier this year, the show is now set for an open run. Returning as the colorful friends-with-money are Daren Kelly as old-school Nelson, Glenn Peters as droll Streffy, and comedic delight Laura Jordan playing two roles, society matron Ursula and rich geekette Coral. New to this production are Jane Blass as Nelson’s generous (for a price) wife Ellie, and honey-voiced Autumn Hurlbert and Chris Peluso as the heart-of-gold(diggers) Susy and Nick. The performances are Broadway-caliber, and director Marc Bruni’s rich theatrical expertise is evident.

The vibrant costumes by Lisa Zinni, wigs and hair by Kurt Alger, make-up, and even the characters’ affected high-society dialects were all spot on for the period, and seemed well integrated. I could imagine Denis Jones’ lush choreography and a few narrative scenes (such as the regatta reenactment and honeymoon) being done on a larger scale, which it seems this show has the legs for, but the creative ways they are enacted make it even more up close and personal. You could spend as much seeing a Broadway staple, but including dinner and losing the crush of tourists while being just as highly entertained makes for a unique and intimate experience.

And if one-time Algonquin resident Dorothy Parker had been asked her opinion on the questions the show raises, she might have dropped one of her famous lines, “If you want to know what God thinks of money, just look at the people he gave it to.” For my money (what’s left of it), this show is a fun way to Jazz up an average Monday night, raise a toast to Mrs. Parker and friends, and live it up while we can. Take a break from CNN and go wild.

Angel Eaters Among Us

In an era when most theater companies choose to produce works by new writers that are one act – no, wait, ten minutes – wait – in length, substantial props go to Flux Theatre Ensemble for producing all three of Johnna Adams’ full-length plays in her new Angel Eaters Trilogy, not only in the same season, but at the same time. Adams, in turn, deserves credit for daring to compose on such a massive scope - the three plays are diversely inspired by the Oresteia, Christopher Smart’s “Jubilate Agno,” the Christian mythic system, and bird-watching lore. The risks that company and playwright have taken, for the most part, pay off. The Angel Eater curse originates with a family of Native American shamans who ritually eat off the dead bodies of humans and animals in order to reanimate them. When a daughter of the family is captured in conjunction with the Trail of Tears, converts to Christianity and marries an Oklahoma farmer, the curse lies dormant for a generation, only to reawaken in Joann (Marnie Schulenburg), a mentally slow girl growing up during the Dust Bowl years of the Great Depression. Angel Eaters, the first of the three plays, tells her story.

Joann’s life is stark - her father has died, her unwed sister Nola (Tiffany Clementi) is pregnant, and her mother (Catherine Michele Porter) allows the local doctor (Ken Glickfeld) to molest her in exchange for the pittance that keeps the family alive. When a dark angel (Cotton Wright) speaks to Joann, claiming that a God who fails to correct the evil in the world is irresponsible and must be overthrown, Joann struggles to understand whether her growing power is good or evil, and whether she should challenge God’s authority by bringing her father back.

As Joann, Schulenburg is mesmerizing, and all of the acting in this installment is excellent. Director Jessi D. Hill takes full advantage of the staging opportunities afforded by the space and spearheads a unified, compelling production. The atmosphere is moody and strikes just the right balance between realism, fantasy and horror. The issues it probes, such as love, grief, fate, desperation, sibling rivalry, and the battle between good and evil, are deep and universal. All of the human characters in Angel Eaters, except Joann, are flawed, yet sympathetic, and watching Joann succumb to her fate is heartbreaking.

Rattlers skips ahead to the 1970s and chronicles an eventful day in the life of Osley (Jason Paradine), Joann’s now-grown nephew. His former girlfriend Ernelle’s (Amy Lynn Stewart) sister Kate has been brutally murdered, and Ernelle is determined to force an unwilling Osley to resurrect her at any cost. Kate’s mother Mattie (Jane Lincoln Taylor) directs her vengeful efforts in different direction while two men (Matthew Crosby and Richard B. Watson) who loved Kate at different periods of her life reveal themselves as suspects in her murder.

If anything, Rattlers is an even stronger piecer than its prequel. With the mood and the curse’s history already established, Rattlers is free to open in the midst of high action. The potency of loss and the destructive potential of love are explored in triplicate and unwind towards a climax as dramatic as that of <Angel Eaters. Once again, the cast is strong, with Paradine and Watson offering particularly brilliant performances and director Jerry Ruiz sculpting a nuanced and cohesive drama.

8 Little Antichrists shifts to a smouldering Los Angeles 2028. Osley’s grandchildren Melanie (Rebecca McHugh) and Jeremy (Zack Robidas), assisted by a sextet of cloned second cousins, battle demons and their dystopian environment to avert apocalypse and save the world from an octet of newborn antichrists.

In this final episode, the fantastical elements of the Eater curse and the Christian theology previously introduced mix with a variety of science fiction tropes – genetic engineering gone wrong, Big Brother technology eroding privacy, malevolent corporations obstructing justice - as well as film noir, detective stories, Californian culture references, and a cariacatured Disneyland. Combined with numerous new characters and a continuously twisting plot, it is a bit too much to yield a coherent presentation. Four characters – the two female angels and the two Disney prisoners – serve no useful function and are frequently irritating – it is a huge relief when they disappear from the scene. At times the script bogs down in exposition; at other times it glosses over information that is critical to following the complex plot and understanding the workings of unfamiliar technology.

While the script poses undeniable challenges, Kelly O’Donnell’s direction does little to overcome them or to take advantage of the text’s equally undeniable strengths, such as its humor, whimsy and at least a few strong, relatable characters. The pacing is wildly inappropriate – it would have helped greatly to slow down or physically highlight important moments of plot development and to speed through or shift attention away from the nonessential ensemble segments. The wide stage and multiple playing areas the theater offers are not as well utilized here as in the two previous plays, and the blocking is often clumsy. The acting style is incoherent and many moments that could have been either sincere or humourous are rendered cheesy and gag-worthy.

That said, by the time viewers have experienced the first two productions, they will want to find out what happens next and be willing to put up with some nonsense to find out. Candice Holdorf does an admirable job playing not just one but six different clone roles, and August Schulenburg plays Ezekiel with energy and expressiveness. The play’s greatest failing is that it explodes in too many different directions, but a play that goes out this way is still much more interesting to watch than one that never offers any interest in the first place.

Perhaps the most successful aspect of the tri-production is the coherent world that Adams and her collaborators create. Even the characters who never appear onstage are convincingly real, and it is difficult not to care about their fate and the ultimate outcome of this family’s struggles. One of the great pleasures of the fantasy and science fiction genres is the “rules” that these stories develop to govern their otherworldy elements, and the satisfaction of guessing how the protagonists will ultimately manipulate their powers to save the day. It is fascinating to watch the Angel Eaters fall into and climb out of the same traps generation after generation, and ultimately resolve their curse. This particular satisfaction is only possible with a longer, muli-chapterered dramatic structure like the Trilogy’s.

All three plays benefit from surprisingly sophisticated design elements. Lighting designer Jennifer Rathbone ensures that the action is always well-lit and the supernatural elements are strikingly highlighted. Asa Wember’s sound design, consisting of Southern hymns and folk music layered with spooky special effects, is nuanced and enhances the plays’ creepy, fatalistic mood, although some of the choices in the final play, such as the cue associated with the body of God, are distractingly inappropropriate. The main structure of Caleb Levengood’s set remains the same throughout the trilogy, and the broken-down wooden walls and boards are very convincing as farm and ranch buildings in Oklahoma, if less suited for a futuristic LA. Smaller elements such as furniture and props change from play to play, and 8 Little Antichrists makes good use of several television monitors that help to make the transition to the future. The costumes, designed by Emily DeAngelis, are uniformly excellent – the dresses the two sisters wear in Angel Eaters are particularly remarkable in their period suitability and the way that they move with and emphasize the actresses’ gestures and actions. The challenge of numerous actors sprouting horns onstage is admirably met.

Adams and Flux Theatre have created a compelling series with an ambitious vision that will hopefully serve as a model for other brave artists and production companies. Get yourself to the theater for the first two episodes and, if you find yourself hooked, stick around for the third.

Long Life's Journey Into Night

The orbit of Saturn around the sun, completed every 29.5 years, lends a structure to Noah Haidle’s deeply affecting new work about loneliness and loss. In a program note, Haidle says that the return to its position at one's one's birth is associated with major turning points in a person’s life. For Gustin, portrayed at 28, 58, and 88, by, respectively, Robert Eli, James Rebhorn and John McMartin, they involve the conception of his daughter, her abandonment of him, and his impending death. In spite of minor flaws, the play is moving and beautifully acted by the cast—the fourth member is Rosie Benton, who plays all the women in Gustin’s life. Told in a reverse pattern, the episodes intertwine with subtle connections. They begin with McMartin’s aged Gustin engaging a visiting nurse, Suzanne (Benton). He has called her for company because he’s lonely. His wife, Loretta, and daughter, Zephyr, are long gone; the latter, he reveals, died in Mexico. He persuades the sympathetic Suzanne to make him some eggs for breakfast, “not too runny,” and she does. It’s a bit of a stretch to accept that a visiting nurse would do that, but in this case suspending disbelief brings its rewards.

On Saturn’s second return, a curmudgeonly but likable Gustin (Rebhorn) clings unhealthily to Zephyr. She has cared for him since she was 14, and he has smothered her with his paralyzing dependence on her, but now she plans to take a trip without him; he objects strenuously. She has also arranged a date for him with a woman named Bonnie—it’s part of her plan to set him off on a new phase of his life—and he’s deeply apprehensive. He disparages the fact that Bonnie is a bird-watcher.

The earliest segment visits the newlyweds Gustin and Loretta in 1948, when they are young and in love. He studies to be a doctor and she insists on making him breakfast (eggs, not too runny, of course). He proposes that she buy a new dress for an evening out at the symphony that night. Gradually Haidle’s skill at weaving the mundane threads of ordinary life into a textured dramatic fabric takes hold. The dress becomes a key element, and Bonnie, we learn incidentally, became Gustin’s friend and ended up in assisted living.

Subtler connections, like the eggs, also enrich the writing. Gustin likes to tell jokes, whatever his age. Loretta’s intrusive widowed mother, who telephones very early every morning, follows the migration of birds, and suddenly the reason for Gustin’s reluctance to meet Bonnie clicks: her hobby reminds him of his dead wife. And the young Gustin’s treatment of her mother’s loneliness comes back to haunt him: “Is there an end to grief? An end to tears?” he asks mockingly as Loretta speaks on the phone. By age 88, he has endured years of the same loneliness. “What a terrible plague memory is,” he says then.

In roundelay fashion, the scenes unfold, playing out in the aged Gustin’s mind and developing further the sad, inevitable story. Zephyr tries to leave, and Gustin pulls at her suitcase; it opens and he finds she is taking her mother’s dress, which he wants to keep. They fight. “You’re my whole life,” he tells her. “I don’t want to be,” she replies. By the end, all the ghosts are in the shabby yet comfortable living room (by Ralph Funicello), and the references to evening’s becoming night, and winter’s approach have taken on full metaphorical weight. (Even the two early-morning scenes occur before dawn; there’s always darkness waiting outside.) The ache of loss is enhanced by Mark Bennett’s score, evoking wistfulness, worry and uncertainty.

The flaws in director Nicholas Martin's confident production are small. Zephyr’s departure on the night of her father’s first date is too abrupt to be realistic. Rebhorn needs a toupee: it's distracting to wonder how a man at middle age could have thinning hair and at 88 have a full head of it (as McMartin does). And, as often happens with young writers, Haidle gives the aged Gustin coarse language that someone of his social status would not have indulged in, especially in the presence of a young woman he hardly knows.

But Haidle’s play evokes, like Beckett, the melancholy human condition with a romantic underpinning in the notion that only one true love in life exists. Gustin’s tragedy is that he clings to the past. But Saturn Returns is also a celebration of simple human connections—the feeling that someone somewhere is expecting you.

A Multiple Story House

Life in New York City residences has long provided fruitful source material for storytelling, from the illustrated upper crust of the Eloise books to the friends Friends. In his new play, East 10th Street: Self Portrait with an Empty House, presented by the Axis Company, avant-garde theater icon Edgar Oliver tells his own story of the decades he’s spent in his East 10th Street building. With a signature performance style far removed from the world of laugh tracks or the pages of picture books, Oliver’s understated jokes and kooky presence make for a charming evening of solo-performance. Oliver began his career in the New York theater scene as a writer and performer two decades ago. Downtown Manhattan has transformed much of itself since Oliver first moved into the building on East 10th, but anyone looking to reminisce about the good old days of Off Off Broadway while bemoaning the gentrification of lower Manhattan and chastising the contemporary art world should look elsewhere; this is not that sort of play. In his refusal to prize the bygone days of the avant-garde over today’s experimental work, Oliver locates himself as someone continually at the forefront of the downtown art scene.

Simultaneously warm and detached, isolating and communal, heartwarming and heartbreaking, the production masterfully captures the idiosyncrasies that characterize city living. East 10th Street is not so much about changing times as it is about a changing cast of characters. Once populated by a host of outlandish individuals, the building where Oliver has spent his New York career is now home to him alone. That begs the question: what happens when the people who make up your home disappear from it?

At no point in time, however, did the residents of East 10th Street make up a genial rooming house family. A remarkable number of residents appear to have been mentally ill, and Oliver delights in slow, bemused descriptions of each. East 10th is a world where the landlord’s ancient wet nurse spends every day laundering rags in the washroom, while other residents avoid it completely; many of them suspect one another of plotting each other’s murders, to the annoyance of the superintendant, who has his hands full dealing with ghosts. Oliver’s descriptions of the wonderland-like home fraught with such ridiculous conflict and general craziness render his unarticulated longing for it all the more poignant.

Though the passage of time is central to the plot of East 10th Street, at its heart the play is not about nostalgia for a lost era so much as for lost people. A murderous midget moves out of the building to marry a turkey farm heiress (yes), but Oliver uncovers the man’s belongings in the cellar and realizes he hasn’t really left, until the day the suitcase is inexplicably gone. An alcoholic neighbor is carried off to a nursing home in a stretcher, but when Oliver calls the home to check up on the man, they’ve never heard of him. In one of the play’s most evocative descriptions, Oliver tells of reaching for a lover after they’ve quarreled, only to have the boy’s body come to pieces in his hands. That it turns out he had reached by mistake for an old pile of clothes couches the horror of the image in absurdist humor without detracting from Oliver’s profound sense of loss.

Under the direction of Randy Sharp, Oliver’s frequent collaborator and fellow Axis Company member, the production lasts just an hour. Oliver takes his time with each story, which helps make East 10th Street feel like a complete evening of theater. So too does the number of years covered by the stories. Still, a few plot points feel cut short. What happens, for example, to Oliver’s sister Helen? An eccentric artist who served as Oliver’s constant companion, her moving out must have impacted his quality of life, but it's not mentioned. She’s simply not there by the end, and her forgotten presence keeps the audience from being able to miss her. If the creators were worried that lengthening the already slow-paced production would cause audiences to grow restless, they needn’t have. Anyone looking for obvious laugh lines will be frustrated regardless.

East Tenth Street rewards audiences who allow themselves to be tickled by Oliver’s sweetly off-kilter delivery. His nostalgia for the past, combined with his focused engagement with the present, make Oliver a masterful storyteller. If conventional wisdom holds that no one stays in a New York City apartment for long, it’s well worth listening to someone who did so and lived, as the saying goes, to tell the tale.

A Return to Screwball

A rendition of a 1954 romantic comedy about the humorous toils of bachelorhood, the most significant limitation with Retro Productions’ The Tender Trap is the weight of its contextual framework. Whether or not an audience member is familiar with the play or its 1955 film version with Frank Sinatra, one is bound to expect outdated gender politics, eager-to please dialogue and a neatly packaged ending. But although the work itself delivers few surprises—women in the audience should expect to cringe at its hastily drawn conclusion—the intellect behind its dialogue and the devotion of its performers make for an experience that rings as close to authentic as the limitations of the material allow.

Set inside a Manhattan bachelor pad, The Tender Trap follows the romantic mishaps of Charlie Reader (Ric Sechrest) and his childhood friend Joe McCall (Jim Kilkenny) who escapes his suburban family life under the guise of a new business plan. Charlie is splitting his time between a number of women, all eager to demonstrate their potential for wifehood, but it’s professional musician Sylvia Crewes (Elise Rovinsky), whose poise and effortless humor lead Charlie to contemplate a deeper commitment—and attract Joe’s attention as well.

As Charlie, Sechrest doesn’t possess Sinatra’s playful sex appeal, and instead chooses to play up his boyish lack of self-awareness and consequent relatability –his harmless immaturity, in fact, recalls a modern Judd Apatow hero. Kilkenny, meanwhile, emphasizes Joe’s preference for sarcasm and his lived wisdom. The contrast between the characters is effective: banter between Charlie and Joe makes up some of the play’s most entertaining moments, as we can easily imagine a shared history between the two best friends. Sechrest and Kilkenny even manage make dated lines like “holy mackerel” sound effortless and convincing.

It’s the women, however, who add unexpected depth to the production. Casandera Lollar is charming as Julie Gillis, a woman in her early 20s who is eagerly laying out her future as a housewife. Lollar successfully channels an element of wit into a role that could just as easily have descended into cliché. As Sylvia, Elise Rovinsky displays mature beauty through her controlled gestures and a dancer’s posture. Charlie helplessly bosses her around like his other conquests, but she appears to be in on the joke. Having some of the productions most memorable lines works in Rovinsky's favor as well: A monologue in which she reveals her fears about being single at 33 is a jarring moment in an otherwise lighthearted work.

The quality of its performances is, without a doubt, what makes The Tender Trap memorable. In addition to the strong lead performances, supporting players like Alex Herrald as erratic scientist Earl Lindquist help establish the production as a powerful display of New York’s dramatic talent.

An outdated feel prevails through The Tender Trap; like It’s a Wonderful Life or Breakfast at Tiffany’s, it hints at subtle tragedies behind its formulaic story arc. That these societal questions aren’t fully addressed is likely to frustrate a viewer. The Tender Trap doesn’t make us nostalgic for a time gone by, but its convincing performances extract real intelligence from its bubbly dialogue.

Killing Them Softly

To quote an infamous misquote, “what a terrible thing to have lost one’s mind.” That bit of dystopian nostalgia suddenly seems a bit easier to take after the election results this week. In this case, the two diaries of diseased psyches investigated in Memoirs of Madness, is, instead, a pleasure. Capping the eerie Halloween season (as well as an exhausting campaign season) with retellings of Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s The Yellow Wallpaper, and Edgar Allan Poe’s The Tell-Tale Heart, My Fair Heathen Productions presents fairly stripped-down versions of the two stories, each told by a disturbed narrator, which delight in their simplicity and chilly nakedness. Most women’s literature students are familiar with Gilman’s haunting late 19th century story, which was semi-autobiographical and damning of her doctor’s naïve and sometimes deadly prescription for his “hysterical” female patients—forced bed rest. That may sound fairly innocuous, perhaps even tempting, for those of us working a tough daily grind. But Dr. Silas Weir Mitchell’s “Rest Cure” was insidious and disempowering, an essential imprisonment, for women suffering from depression or other emotional problems, leading in some cases to insanity and/or death. In Gilman’s essay, “Why I Wrote the Yellow Wallpaper,” she explains that her book was “not intended to drive people crazy, but to save people from being driven crazy, and it worked,” as the once-acclaimed doctor eventually altered his treatment.

Megan O’Leary fully embodies the Gilman narrator, taking us along on her journey from her arrival in the rambling country estate when she first seems to feel earnest and obedient about her “rest,” which has been prescribed by the character’s doctor husband, similar in tone to the real-life Dr. Mitchell. The set is minimal, showing a simple bed with wooden headboard, a window, and a comfortable chair, in the room in which she is forced to remain, with its tattered wallpaper and ironic history as a former nursery that has fallen to ruin.

With references to a new baby and a live-in mother’s helper, it’s clear that she’s suffering from what is now commonly known (and treated) as postpartum depression. But as the character begins to feel more trapped, alienated, and isolated in her confined quarters, we witness her become more obsessive, secretive, and disturbed, to the point where the yellow wallcovering, and more frighteningly, what she sees in it, takes over the entire focus of her mind. O’Leary achieves this by growing more frantic and restless, confiding her fears and plans, while still largely retaining her appeasing smile and outward pleasantries, as she tries to conceal her true torment from the others. This has a creepy as well as a believable effect.

Her demise is also expressed by a bit of a crumbling Victorian tune played between scenes. Some of her visions are brought to life via projected images on the walls, which seem realistic as to her description of them, but I wondered if they could have been executed in a bit more frightening or tormenting way. Given the technological advances of our age in contrast, maybe a somewhat more expressionistic version of the yellow wallpaper would have been interesting. However, the effects used here did seem to fit the setting and did not take away from the character’s storytelling.

The second piece, Edgar Allan Poe’s The Tell-Tale Heart, written about 50 years earlier, is also told by a singular narrator and works equally well in the same set, now as the bedroom of the old man and soon-to-be victim. With more dramatic lighting, including the entrance and effective first words of the narrator given in total darkness, Poe’s character, played by Gretchen Knapp, immediately grips us with his all-too-sensible madness. Knapp’s gender play is well done, with no discernable difference to the familiar Poe character, only that much more of an intriguing performance to see and hear. Dressed in period garb with her long hair pulled back, Knapp commands the audience’s attention, and even with the piece’s shorter length, there’s certainly no shortage of impact.

Poe’s genius in making the narrator seem so sincere, and yet ultimately undone by the overworkings of his own mind, is entertaining and well nuanced here. One-person narrated shows can sometimes be tough to execute, but both Knapp and O’Leary carry their roles strongly, and the direction by Janet Bobcean succeeds in sustaining their efforts, as well as staying true to the source material. The two selections as companion pieces bookend nicely together: one with its female, internal struggles; and the other with its more male, outward actions.

It was even fun to revisit the familiar Poe story in a post-CSI mindset. I mean, come on, dismember and squire away body parts under the floorboards with “no stain of any kind, no blood-spot whatever,” really? After years of believing this narrator, I think I finally got it that perhaps those chatty policemen weren’t just idly hanging around, but maybe waiting like the rest of us to see if the innocent neighbor would reveal himself. Thanks to My Fair Heathen for dusting off these gems, revisiting them with aplomb, as well as inspiring them to be viewed in new ways.

Return of the King (Oedipus: The Special Edition)

I was recently talking to a playwright who does a lot of work in regional theaters all around the country. He grumbled that he was having a hard time getting his work produced, joking that all of the big theaters are "only interested in plays about f**ked up families." Well, he shouldn't feel too bad; the Pearl Theater Company's sharp but ultimately academic production of The Oedipus Cycle has convinced me that all theater in the western world was founded on a proud heritage of f**ked up families. The name Oedipus, for those of you who have never read… well… anything or met a psychologist, refers to a mythic Greek king from Thebes who unwittingly murdered his father and bedded his own mother afterwards. This doesn't work out very well for him or his children. Sophocles' Oedipus Cycle consists of three smaller plays from three separate trilogies – Oedipus the King, Oedipus at Colonus, and Antigone — and spans three generations, with each exploring the historic tragedy of the Oedipal family. The Pearl Theater's production marks the debut of a brisk new translation by Peter Constantine that condenses the whole cycle into three hours.

What most struck me about Constantine's translation was the seeming focus on Ancient Greek religion, which, according to some quick research online, isn't usually the hallmark of the Sophocles text. Here, nearly every big action is preceded or followed by a speech bemoaning that character's "fate" or "destiny" or "curse." This deterministic mindset is almost belabored in the script, but it certainly raises interesting questions about accountability. For instance, in Oedipus at Colonus the audience has probably forgiven old, self-blinded Oedipus – after all, he was destined to kill his father and have intercourse with his mother. If Apollo prophesied it, what could Oedipus do about it?

In terms of the modern significance of the Oedipus story, should blaming his unfortunate circumstances on the gods allow Oedipus to shrug off responsibility for his actions? Don't we tell these stories so we can learn how characters deal with the consequences of their mistakes? Or do we go to theater just to see a series of events unfold by divine intervention? In exploring these different interpretations, I'm not saying that Constantine's translation fails in any way. I only point them out because these questions seem to lead to a place of undeniable interest… directly into the heart of Western Theater. Constantine and director Shepard Sobel attack most of the material admirably, molding a taut infrastructure that emphasizes brevity, but is still loose enough to leave room for these big ideas of guilt and destiny.

Part one of the evening, Oedipus the King, succeeds nicely because Sobel and Constantine open with such an air of confidence and contentment in the character of Oedipus. Aided of course by Jay Stratton’s punchy performance as the Theban king, the character's initial happiness enhances his inevitable fall at the end of the narrative. After restoring peace to Thebes, Oedipus learns that bringing the former king's murderer to justice is the only cure for a sickness spreading through his kingdom. The murderer turns out to be Oedipus, of course, and the former king turns out to be his father, whose widow Oedipus married and sired children with. Any contemporary actor playing the title role has an unenviable task towards the end – the moaning devastation of Oedipus must be mythological in scale, Stratton succeeds admirably at this, along with the rest of the largely game cast. Dominic Cuskern and TJ Edwards, as Tiresias and a Shepard respectively, are particularly deft.

Probably the least produced of the cycle and also the last full play by Sophocles, Sobel and Constantine's Oedipus at Colonus presents an emotive portrayal of the last days of Oedipus. Exiled from Thebes by his own sons years after part one, the now blind Oedipus and his daughters wander into the sacred area called Colonus, just outside Athens. It seems Oedipus' two sons have gone to war over the throne of Thebes and the embittered old man wants nothing more than for his violent brood to destroy themselves. Mr. Edwards takes over the role of Oedipus, lending him much charm and pathos. In one very sympathetic moment he says of his past, “I suffered these deeds more than committed them.” Also, Jolly Abraham's performance as Antigone is superb. The only drawback in this terrific "second act" is the unfortunate double casting of Susan Heyward as Ismene and Polynices – though the concept of casting one performer as two of Oedipus' children is strong, Ms. Heyward's portrayal of Polynices the soldier reads as overly meek.

With Antigone, Constantine and Sobel’s production runs out of steam, despite an unswervingly strong performance from Ms. Abraham in the lead role. In the aftermath of the violent war between Oedipus’ sons – Polynices and Eteocles – his daughter Antigone faces death for defying King Creon and attempting to bury one of her dead and dishonored brothers. John Livingston Rolle gives a solid turn as Creon, as does Ms. Heyward in her reprisal of Ismene, but somewhere along the way the lack of urgency in Antigone’s predicament causes this Antigone peter out.

Throughout the evening Constantine and Sobel call on the magnetic Ms. Heyward to deliver all the “bad news speeches” or epilogues. In one such speech she says, “These things are now unalterable in their authority.” Though compellingly staged and faultlessly designed, The Pearl Theater’s Oedipus Cycle mostly feels like an interesting experiment in practicality and so never seeks to become the “unalterable authority” on the Oedipus mythos. That said: it is a perfectly viable, accessible means of experiencing Western Theater’s original f***ked up family.

Rome If You Want To

18th century essayist and poet Joseph Addison’s best-remembered work is the 1712 play Cato: a Tragedy, a work so classic and resonant George Washington himself purportedly used speeches from it to inspire troops, commissioning a production during the American Revolution. The play, addressing such subjects as the importance of freedom, the corruption of tyrannical rule, and valor in battle, made for a logical choice. It makes for an equally logical choice for Jim Simpson to mount the show at The Flea, timed for a polarizing presidential election. And while Cato may be three centuries old, and set before the Common Era, his production makes this tale completely accessible.

Addison himself dabbled in politics, having served as Under-Secretary of State for the Whig party, and his experience informed his writing. Cato occurs in the year 46 B.C. in the city of Utica, in Numidia, where the title character Cato (André De Shields) is the last Roman holdout against Julius Caesar, whose mighty army approaches to battle his mightiest remaining foe. Cato surrounds himself with two advisors, the peaceful Lucius (Brian O'Neill) and the violent, untrustworthy Sempronius (Anthony Cochrane). Sempronius, however, has his own ideas about how to use the Numidian army for personal benefit.

The plot isn’t only political, of course; Addison’s web also has its romantic entanglements. Cato’s sons Marcus (Jake Green) and Portius (Ross Cowan) both pine for Lucia (Holly Chou), Lucius’ daughter, while Cato's daughter Marcia (Carly Zien) has her own admirer in Juba (Eric Lockley), a Numidian prince.

Simpson’s bare-bones approach, with Zack Tinkelman’s unadorned set, Claudia Brown’s muted costume design, and all actors offstage sitting on benches where they can be seen, allows his audience to focus on the plot at hand. I also appreciated Simpson’s choice of color-blind casting, though I can see how it might confuse some audience members. Cato is white, though De Shields is African-American, with white children.

Nonetheless, the seasoned cast overcomes this minor obstacle. De Shields is quite the commanding presence as the stoic leader. The title character is strength incarnate. Cato does everything right – he lives by a code of honor, dignity and strength. It is easy for such a man to feel, well, like something more than a man, but De Shields digs beneath Addison’s language to portray a man with real heart and human connection. It helps, perhaps, that De Shields, a veteran of such shows as Ain’t Misbehavin’ and The Wiz is also a musician and choreographer. His sense of movement and rhythm is integral to Cato. De Shields’ every step, gesticulation and voice modulation are carefully measured and perfectly justified, setting the tone for the whole show.

While the tone is spot-on, I did have some quibbles with Simpson’s pacing, particularly at the production’s end. As the plot unfurls and and events escalate, the show languishes, slowing right when it should heat up. Several scenes drop in when by this time, they should proceed at a more clipped pace to maximize dramatic effect.

Fortunately, the rest of the cast follows De Shields’ lead. Cochrane, for example, convincingly allows the seeds of betrayal to take root as Cato unfolds. Many of the most successful scenes in the show are enacted by Cato’s younger actors, a large number of whom are members of the Bats, the Flea’s repertory troupe. They have a professional grasp of Addison’s language, and find the urgency in the character’s lives so that their portrayals feel fresh and relevant. Lockley’s and Zien’s scenes together, in particular, suggest a very humanistic element as they fumble back and forth with the trappings of misunderstood young love. Cowan and Green are also effective in their scenes together.

Simpson’s production of Cato brings history to vivid life. I can only hope that whatever changes the incoming new administration brings, we only have to re-live Addison’s lessons on the stage.

No Frills Bard

Less is more. This mantra, the coup-de-grace cliché amongst most university acting programs, was all-too-familiar to Shakespeare. Being no stranger to the fact that the power to influence an audience is derived directly from the relationship between language and imagination, Shakespeare found his Art in words. And in a visually-dominated, high-definition, 3G, broadband connected society, this is a refreshing sentiment – if not altogether a foreign concept. It seems fitting that a Theatre like Ten Ten, whose historic imprint on NYC theatre is undeniable, would choose to kick off its 53rd Season with a production of The Tempest which befriends the ear and scorns the eye. Hamlet himself would approve of such an approach…up to a point.

For those outside of the know, The Tempest was written circa 1610 and is considered not only one of the greatest works of Shakespeare, but also his last non-collaborative work. The main plot concerns the Sorcerer (and rightful Duke of Milan) Prospero who, along with his daughter Miranda, has been stranded on an island for 12 years due to the jealous nature of his brother Antonio. At the play’s opening, Prospero – having divined that Antonio is on a ship passing close by the island – conjures a storm which causes the ship to run aground…thus foreshadowing the imminent brotherly reunion.

The Tempest is, perhaps, one of the most poetic and mature works of Shakespeare but was often overlooked for productions until well after Shakespeare’s death and the release of the First Folio in 1623. Textually, it is not only seaworthy but seemingly bereft of any leaks and could easily be considered a structural recipe for good dramatic writing. With such an unsinkable script, it is hard to imagine how anything short of magnificence could be achieved…but, all too oft, such is the case.

Under the navigation of Judith Jarosz, this production generally steers true but has an infrequent tendency to be tossed about like Gilligan’s Minnow. The small, intimate space (a sectioned-off portion of the basement theatre at the Park Avenue Christian Church) is charmingly effective and promotes a personal investment between both audience and actor. Acoustically, it proves troubling at times with line deliveries that are garbled or drowned in reverb but, thankfully, this is an exception rather than the norm.

Giles Hogya & David Fuller’s exposed set may lack visual excitement (a multitude of black platforms with only a single tree/plant to suggest location), but it provides a nice canvas for Jarosz and her cast to work the language free from optical distractions. Interestingly enough, Elizabethan staging conventions functioned similarly. Aaron Diehl’s sound design has some nice musical interludes, but some sound effects ill-timed with actor movements draw chuckles.

As with all of Shakespeare’s plays, acting is the key to success. In many productions, actors recite lines that they themselves are unsure about and tend to compensate with stylized over-acting. And while the former is not necessarily an issue for this production, it does suffer a bit from the latter. This would not necessarily be a bad thing, but it does tend to have a distancing effect on a production which appears to strive for a more human, if not touching, approach.

David Fuller’s (Prospero) performance is not only genuine, but endearing and goes a long way in bridging the gap between a Prospero who is omniscient and yet wonderfully human and frail. Similarly, Kendall Rileigh (Ariel) is a pure delight who embodies the magical/mystical nature of Ariel physically, vocally and musically. Scott Michael Morales (Caliban) is to be commended on his vocal and physical endurance, but his performance is much too reminiscent of Gollum from The Lord of the Rings movies.

Overall, The Tempest feels like a piece that could achieve a bit more. Rhythmically, it stutters early on (which might explain why the audience was notably lighter after intermission) but redeems itself admirably in a swift second act. Less, we are told, is equivalent to sounding greater depths, but, as in all things, it cannot simply be relied upon as an altruism. A bit more, perhaps, with minimal effort would serve this production better and have Hamlet cheering in the wings.

Illegitimate Theater

It’s part Milton Berle, part Bob Hope, part vaudeville, part farce, with a big dose of camp thrown in for good measure. The Ladies Auxiliary might find it irresistible. It’s Love Child. Unlike vaudeville, though, there are no costumes or even hand props. The performers remain in their street clothes throughout the performance, making Candice Donnelly’s costuming job perhaps the easiest in all New York City theater. What you do get for 80 minutes are two middle-aged men (writer-performers Daniel Jenkins and Robert Stanton) running around, playing many characters simultaneously, and frequently screaming. Stanton and Jenkins are perhaps a bit too fond of inventing their own sound effects for everything taking place in their world, including various bodily functions. Imagine two droll Robin Williams’ verbally going at each other, sometimes oblivious and possibly high on speed, and you’ve got Love Child.

Competently directed by Carl Forsman, the production is ridiculous and waggish. Several of the characters are trying to mount an updated version of Euripedes’ Ion in a theater in Red Hook. Joel, the production’s manager/actor, played by Jenkins, gets an opening night visit from his eccentric aunt (Stanton) and his disturbed mother, also played by Jenkins, and the ancient story of the bastard child, Ion, becomes a real-life adventure for the confused Joel, as he learns the identity of his biological father.

Neil Patel’s set is essentially a phone in, with huge drop cloths draped over paintings, possibly from another show. The set itself consists of six chairs which Jenkins and Stanton use as launch pads to strenuously portray 20 less than hilarious characters in this manic game of musical chairs. Lighting design by Jeff Croiter and Grant Yeager is smart and crisp; at one point they briefly transform the stage into a disco.

Stanton and Jenkins are not untalented. Though their knowing and frequently politically incorrect brand of humor picks some easy targets — effeminate men, welfare mothers, the homeless, their impressions — of Joel’s neurotic mother and a Mexican talk show host, for example —are temporarily interesting in an over-the-top way. Their timing is impeccably precise; they have clearly worked hard on this show.

The problem is that Love Child just isn’t funny. The bit that drew the biggest laugh was a recurring one where Stanton slips on a greasy floor. Yuk-yuk! For a second I thought the ghost of Sid Caesar might materialize, until I remembered that he’s still alive. Ba-dummm-chhh!

One problem is that Stanton and Jenkins jump too frenetically from character to character and situation to situation; it's like a Family Guy episode. After a while, you stop trying to pay attention and just let the waves of cheese wash over you. This brand of comedy is so antique, so bygone, so outmoded that I wouldn’t be surprised if Love Child someday becomes a hit on the Buffalo dinner theater circuit.

All in all, Love Child is another harmless mediocrity in the dysfunctional family comedy genre. In this case, the family is a theater family. Stanton and Jenkins valiantly attempt to lace the comedy with anecdotal profundity that, more often than not, also flops.

With the possible exceptions of two brief and semi-clever quasi-musical numbers, Love Child is, in a word: lame. A lady in front of me kept flicking on a blue LED light to check her watch. It was annoying but I peeked over her shoulder every time she did it.

The Boy Who Wouldn't Grow Up, For Grown-Ups

Few twentieth century stories have enjoyed as many successful adaptations, in such a variety of media, as J.M. Barrie’s Peter Pan. Best known today in the forms of Barrie’s novel, Disney’s movie, and the Mary Martin musical, in 1904 Barrie’s story of the boy who wouldn’t grow up premiered, in its first fully realized form, as an adult stage play. As adapted by Brooklyn’s Irondale Ensemble, that play is a joy to watch. Peter Pan serves as the inaugural production of the company’s new home, The Irondale Center, a former Fort Greene church. The Center officially opened its doors earlier this month; eventual plans for the space include an art gallery, a café, office and conference rooms. How fortunate for the community to gain such a dynamic arts center; how fortunate for Peter Pan that those projects are still in the works. As it stands now, the former sanctuary possesses an intersection of dusty stateliness and ethereal magic. Tension between those two poles forms the crux of the Peter Pan story, and their physical representation in the performance space is terrific.

Ken Rothchild’s scenic design utilizes the raw space to great effect, creating levels, so important to the suggestion of flight, with metal scaffolding and the church’s own balcony. Scaling stories-high scaffolding and bounding in from the rafters, the cast displays buoyant energy. As Peter Pan, Jack Lush posses an athleticism that is at once wild and determined. He captures the character’s childlike belief in a singular right and wrong, while hinting at the inner complexity of the boy who wouldn’t grow up.

Despite Peter’s insistence of his desire to avoid the world of rules, he himself possesses a profound sense of justice. Though Peter famously loves adventure and mischeviousness, Barrie suggests that the boy’s inability to expect dishonesty, ever, is perhaps what separates Peter from all other children. Audiences are informed so by Barrie himself; the production is adapted to include Barrie’s stage directions and authorial voice.

The audience doesn’t need a narrator to understand the story; Jim Neison’s directorial skill conveys Barrie’s intentions without actually putting his stage directions into the dialogue. Yet inserting Barrie as a character, surrounded by his characters, is nonetheless a dynamic choice. Barrie’s onstage characterization acknowledges the source of the Peter Pan mythology while indicating the ways that Barrie himself now figures in to the myth.

Neither the perverse recluse of literati folklore nor a starry eyed cook in the vein of Johnny Depp, Damen Scranton’s Barrie is a refined storyteller. He at once controls the world around him, placing props in characters hands and instructing the audience as to their motivations, while at the same time conveying a curious sense of powerlessness. Although the characters are his brainchildren, he appears to see their fates as inexorable. His frustration with his characters, more than his love for them, makes his presence welcome.

A small, boisterous ensemble playing a wide variety of roles enhances the notion that these characters are fictional constructs. Under Neison’s seamless direction, the talented cast shifts roles not just from scene to scene but from moment to moment. Although the shifts are occasionally confusing, quick character changes help keep up the pace of the over two-hour production. Liz Prince’s costume design keeps the aesthetic simple and eases the transitions; whites and beiges make up the world of the play. Peter Pan stands out in his signature green.

Peter and Wendy are the only characters whose actors don’t play multiple roles, a choice that highlights the fact that both characters are protagonists (significantly, the first novelized version of the story was titled Peter and Wendy). In the Irondale production, Scarlet Rivera’s Wendy is neither as saccharine as the animated and musical versions with which audiences are familiar, nor as worldly. Rivera and Lush make a great match for one another, successfully portraying children who play-act romance without overtly sexualizing them. Equal parts dutiful and petulant, the evolution of their relationship – her anticipation of womanhood and his dread of it – create subtle rifts in their otherwise happy home. Watching the alignment of their games come undone is startlingly sad to watch, even when, from the outset, audiences know their separate trajectories.

In one of the play’s creepier moments, after Wendy sends the lost boys to bed, childlike Peter checks with her to make sure they are only pretend husband and wife. She answers that it’s pretend so long as he wants it be. A more ironic production would turn the moment into meta-theater; here it creates a sense of palpable unease.

Though we often think of Peter Pan as an adventure tale, it is as much a story of homemaking as of pirates. Wendy, after all, goes to Never Land because Peter wants someone to take care of the boys and keep house. As such, it's a fitting inaugural production for a company that has at last found its home.

The Forget-Me-Nots

Questions abound in Lee Blessing’s overly existential play A Body of Water. Why don’t the two adults who awake together in bed recognize themselves, or each other? Who is the woman who shows up at their house with bagels? Why does her story about their identities keep changing? Which, if any of them, are true? Beyond all of the questions, though, one central mystery dominates the play: What is Blessing trying to accomplish here? The playwright creates quite a challenge from the outset of this Primary Stages show, in that none of his three characters are reliable. Though it takes a while, we learn the names of our mystery pair: Moss (Michael Cristofer) and Avis (Christine Lahti). They have no memory of anything in their lives – not the lake house in which they find neither themselves nor the reason why they may have possibly woken up naked together in bed. The two attempt many different methods of discovery, including Avis examining Moss’s genitals with a pair of kitchen tongs, all to no avail.

After an overlong period of time, a younger woman named Wren (Laura Odeh) arrives, breakfast in hand. After a lot of dancing around the subject, Moss and Avis cop to their total memory loss, of which Wren is actually well aware. She admits that she is their legal defender, assigned to them following the mysterious murder of their eleven-year-old daughter. A new question arises. Is their amnesia a cognitive reaction to this trauma, or is it selective? Wren’s job is to jog their memory enough to prove their innocence, or to determine if Moss and Avis are indeed lying to cover their tracks.

Explaining away Moss and Avis’ odd behavior as a result of retrograde amnesia makes sense, but in a disappointing, derivative way, since many writers have employed this as a theatricality. Just when we think Blessing has set the story straight, though, he throws another curveball. Wren discounts her entire first story and claims to be the couple’s grown daughter. Weary of a lifetime of dealing with two parents locked in a perpetual Groundhog Day-style daily forgetfulness, she claims to toy with them, either to make fun of her condition for her own amusement or to shock them into remembering their life.

Body is comprised of five scenes, taking place over the course of three days. In each of these scenes, Wren’s explanations of who she is and who Moss and Avis are to her change, sometimes oscillating back and forth into old explanations. Blessing’s point, if there is one lurking underneath this play, is that his audience will never really know the truth, but that makes for a hollow show. If we know nothing about all three characters, and are never told the truth about their past or their connections to each other, why is worth any investment on our part?

Blessing also backs himself into a dramatic corner with all of his characters’ exposition. True or false, all of Wren’s talking and Moss and Avis’ questions add up to a lot of redundant talking. Body cannot show, so it tells, adding up to little more than a lecture. Director Maria Mileaf finds no artful way to advance Blessing’s non-linear plot (indeed, her blocking throughout the show has these characters merely moving around in circles), and the result is a static show.

Mileaf has assembled a checkered cast to shape Blessing’s caricatures into something more human. Between the two of them, Cristofer and Lahti have won an Emmy, a Pulitzer, an Oscar and a Tony; together, the duo locates the emotional undercurrent of Body and deftly figures out a rhythm for these two characters who know each other and yet at the same time do not.

Odeh has a more difficult role. Wren, as written, suggests an impatient, petulant girl, but we do not know if this is her real personality or a persona she adopts to goad Moss and Avis, nor what her agenda is in any of the situations she describes to Moss and Avis. Odeh registers a commanding presence during her scenes, but she has been given an impossible character to realize.

What Body lacks is some kind of edge. Blessing has chosen an interesting topic – does our memory shape who we are? – but he needs to attach it to a gripping story that makes the audience care what a play’s characters remember and forget (take, for example, the film Memento, which addressed a slightly different type of amnesia in riveting form). Despite the many mysteries posed and red herrings thrown about, Body is a static show. It is hard to create food for thought when there is no meat provided.

A Weak Cornerstone

Henrik Ibsen poured his late-life preoccupations into The Master Builder: it’s a portrait of a man fearing age, of an creator driven by his muse, and of the personal sacrifices any artist makes in pursuit of success. Hilde Wangel, the young woman who captivates the title character, is a reflection of a girl of 20 with whom Ibsen became infatuated in his sixties during a vacation in the Tyrol. But, in addition to its earthbound concerns, it also has strange conversations about trolls and demons that hark back to Peer Gynt and give it an unearthly quality. Ciaran O’Reilly has underlined the supernatural elements in his new staging at the Irish Rep, which has linked the Norwegian playwright to its mission by using an adaptation by noted Irish playwright Frank McGuinness .

Aging architect Halvard Solness (James Naughton) is a visionary whose people skills are lacking, though his arrogance and libido are not. He works in a studio with his assistant Knut Brovik (Herb Foster), whom he has supplanted as the chief architect in the area, and Knut’s son, Ragnar (Daniel Talbott), who hopes to launch his own architectural business but needs Solness’s stamp of approval on one big project. Solness, terrified of being pushed out by younger talent, has no intention of giving it. Also working in the office is Ragnar’s intended wife (and his first cousin), Kaja (Letitia Lange), who has been having an affair with Solness. His attraction to her is partly male midlife crisis, Ibsen suggests, but also clearly, in the coded dialogue, because Solness’s wife, Aline (Kristin Griffith), has physically withdrawn since her ancestral home was destroyed by fire and their twin sons died. After that, Solness stopped building big public buildings with towers and spires; he took up designing residences with no phallic overtones—except for their new home, just completed, which has a tower.

Into the midst of this tightly knit group arrives Hilde, a young woman around 20. Departing from Ibsen, who has her enter through a door, O’Reilly has Hilde enter through a hidden panel that swings open in an upstage wall amid an unusually bright light (from Michael Gottlieb) that signals a supernatural quality. Hilde identifies herself as a young child that Solness picked up 10 years earlier at the dedication of a church and says he had promised to build her a castle and make her a princess. She now wants her castle in the air. For all her beauty, she seems to be a female Rumpelstiltskin come to claim her due.

In the pivotal role, Naughton is a disappointment, stiff and hesitant with many lines. McGuinness’s translation doesn’t always help, with occasional awkward phrasing: Solness’s “Who had the brass neck to tell you that?” sounds Victorian, and “Then shift Ragnar from this silly idea” is a very British idiom. Those instances, however, don’t account for the dull and dutiful performance. Naughton has his moments (notably in his late speech on the demands of the demons), but the master builders here are the people around him.

Though British critic James Agate famously called Aline “the dankest tank among all Ibsen’s woeful cisterns,” Kristin Griffith, holding her arms stiffly from her sides, creates a character who is emotionally stunted and yet aching with pain (she also generates a bit of dark humor from flinching at Hilde's exuberant embraces). Critics have viewed Aline as a cold fish, because her remorse at the loss of her dolls and jewelry in the fire affects her more than the death of her children. But Griffith somehow suggests a supernatural reason: they are talismans to help Aline survive. She has confidence her babies are in heaven, but without her totems, she is bereft.

As the free-spirited Hilde, Charlotte Parry radiates youth, exuberance, and admiration. There’s a frisson of sexual perversity when Hilde announces to Solness that her underwear is “terribly soiled,” and even more when she confesses a fascination with the thought of being raped by Vikings. Solness is enchanted by her and unburdens himself, talking about his demons, and she becomes his confessor.

It’s a mark of the success of O’Reilly’s production that one can’t decide on her nature. Is Hilde, sylphlike and radiant, really a maleficent spirit who leads the overreaching Solness to his doom, or just a strange young woman who unlocks an old man’s psyche? Or is she an angel, come to punish him for his turning away from building churches with spires? Hilde’s last words, “Master mine. My master builder,” leave one stuck satisfyingly on the fence.

Memories of Politics and Addiction

Most tales of addiction and redemption seem to be limited by the same undercurrents of narcissism that turned their protagonists into users in the first place. As readers or viewers, we are relieved to see these narrators pull themselves out of an undeniable hell, but the heightened self-awareness of their stories can also trigger a jolt of frustration: these undeniably intelligent individuals should have known better, and yet we have no choice but to applaud. Because writer and actor Mike Evans offers societal context to his self-abusive spiral, however, his one-man show escapes some of the clichés associated with a tale of drug use. His lifelong yearning for political power gives relatable context to his addiction-prone personality--and alludes to our nation's general obsession with public figures.

In adapting his story onto the stage, Evans has juxtaposed three separate narratives with one another: His story of drug use, homelessness, imprisonment and recovery, his crusade to attain power by working close to political figures like Clinton, and the legacy of suffering his deceased mother left in the pages of her diary. Evans frequently jumps from one place and time to another, keeping the audience on track by identifying a year and location in the beginning of a scene. Perhaps intentionally, the approach sometimes causes Evans to come across as two separate characters, an aimless junkie and a falsely confident freeloader who are both prone to stealing to get their way. His transition from an office in the White House to homelessness feels abrupt, but this may be Evans's point.

Evans, 43, narrates the events of his life from stacks of white paper, sectioned into scenes with paper clips. Whether these are a staging device or help Evans stay on track with the text is unclear, but the effect is powerful. As we watch Evans give his confession in a manner that recalls a rehearsed speech (at times, he even corrects his own grammar), we see these white sheets bring his vulnerability to the surface. The play's opening, during which he describes shoplifting to earn money for heroin just seven years ago, is particularly eerie in its delivery: Evans sits behind a table covered with a plastic tablecloth of red and blue stars, shuffling sheets of paper and speaking in a tone that brings to mind a news anchor's rehearsed confidence.

Throughout, Evans's voice is perhaps the most affecting aspect of Sex, Drugs, Clinton and Me. When narrating an exchange with a campaign worker or a group of Hollywood movie stars (his knack at sneaking into political conventions earned him screen time in Robert Downey Jr.'s 1993 documentary, The Last Party), his tone is conversational and casual; when describing the fleeting comfort of a heroin rush, his language is heavy with metaphors and his delivery reminiscent of a beat poet's. On occasion, Evans opts for self-deprecating humor; his accounts of weaseling his way back into the ranks of Clinton volunteers after getting fired are funny in their absurdity. But although some of the audience responded with laughter, these segments felt especially heartbreaking. Hearing the story of an individual who sees deceit as his only option is, after all, profoundly unsettling. And yet, there is something honest and universal in his desire to gain first-hand access to power.

Sex, Drugs, Clinton and Me isn't really about Clinton--the second object of Evans's obsession could have been any influential figure--but in a larger perspective, pairing presidential politics with drug dependence is a choice that shows awareness beyond what we usually see in the addiction memoir.