Theater as Devotion

The Tidings Brought to Mary is 20th-century French dramatist Paul Claudel’s take on medieval mystery plays, which were based on Biblical readings, and originally performed by clergy until a papal writ in 1210 forbade them and guilds took their place, earning these plays the name “misterium,” Latin for occupation. Within the limitations of this form, Claudel’s poetic language and the cast’s energetic and heartfelt performances make what could be a dull recitation of religious maxims an affecting drama. If The Tidings Brought to Mary sometimes feels like a relic, perhaps its message will appeal to an audience living in a world of turmoil. For Claudel, the solution for a society in which the center does not hold is simple: the center is the cross—redemption and eternal glory through devotion and suffering. Set in 15th-century France on a farm in the Champagne region, the play opens with a moment of tension: Pierre De Craon, the town’s master builder, who is erecting a cathedral, suffers incredible desire for a young peasant girl, Violaine, which impels him to try to rape the girl. She foils his attempt, and it’s after this encounter that we enter the story. De Craon is shaken to the core, unhappy about both his desires and his inability to fulfill them, saying, “What man who loves does not want all he loves?” He believes his impure thoughts have marked him with leprosy (a commonly held conception in medieval Europe), which he conceals by wearing a robe.

Rather than criticize and spurn De Craon, Violaine feels deep compassion for him. She wants to share in his joy and grief, but he is overwhelmed by her empathy and happiness. After they circle each other with increasing tension, Violaine gives herself to Pierre, and kisses the leper, thereby sealing her terrible (here, a good thing) fate. Further complicating the narrative, this forbidden kiss is witnessed by Mara, Violaine’s jealous sister.

As De Craon, Douglas Taurel paces with apt gravity, and in the role of Violaine Erin Beirnard blinks with the innocence of a sacrificial lamb, but it would be nice to see the two actors feed off of each other more. The audience could perhaps then understand the depth of the “cup of sorrow” passed between them. As it is, their relationship seems a bit superficial, a recitation of their roles in society and in the drama. Perhaps with more performances the two actors will achieve a rhythm that will give this first scene the power it requires.

The nocturnal meeting between De Craon and Violaine, and most of the play’s action, take place in a space made to look like a stable. The biblical implications of every arrangement and set piece are thoughtfully executed in the Storm Theatre’s production. In particular, the lighting design stunningly renders the day’s changing light. We are made to feel that the farm’s humble spaces are as filled with God’s presence as a church. At times, the soft lighting can even make certain scenes look like works of religious art. But like a religious painting or icon, there is something stagnant about the play. With Claudel’s archetypal characters and obvious intentions, it’s as though one can only watch this story to satisfy preexisting mores.

Fortunately Mara is there to spice things up, incorporating shame, guilt, and the deviousness of a wicked sister. As Mara, Laura Bozzone flies into the play with exciting fury, and the huffiness and whine of a modern teenager. Such modern touches make the play feel more relevant and vibrant. Jenny D. Green’s performance as Elizabeth Vercors achieves a similar feat: she draws on familiar caricatures of shrewish wives, but also incorporates the self-aware nagging of modern comediennes.

Though Mara’s feistiness is enjoyable, Bozzone’s performance can come across as a one-note song. In particular, her tone in the final scenes calls for more nuance; is Mara truly unchanged?

Still, Mara’s fire makes her more relatable than Violaine, who’s all black and white. In considering Violaine, there’s little to do but marvel that all’s right in the world of the devout. The sinners are more interesting. It would be nice if the production looked more deeply at Mara, who must reconcile conflicting emotions and a confounding miracle. Unfortunately, Claudel avoids complexity, and the character lacks the depth of emotion that makes the complicated women of other plays electric and thought provoking (as in Macbeth).

Yet there is beauty in simplicity. As in many religious stories, good triumphs over evil: Violaine dies happily, her sister realizes the error of her ways, and the prodigal father is restored to his family. This production honors the play’s uncomplicated beauty with an earnest rendering, but one cannot help but hope for gray, like the complicated shade of the silver flower of leprosy, to cast doubt, and give us something to ponder.

With Friends Like These...

Once you’ve earned the right to drive, vote, and drink, the thrill of milestone birthdays is pretty much gone. What’s left, except to bemoan having gotten on in years and to wax nostalgic for the past? As a result, birthday parties tend to be breeding grounds for disaster. Perhaps Anthony, the title character of On the Night of Anthony’s 30th Birthday Party…Again, should have remembered that before lying that he was a year younger than his true age of 31. Anthony may be the title character of the L. Pontius play currently being seen at Manhattan Theatre Source, but he isn’t the most prominent one. In fact, the rest of the ensemble share more stage time than does Andrew Glaszek, who plays the birthday boy.

Pontius’ play follows the farce framework made popular by such playwrights as Alan Ayckbourn (Absurd Person Singular) and Michael Frayn (Noises Off), albeit with slightly flimsier results. Charlie (Tom Everett Russell) is throwing a surprise birthday fete for his partner, Anthony, in the couple’s new condominium. He has invited their close-knit circle of friends to the event, all of whom have shown up. But while only some have arrived bearing gifts, all have brought along some baggage.

The main plot revolves around Ben (Tyler Hollinger) a free spirit who has decided to run off with his friend Kate (Synge Maher) despite having dated Jenny (Kate Grande) for the last year and a half. Meanwhile, Otis (Carsey Walker Jr.) uses the occasion to nurse his own love jones for Kate as well as a hankering for marijuana. Kate has invited her boss, Max (Brandon Potter), to set her up with single friend Beth (Stephanie Lovell), though he really also harbors a secret crush on his employee. Due to a misunderstanding on Max’s part, he thought that this dress-up event required a costume, and has arrived in full bunny rabbit regalia.

As Anthony devolves into a one-track play that might as well be called Everybody Loves Kate, director Megan Demarest does her best to distract with the usual door-slamming and eavesdropping that befits such works of farce. Unfortunately, Jason Bolen’s set consists solely of the guest bedroom, so instead of one door opening right when another closes, characters have to enter and exit the same bedroom door. The pacing is currently not fluid enough to keep the show running at the appropriate level. There are too many stops and starts, and Anthony’s rhythms are far too choppy.

Aside from Jenny and Max, all of these characters are supposed to be best friends since college. However, Pontius’ determination to have various characters explain aspects of their shared history and personality that other would have already known makes them feel like they know each other far less than they should. Occasionally, it even forces the characters to appear dumbed-down. The skilled Hollinger makes for a charismatic ladies' man, but not even he can sell Ben’s forgetting his engagement to Jenny. How could something like that completely slip one’s mind?

Pontius also fails to mine the characters’ history with one another. If they know secrets about one another, the occasion of Anthony’s party would be an ideal time to unleash them, but this opportunity for drama is lost. Is there a reason, for instance, that Beth hasn’t dated in three years? Or for Otis’ sudden crush on Kate? Or why Ben and Kate were never an official couple? Saying that everyone’s long friendship made Jenny feel excluded lacks a true payoff.

Perhaps the most bothersome aspect of Anthony is the tonal shift between its two acts. Just when one thinks Anthony will remain an off-stage device, the character emerges. Glaszek does an impressive job in the second act, balancing an extended monologue with continued costume and prop bits, but it forces Pontius’ action to come to a halt when it should continue rising to a logical climax. He literally forces the majority of his characters to stand still for the better part of the act. And it is hard to grasp why Anthony is so upset. Did he have a bad day? Is he apprehensive about aging? Does he harbor a secret of his own? Or is he really just irked by the various characters running into the guest bedroom? That reason doesn’t seem weighty enough for the tirade that ensues.

Only some of Demarest’s actors are able to hold their own. Russell is always a hoot as the anal party host. He should have had more to do; Charlie is merely a caricature. If he had been less reactive, he could have been a more bodied character. Lovell is terrific. Her sense of timing and delivery remain spot-on, even when Beth’s scenes begin to feel a tad repetitive. Grande shows a lot of promise, though Pontius doesn’t seem to have much respect for the put-upon character. I wasn’t even sure who to root for in the Ben-Jenny-Kate triangle. Jenny seems too good for both of them. So, in fact, does Max. Hopefully Anthony will opt to go out of town for his next birthday.

Night, Brother

The Love of Brothers plays host to a slew of harrowing subjects in its depiction of complicated fraternity: AIDS, abuse, incest. But perhaps the most jarring thing about this important show is just how many people seem to be missing out on it. Brothers, directed by Andreas Robertz and written by Mario Golden, plays the downstairs theatre of the Theater for the New City, a venue known for championing challenging original works. In that respect, this two-character piece is well-suited for TNC. So why were there only four people at the performance I attended?

I imagine one major reason is the show’s dark subject matter. Rogelio (Mauricio Leyton) and Sergio (Golden) are brothers bonded by the obstacles which they have overcome. Both brothers are gay and share an apartment in San Francisco, but they were born in Mexico City to privileged parents who have since passed away. All was not well, however. Sergio, an aspiring writer, suffered abuse as a child.

Rogelio, meanwhile, suffers both emotionally and physically. Not only has he achieved greater success as an artist (he is a well-received painter), but he also feels guilt for not having prevented his younger brother’s abuse. More immediately, though, is Rogelio’s health. He has AIDS and his body is breaking down as a result of cryptococcal meningitis. He wants to make amends to Sergio for failing to protect him in their youth before he dies.

And so Rogelio announces to Sergio that the end is near. He vows to both stop painting and stop taking his medication, thereby opting to begin the end of his life. This is a devastating declaration, and Leyton delivers it with the appropriate amount of surrender, lacking in self-pity or despair. Golden’s viewpoint is that Rogelio is making an important decision, rather than merely giving up.

Sergio’s reaction is likely to polarize audience members, though. He goes to great lengths in his desperate attempt to convince his brother to choose life. As Brothers continues, Rogelio and Sergio use both art and conversation as a means to excavate the demons of their shared childhood – demons that both pull them together and threaten to tear them apart. To Golden’s credit, Sergio’s choices seem firmly rooted in character, keeping his plot from feeling merely sensational.

This is not unfamiliar terrain. While the motivating factors are different, Marsha Norman’s Pulitzer-winning ’night, Mother addresses similar themes. Golden’s play does not quite hit the same grace notes. Brothers is a more protracted play. Some of the dialogue makes scenes feel both redundant and padded. However, Robertz compensates for what the play lacks in poetry with a staging that packs plenty of power.

Both actors deliver fierce, committed performances. Leyton’s work is one of carefully measured dignity and gravitas, while Golden’s work is more effusive; he's a little boy lost. As the characters retreat increasingly from society into each other, the play requires both actors to bare their hearts and souls, which they do to impressive effect. I imagine by show’s end, the two are exhausted. There is a third, nonhuman character to the show. Yanko Bakulic's set is effective as well. The brothers' nicely decorated apartment ultimately serves as a prison for the two of them, hermetically sealing the two of them from the rest of the world.

Robertz’ production is bold and, yes, geared for adult audiences. It isn’t a show for everybody. But four seats filled in the audience? These Brothers deserve more love than that.

Jefferson Migraine

Robert Lyons’ wacky Red-Haired Thomas, currently in production at the Ohio Theatre, is a dark comedy, the script for which specifies that the production should indicate at every opportunity that it occurs in a “dream scape.” Its main character, the superstitious Cliff (Peter Sprague), plays cards for a living and is in the midst of a bad losing streak. Abby (Nicole Raphael), his whip-smart and precocious 12 year-old daughter, tries to root her dad in reality but he keeps slipping away into crises of his own invention. Red-Haired Thomas offers plenty of amusing plot threads, with varying success, and it’s tough keeping up with them all; some will undoubtedly resonate with New Yorkers. In one, Abby is believed by her school to live less than 1.5 miles away, so she only receives a half-fare Metrocard. Cliff tries to instill “principles” in his daughter about fighting for a full-fare card, not just for herself but for all the other unfortunate boys and girls who live 1.49 miles away from their schools. In the midst of their conversation Abby realizes that she and her family live in an illegal sublet. Cliff dismisses her naïveté and his own hypocrisy with one of the script's sharp comic lines: “When you’re a little older I’ll explain New York real estate. Okay?” Later, Cliff, trying to collect quarters for Abby’s bus ride, gets into several heated arguments with Ishtikar (Danny Beiruti), the hardworking owner of the local newspaper shop, who refuses to make change at Cliff’s request.

Cliff also squabbles with Ishtikar over a decorated twenty-dollar bill that Cliff found on the street in a moment symbolically important to him. Inadvertently, he hands the bill over to Ishtikar, who refuses to return it when he discovers its gravity. Ishtikar, an immigrant, wants what the American Cliff has, whatever that entails, and this mildly curious bank note soon takes on tremendous imaginary significance.

And then there’s Thomas Jefferson, or his ghost, who, battling chronic headaches, observes everything and emerges throughout the play to instill principles of his own into the characters and the audience. Here, we find that the play may also be a multi-layered allegory, suddenly laden with symbolism, taking on the relationship of the United States with the Muslim world, America’s economic decline and its exploitation of other cultures. Cliff’s wife, Marissa (Danielle Skraastad) is an executive who tries to persuade corporations to invest in the region that includes Iftikharstan, reducing her pitch to a corporate jingle and a cheesy PowerPoint presentation. No wonder Jefferson has migraines.

Cliff, according to Marissa, has become a bore. Passionless, he’s lost his game, his swagger, his zest for life. He needs to become that American cowboy again, a fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants, shoot-from-the-hip winner. Deep down, though, Cliff also knows he needs to regain his principles. Cliff, in a way, is America, gambling with his future, suddenly under-confident, grasping, having uncharacteristically fallen on hard times. He’s physically exhausted, spiritually diminished, angry and seeking his moral center.

It turns out that both Cliff and Ishtikar are, at least symbolically, sons of Jefferson, and, yes, brothers. Ishtikar is dismayed that the world, and particularly America, know or care nothing of his country, Iftikharstan, currently being overrun by radical Muslim invaders, similar to the Taliban. Ishtikar is trying to live the American dream, saving money so that his wife and daughter immigrate to the United States. Cliff and Ishtikar represent former and present freedom fighters, persecuted resisters of tyranny. Jefferson alludes to the fact that some American Revolutionary War soldiers committed atrocities in the pursuit of freedom. Later Ishtikar mentions that he has committed similar deeds, of necessity.

I’m not entirely sure that all of the actors are on board with the absurdity and multi-faceted nature of the premise; they should adopt more of the script’s silliness into their roles. Though technically proficient, Mr. Sprague never truly inhabits the swaggering but insecure Cliff (is that name symbolic?), teetering on the brink of financial and emotional destruction.

Yet, Alan Benditt as Thomas Jefferson is terrific, with a natural understanding of his role. Jefferson doesn’t come out smelling like a rose, however; he shows flashes of racism (calling the Irish immigrants of his own time “micks”) and seethes contempt for Hamilton. It's a treat to hear Benditt humanize this mighty mythic icon, lacing his defense of the Bill of Rights and his principles with comedic jabs at his old foe, Hamilton. Oliver Butler’s direction is solid, utilizing the abundantly spacious theater in imaginative ways.

Red-Haired Thomas is a frequently pleasant but sometimes slight topical romp through the mind of Mr. Lyons. You may alternate, like I did, between thinking you understand it all and thinking it’s all a clever red herring. In the end, though, you can’t help but think that you have been uniquely entertained.

Nightmare Scenarios

Two men in grim, adjacent cells talk to each other through prison walls. They have been incarcerated for years and are repeatedly tortured for information—or rather, initially for information, but now pointlessly, as a distraction to their tormentors. The men in this Kafkaesque nightmare are named Valdez and Wallace. Wallace calls Valdez “Mr. Valdez,” but Valdez is more casual and uses “Wallace.” To pass the time, they speculate on what they don’t know—The Unseen of the title. Dramatist Craig Wright’s Kafkaesque situation invites some comparison with Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot, whose characters also wait in uncertainty and near despair for some resolution to their fate. The Unseen is bleak but not depressing, and it feels especially timely and universal in Lisa Denman's taut, riveting production. The men might be in Abu Ghraib, or Guantánamo, or any number of hellholes around the world. Their names, too, suggest a breadth of places the action might be occurring. "Valdez" calls to mind a banana republic; "Wallace" might be American or British, of which neither nationality has escaped accusations of torture in the struggles with Iraq and the IRA, respectively; and their guard, Smeija, has a distinctly Slavic name that summons up the brutality in the Balkans in the 1990s.

To pass the time, Wallace and Valdez exchange words in shorthand about their torture: “Trips to the sink, making knots … twice, the whole drooling gang…” Wright leaves it to the listener to surmise the specifics of the horrors they endure. The men play an old game that starts “I went to the ocean and took…,” and they list various objects whose names must be in alphabetical order. They speculate on whether the prison layout is irregular or not. “We don’t know the structures or rules,” says a worried Valdez. “We don’t know the grand design.” (His point is skillfully demonstrated by Sarah Brown in her asymmetrical set.)

Wallace moves objects on the floor of his cell—saucers and a piece of chalk and other objects—in a pattern that only he understands. Suddenly he announces that they must escape that day, that all the signs point to its being their only chance. But a visit from the hulking, black-masked thug Smeija, nicknamed “Smash,” reveals that Wallace’s sanity hangs on a thin thread.

Smash is not only a guard but one of their torturers, and Wright indulges in pitch-black humor as Smash (played with frustration and intensity by Thomas Ward) complains that he’s been too nice to them and is being punished with double duty on his birthday. Wallace tries to butter him up—“We’re here for you”—but it doesn’t work. “All you people think about are yourselves,” fumes their anguished inquisitor. “No one with a heart is safe around you people.”

Steven Pounders as Wallace captures his character's suspicion and confidence, with a streak of arrogance; he’s not sure that Valdez isn’t a spy. Valdez (Stan Denman) has opposite qualities: he is more upbeat and hopeful, certain that someone is in the adjoining cell and aching to make contact. He’s open enough to admit that his captors don’t trust him because they think he lies—even though his admission jeopardizes Wallace’s trust in him.

As time passes, Valdez exhibits his own delusions with a theory of a vast array of tunnels under the earth with the entry points in graveyards that is just as chilling as the moment that Wallace accidentally learns that his hope of escape is built on an illusion.

Both actors, superb in their roles, seem to have done their own makeup just as superbly. They look like victims of brutal beatings, with scars, welts and bruises disfiguring their bodies; costumer Carl Booker’s torn and shredding clothing matches their skill.

Although the physical action is limited, Wright’s dialogue takes up the slack with unexpected lyricism, from the story of a button that Valdez’s mother has taught him, to Smash’s gruesome descriptions of what he has done to a prisoner. And his ending suggests, hopefully, that somehow humanity can never be extinguished, that an unseen spark survives even in the most inhumane circumstances. The play may be short, but it packs a wallop.

Poet to Poet

“This is a world of books gone flat./ This is a Jew in a newspaper hat” wrote Elizabeth Bishop in 1950. Based on her visits to Ezra Pound during his institutionalization in a mental hospital, Visits to St. Elizabeth’s provided inspiration to contemporary writer Hayley Heaton, whose new play The Man in the Newspaper Hat serves as the inaugural production of theater company ManyTracks. The Man in the Newspaper Hat imagines the exchanges between the two great poets that served as the inspiration for Bishop’s poem. Found unfit to stand trial on charges of treason for a series of pro-Axis radio broadcasts he’d completed in Italy during World War II, Pound spent fifteen years at St. Elizabeth’s (dubbed “The House of Bedlam” in Bishop’s poem) in Washington D.C. During her tenure as poetry consultant for the Library of Congress (a position akin to today's Poet Laureate), Bishop visited Pound on a number of occasions and penned Visits to St. Elizabeth’s in response. What might the celebrated poets have talked about? In Heaton’s dramatic realization, they discuss Shakespeare, how various objects (cologne, a watch, an artichoke) are and are not like poems, and Pound’s culpability.

Meredith Neal’s thoughtful costume design dresses Pound in loose clothing, with a shirt that he undoes to appear at his most crazy and, ironically, free. In contrast, Bishop wears dress suits and tailored pants. It’s a nice reflection of their respective styles of writing; Pound privileged musical rhythms over strict metered phrasing, while Bishop compulsively edited her constrained verse. For the script to achieve its heights of dramatic power, we need the actors to move beyond the poets' smart surfaces to reveal traces of the brilliance that marks their work: the discipline girding Pound’s wild aesthetic and the fervor underscoring Bishop’s rigidity.

Under the light direction of ManyTracks founder Katrin Hilbe, the play never reaches its intended heights. Angus Hepburn's Pound rails against the state of the world, alternately playful and enraged, while Anne Fizzard’s Bishop functions mostly as an expository device with which to explore Pound’s flamboyant eccentricities, not as a complex character in her own right. As a result, what could have been a fraught interrogation of artistic and political ideologies between two of the most influential literary minds of the last century fails to fully develop.

Heaton doesn’t sugarcoat her material; expository voiceovers at the opening of the play contain grossly anti-Semitic excerpts from Pound’s broadcasts. Yet Hepburn picks up on the poet's warmth (Pound was a fiercely generous advocate of his peers' artistry) and resists reducing the character to ether inflammatory zealot or lovable lunatic. That's in keeping with the poem on which the play is based, which attributes a number of idiosyncratic adjectives to its complicated subject.

For her part, Fizzard’s Bishop is a patient, sensible woman who does her best to tolerate the senior poets’ cantankerousness. It’s plausible that Bishop, who eschewed confessional poetry, came across in person as reserved if blandly kind, but it makes a dull play. A more dynamic take would not be hard to imagine; like Pound, Bishop was not only a formidable poet but a fascinating person. Following her tenure with the Library of Congress, she would take a two-week trip to Brazil and stay fifteen years. Such surprising, determined behavior is wholly absent from the Bishop of the play, who equivocates in front of the elder, controversial poet without ever indicating her own quiet intensity. The result is scenework that feels at best static and at worst lopsided.

Production notes stress that the The Man in the Newspaper Hat is a dramatic imagination of real-life events rather than a historic account. That’s rendered most clear by Elisha Schaefer’s set design, which intertwines the real and the surreal to effect both the imagined world of the production and the uncertain psychic space of a mental hospital that sets both characters on edge.

For all of their dissimilarities, the historic figures of Pound and Bishop share more than great prominence in the American poetic landscape. Both writers would live in multiple foreign countries (she primarily in the Americas; he in Europe) and in unconventional romantic relationships (she with a woman; he with two). Yet unlike Bishop’s patent insistence on personal privacy, Pound lived loud and publicly, literally broadcasting his beliefs. With greater directorial awareness of dramatic tension, that disparity could have informed the play in ways that extend beyond Pound's pontifications and Bishop's reluctant criticism of him. As it stands, the richest suggestion of what transpired between the poets is Bishop's poem on which the play is based. Fizzard's recitation of it at the close of the play is the production's most revelatory moment.

This Figaro/Figaro Hits a Few Flat Notes

When the name Figaro is invoked, it usually conjures images of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart’s magnificent opera The Marriage of Figaro, with its plush sets, sumptuous costumes, and powerful voices raised in song. The (re:) Directions Theatre Company’s production of Eric Overmyer’s Figaro/Figaro keeps the costumes, the names, and a dash of Mozart's music, but there is little else to recommend it to the discriminating theater-goer's eye. Billed as “the New York premiere of Eric Overmeyer’s adaptation of Beaumarchais’ The Marriage of Figaro and Odon von Horvath’s Figaro Gets a Divorce,” this more-than-a-mouthful is about as exciting as it sounds. When presenting adaptations of two different but connected plays as a single evening’s entertainment, a word of advice: make the second one shorter than the first. This can make the night more bearable. In the case of this production, there is not much else that could make it so. The actors did the best job they could on their shaky, very unsolid-seeming set, designed by Jack Blacketer. For the most part youthful and full of enthusiasm, they just could not overcome the inadequacies of Overmeyer's clunky, humorless script and Erin Smiley's stolid, unimaginative direction. The blocking was elementary and mechanical, with actors moving through their paces as if they had been told where to go, having no apparent objective other than that they had to keep moving. The set was symmetrically designed, but not in a good way; rather, it smacked of a lack of inspiration on the part of the designer, or a lack of resources on the part of the company. If it was indeed lack of resources, which is certainly believable in today’s economic climate, then the set was simply too ambitious, and could have used more of a minimalist touch. As it was, it featured four flimsy, evenly spaced arches that looked like they would topple over at the slightest touch, and a cut-out of majestic mountains in the background that did little or nothing to add to the ambience of the show, as well as a set of squeaky steps leading from the mainstage to a narrow upper level. There did not appear to be any rhyme or reason for where characters made entrances and exits, and having a split-level set seemed a sad waste when the upper level could not be worked into the show in a meaningful way, with the exception of a somewhat interesting tableau in the second half of the show.

Some of the performances were quite good, given the limitations imposed on the actors. Ralph Petrarca as the Count Almaviva was particularly interesting, having to rise above the shallow, womanizing stereotype of the first half of the play to become somewhat sympathetic in the second. Likewise, Gillian Wiggin as Figaro’s wife Susanna practically carried the first half of the show on her capable shoulders; unfortunately, as the play continued, she too succumbed to the onerousness of the direction (or lack of) and to the troublesome script. The rest of the company, while enthusiastic, for the most part just seemed to be making the best of a poor situation, happy to keep their heads above water when they could.

If there was any redeeming value to this production, it was in the costume design by David Withrow. The costumes were bright and colorful in the first act, giving way to more muted tones in the darker second act. They were well suited to both the actors and the characters, and were a welcome breath of fresh air in an otherwise stale production.

(re:) Directions means well. Unfamiliar with their earlier work, I hope this production is atypical and not an indication of the possibilities they may deliver in future works.

The Unreal World

Don’t be discouraged if you don’t fully understand The Nerve Tank’s A Gathering. Even its director, Melanie S. Armer, didn’t understand Chance D. Muehleck’s text when she first read it: “Because I couldn’t make sense of this piece, I put it aside.” Many of us react similarly, sometimes in a knee-jerk fashion, to dense experimental texts, but we shouldn’t; they are often outstanding, thought-provoking pieces, and Mr. Muehleck’s A Gathering is among them. Forget about time, space and plot; they don’t exist — at least as we know them – in A Gathering, which is billed as a “metaphysical thriller,” and has been significantly expanded from an earlier 10-minute version. Not much can be said with absolute certainty, but it is safe to say that Bantam, Fuller and Alaska, the play’s characters (or “personas,” as Mr. Muehleck calls them) are anxiety-riddled, disembodied entities stuck, at least for the time being, with each other, recalling the characters in Jean-Paul Sartre’s No Exit.

We first meet these personas in what may be the remnants of a house, largely destroyed by some unseen force which they fear may return. Together, they may be/have been involved in some petty criminal enterprise, but it’s unclear, as is whether Fuller may have committed a murder before the play begins. In A Gathering gender and ages are blurred. Bantam, a man over 50, is played by a woman less than 40 years of age. Alaska, a 16-year old female persona, who may or may not have died as an infant, is played by a man in his 30s.

When we meet them, Alaska is trying to recall the contents of the house’s rooms. Her success in this endeavor appears to be a matter crucial to the continued existence of these personas. The three personalities desperately attempt to reconstruct, from memory, the contents of the room, the house, their former reality. They are caught somewhere between time and space, disrupted by an unseen force, searching for some kind of salvation.

The text, relying on its audience to form a gestalt from the mosaic it presents, is not looking to be understood like a traditional narrative. The personas interact and separate, again and again, sometimes subjecting each other to supernatural abuse and ultimately spinning off, as whatever “reality” had been holding them together disintegrates, into tormented fountains of individual language.

At 3,600 square feet, The Brooklyn Lyceum may well be the most cavernous Off-Off Broadway venue in New York City. A former municipal bathhouse, the structure is a century old with an interior ideal for sound designer Stephan Moore’s far off echoes, water sounds and assorted rumblings. Its concrete, brick and twisted metal core offers the characters space to perform some very physical gyrations as expressions of distress. Brian Barefoot as Fuller is particularly athletic and nimble. He jogs up one staircase, plunges down another, and slides across the floor, all the while hiding from the unseen threat and confronting Alaska, whom he mistrusts but to whom he is also attracted.

Because these curious entities appear to retain human characteristics such as hunger and libido, the confusion builds. Are they people? Ghosts perhaps? Are they in something like hell? In the end, you stop wondering and try to focus on the language of the personas, individually and as they interact with each other, and even with the audience.

A Gathering is a bold, exciting work that pushes and frequently explodes the boundaries of conventional theater. It won’t be for everyone, but if you enjoy intrepid, brash new work, you’ll find this production to be greater than the sum of its parts.

The Wonderfulness of Helplessness

A woman is buried to her waist in a pile of dirt. A bright blue painted sky stretches behind her and the sun constantly beats down upon her. She is awoken by piped in buzzing sounds. Though stuck in the mud and controlled by unseen forces, she seems quite okay with her situation and proceeds to go about her day to day routine. Reaching into a tote bag, she pulls out an unusually long toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste. Much time is spent attempting to read the writing etched into the handle of the toothbrush but to not much avail. The woman, Winnie, forgets what she has deciphered once she has deciphered it. Samuel Beckett’s Happy Days makes no attempt to explain why Winnie is buried the way she is. It is this lack of explanation, prevalent throughout his work, which makes Beckett a challenging figure and why his plays are tricky to produce. People want explanations, but like life itself, Beckett offers none. The play is often looked at as a comment on the human condition: a true expression of the absurd. We have no idea why we are here, might as well ramble on about it, might as well accept the circumstances as they are (even if that means sinking into a pile of earth). And yet, although the play comments on the human condition, Winnie’s experience is so far removed from what a typical person would experience that it is difficult to relate to her. Furthermore, Beckett’s stream of consciousness style occasionally goes in and out of one’s ears, with occasional phrases burrowing deep into the brain but with the majority leaking back out again.

Here would be where quality directorial choices and a strong performer would come into play. The goal is to make all the words stick, to engage the audience through the magic of theater. Intentional Theater’s production is almost completely able to make the play engaging and relatable. The show makes use of Beckett's production notebook from a 1979 performance in London. Winnie's mound is the same but the props are a real standout. They are surrealistic, elongated forms. Winnie’s mirror is about 2 inches wide yet has at least a foot-long handle. Her sun shade is a not very wide, crocheted parasol, a visual reminder of its uselessness against the constant sun. The deformed props highlight the futility of her condition. She can't read the toothbrush; she can barely use it to brush her teeth.

One occasionally feels sympathy for Winnie, as she tells stories from the past, as she calls out desperately to Willie, her husband, who lives in a hole behind the mound of earth. All that is seen of Willie, for the most part, is the back of his head and his papier mache boater hat. Asta Hansen brings a vulnerability to the role of Winnie that is quite appropriate, but occasionally the actor breaks character. There was a very audible line prompter hidden under the mound at the reviewed performance, and, suddenly, Winnie’s pauses were simply an actor forgetting her lines rather than an artistic choice.

Beckett is bleak. And yet, for that, each of his plays has some element of physical comedy, perhaps because comedy finds its base in sadness. Winnie digging through her props is one element of this. So is Willie's toying with his hankerchief and boater. Unlike Winnie, Willie is free to move about, and his flopping and climbing lighten the proceedings considerably. An accurate depiction of the frustrations and struggles of life, Happy Days is a must-see for anyone who has ever questioned their existence and then paused to smile about it.

On a Mountain, Gazing Upwards

There’s no lack of ambition in This Beautiful City, the latest work of documentary theater by The Civilians. Narrating the farcical downfall of evangelical preacher Ted Haggard and its impact on the Colorado Springs community, the work features thirteen musical numbers, a cast of six actors playing more than fifteen characters, and as many individual story arcs. The work certainly offers a rich palette of viewpoints, but by the time it reaches the frantic worship scenes of its second act, exhaustion sets in. This Beautiful City is based on a series of interviews conducted by writers Steven Cosson and Jim Lewis, along with five of its cast members, in the Colorado Springs area. And despite being punctuated by energetic musical numbers, these true stories are mostly presented as monologues that place the audience in the role of the interviewer. The characters—ranging from evangelical pastors and liberal activists to a teenage girl, a transsexual woman, a local mother and the son of Ted Haggard—frequently make this relationship explicit. “Did you have trouble finding here?” one character asks. “Is there a particular slant you’d like to put?” another says, gazing at the audience.

The setup recalls other successful works of journalism-based theater (Culture Project’s Iraq-based monologue play, In Conflict, recently took a similar approach) and juxtaposes nicely with the show’s musical theater elements. On several occasions, two characters present contrasting monologues while sitting on their respective sides of the stage, thus creating a stylized variation of a political debate.

Because the show’s creators directly quote real-life individuals, This Beautiful City is notably ambiguous in its satirical moments—and in its moral message. Excerpts from Ted Haggard’s actual emails and the use of terms like "strategic prayer" generate laughs, but the work never slips into outward mockery. If anything, it appears to be too concerned with presenting each and every side of a community built on idealistic extremes. The lineup of character introductions feels endless at points, and despite the strong performances, makes it difficult for the audience to feel genuine attachment to any particular character.

If its script could benefit from a series of edits, the show’s visuals are nothing short of flawless. The backdrop of the stage is a small town viewed from above, in which clusters of rectangular rooftops are contrasted by small patches of green. Throughout the show, these roofs serve as canvases for projected images and bright neon lights. As we hear a cast member read an email from Haggard, for example, we simultaneously see photographs of him, slyly grinning, on these rectangles. As the scene progresses, the photos are replaced by white, lowercase words on blue screens. Recalling words from his letters, they display words like “God” and “trust.” A large, unmarked area above the town is also carefully utilized. At points, it depicts looming rain clouds; during others, it shows a range of snow-capped Colorado mountains. From the looks of it, set designer Neil Patel (who also crafted [title of show]), lighting designer David Weiner and projection designer Jason Thompson played well together.

The six actors, each of whom takes on multiple characters throughout the production, are talented enough to not let the visual spectacle dictate their performances. Their notable vocal skills not only allow them to achieve crisp, ringing harmonies in the show’s musical numbers, but lend themselves to intense, terrifying prayer scenes.

Stephen Plunkett, who channels the straight-laced magnetism of a guitar-toting youth minister and later the quiet disbelief of Haggard’s son Marcus, is a notable standout along with Emily Ackerman, who creates some of the show’s most gut-wrenching moments as both a transgendered woman and a local church member with a self-destructive past. Brad Heberlee makes an equally impressive transition from playing an associate pastor at New Life megachurch to portraying a gay rights activist. Watching their focused performances, one becomes particularly aware of the rambling feel of the script; had the writers featured a smaller cast of characters and slipped into fewer detours with park rangers and prayer groups, this alluring work could have delivered a more focused punch.

Deathbed Confessions

Frank McGuinness's new play about two gay men who founded an Irish theater company is rooted in fact: His models are Irish actor Micheál MacLiammóir and his partner, the director Hilton Edwards, who started Dublin’s Gate Theatre in 1928 and lived together openly in a country where their relationship was considered criminal. Gates of Gold feels like a tribute to the two men from the openly gay playwright, but it’s a strange one. The characters are a group of dysfunctional eccentrics who indulge in emotional and verbal abuse, often confusingly. The theater is given scant attention in favor of a domestic drama that tries to rival much better plays about thorny love-hate relationships, such as Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?

Indeed, McGuinness has changed the names, which suggests that he has taken artistic license either to exaggerate or subdue the personality of MacLiammóir (who played Iago in Orson Welles’s film of Othello and followed it with a noted memoir).

The play opens with an interview: Conrad, the partner of Gabriel, a dying, middle-aged actor, warns a new nurse, Alma (Kathleen McNenny), that the patient will be difficult—he has driven away numerous nurses. Gabriel (Martin Rayner), afflicted with bowel cancer and a heart aneurysm, may die of either, but he is dying painfully. Pumped full of morphine, Gabriel is waspish and vain; he puts on makeup that includes lipstick and powder. “He is not a fool,” Conrad warns Alma, “but he is a liar.”

Alma takes the job anyway. When she tries to learn about him, Gabriel feeds her stories of growing up in Salamanca, the illegitimate son of a Catholic priest and an Irish woman studying abroad. Within moments he has reconstituted the tale: his mother was an acrobat with a traveling circus in Buenos Aires when she met his father, an Argentine rancher, on whose farm he was raised. This sort of whimsicality is amusing for a bit, but the flood of blarney soon becomes irritating, and director Kent Paul's production never makes a case for why these characters are important.

Gabriel bickers with the unflappable Conrad (a ramrod-straight Charles Shaw Robinson, nattily dressed by Nanzi Adzima) and accuses him of infidelity with Gabriel’s handsome, troubled nephew, Ryan (Seth Numrich). “Why should he consent to sleep with you?” he muses to Conrad, voicing his suspicions about Ryan. “Is he into necrophilia?” Rayner doesn’t flinch from the nastiness in the character, and skillfully creates a monstre sacré. (He also possesses a voice just as plummy as that of MacLiammóir, who can be heard as the narrator of the bawdy 1963 Oscar-winner, Tom Jones.)

As Gabriel comes to terms with death and his family, Ryan and his mother, Kassie (Diane Ciesla), visit. Gabriel’s sister is herself a tale-spinner who claims to have been a world-class poker player known in Las Vegas as Sylvia. She shares the Argentina chimera, but also makes up her own superstitions: “That’s the kind of us as a family,” she tells Alma. “Always inventive. Always different.” This relentless flood of turbid reminiscences makes the truth hard to grasp, however, and when a crucial piece of the family history is uncovered it beggars belief. For his part, Conrad denies he has ever betrayed Gabriel, although the truth looks a good deal more complicated when he and Ryan kiss.

For added kicks, Gabriel tosses digs at Kathleen McNenny’s anguished, bottled-up Alma, who labors under the guilt her parents placed on her after her twin brother was killed in a car accident and she survived.

McGuinness’s point may be that people forced to live a lie eventually can’t distinguish the truth. Their lives turn rancid. “It is sometimes best to be rid of people,” Gabriel tells Alma. “You can never been too ruthless.” But the perversity of Gabriel’s behavior diminishes one’s sympathy for him. “I have never done anything but lie to you,” he tells Robinson's long-suffering Conrad in one of their vaguely sadomasochistic games. “You believed me.” An audience will have quickly learned not to.

Puppets without Masters

When the curtain rises in the Czechoslovak-American Marionette Theatre’s production of The Historye of Queen Esther, King Ahasverus and of the Haughty Haman, four magnificently tall and colorful puppets dominate the stage. The puppets, like their human actor counterparts, are large-scale representations of the play’s main characters, and throughout the show echo the stage action like extended shadows. Unfortunately, these puppets are the most exciting aspect of the show, an awkward and lackluster take on an incredibly dated piece of 18th-century folk theater. A hit on the traveling marionette show circuit in the 1700s, The Historye of Queen Esther is based on the Bible’s Book of Esther. In the biblical telling, King Ahasverus of Persia holds a contest to name a new queen after his wife, Vashti, refuses an order to display her beauty for the King’s guests. The winner of this contest is Esther, a gorgeous young Persian woman who happens to be of Jewish descent, a fact she hides from the king, as advised by her stepfather Mordechai. Sitting near the palace gate one day, Mordechai overhears two royal attendants plot to kill the King. He reports their treachery, and they are executed. Mordechai’s respect for the King, however, does not extend to his prime minister, the haughty Haman. When Mordechai refuses to bow before him, Haman vows to kill him and obliterate his people, the Jews. Fortunately, the King learns of Mordechai’s honorable deed and vows to reward him, foiling Haman’s efforts. This leads Esther to reveal her true heritage, and the King amends Haman’s decree against the Jews, allowing them to defend themselves against persecution. He also orders Haman’s execution.

Incorporating stock comical characters, goofy word play, and distractingly loud instrumental accompaniment, the Czech Marionette Theatre’s take on this story is only slightly more chipper, retaining much of the content and structure of the Biblical version. Though the play ends on a happy note, with comeuppances to its villains, it isn’t really a show for kids, as it’s promoted to be. In addition to the on-stage hangings and Jew-hating, some of the verbal jokes involve advanced vocabulary that kids won’t understand, and punning that will make adults cringe. This is a shame, as children are likely the only ones to get much out of such a farce.

With children in mind, the play attempts to demonstrate a moral involving the danger of haughtiness, but it’s clear that the bigger issue is bigotry. The overwrought attempt to harvest a moral is just one problem. Whereas the moralizing is an oversimplification, the dialogue is a complication of a simple story. Theresa Linniham’s performance as Kasparkek (the Punch of the Czech version of Punch and Judy) is a welcome relief from the plodding tone. Though clumsy wordplay sometimes overshadows her skills at accents and clowning, she uses every opportunity to showcase her talents as a vaudevillian. Unfortunately, some of the other actors do not share her fluidness and eagerness to entertain, which further weighs the play down.

Though the Czechoslovak-American Marionette Theatre is known for its post-modern approach to puppetry, which involves the obvious presence of the puppet master, they do not use this style to their benefit here, and the actors are upstaged by marvelously clever-looking marionettes. Created by Jakub Krejci, Michelle Beshaw and Emily Wilson, the cast of puppets is widely varied and incorporates odd instruments to delightful, surprising effect. Some have chalkboards or violins for chests, plungers for legs, hammers for arms, dazzling beads for a bosom—all of which relate to the personalities of the characters in witty ways. It’s a pleasure to see a new puppet enter the spotlight, but, sadly, this satisfaction wears off once the puppet begins to speak.

Perhaps The Historye of Queen Esther is doomed by its dreary source material to be a heavy-handed attempt at dealing with the complicated historical attitude toward Jews, but one can’t help but wish that the Czech Marionette Theatre group applied the innovation that produced its puppets to the live performance. Whereas the plunger and hammer limbs of the marionettes move with grace, the human actors are stiff and dull. If a carpenter like Geppetto could work his magic on this show, maybe the wood and the flesh would work together in greater harmony, and the material wouldn’t seem so ancient.

The Old New Wave

The idea occurs to me, while sitting in Richard Foreman’s jam-packed Ontological-Hysteric Theater (OHT), that he invites his viewers to experience the feeling that we are temporarily visiting from another planet. Not that we are mere Earthlings viewing a bunch of aliens before us, but instead we are given the alien’s-eye view of what the human experience might be like, without any known symbols, narrative language, or familiar archetypes of character. It might all be quite specific, but it seems deliciously up for interpretation, or maybe even post-interpretation, since whatever remainders are left can be absorbed organically, without any sense of linear story at all. And yet, the human experience often is the story, of course, always as informed by one’s own personal experiences. In the case of Astronome: A Night at the Opera, now playing through April 5th, Foreman collaborates with composer John Zorn, whose noise-metal score only furthers this experience. Zorn, a fixture in the downtown NYC music scene since the mid-1970s, creates his music from his experience in a variety of genres, including jazz, rock, classical, and klezmer. With pre-recorded tracks of loud, hardcore music with a guttural kind of gibberish language (including many bodily function-type sounds), the accompaniment sounds exactly right supplementing Foreman’s work. It seems to naturally follow the same process of breaking down into smaller parts, recreating, and attempting to express those things that cannot be named, operating almost as its own interior monologue. In this practice, both non-traditionalists merge raucously here. And despite having earplugs given out with the programs (unnecessary in my case), the moments in between musical tracks did lend an even greater intensity to the silences.

If you are an OHT veteran, you will probably appreciate this new juxtaposition of sounds, along with a few of the more familiar voice-from-above-overs provided by the writer/director himself. But for those new to Foreman, you must experience his particular artistic vision, participate in the brilliant collaborative process being offered, and possibly test your own (innate or learned?) needs for a linear narrative. Or better yet, simply approach with an open mind.

For your viewing pleasure, you are rewarded with a black, red, and green multi-level set design and a layered light scheme, inhabited by a kind of giant totem embedded on one side, attended by six semi-veiled players: Deborah Wallace, Morgan von Prelle Pecelli, Fulya Peker, Karl Allen, Eric Magnus, and Benjamin Forster. Decked out in black nose pieces, fezzes, and a kind of peasant-punk garb, they could emanate from any cultural origin or era, past, present or future. On the other side of the stage, a green-faced rock ’n rolla, played viscerally by Jamie Peterson, is separated into his own Plexiglas-protected chamber, complete with glory hole. This is a departure from the usual clear set piece separating the stage from the audience, and it’s interesting conceptually while also making the theater space feel more open. And maybe also more vulnerable. With lighting designed by Foreman and engineered by Miranda Hardy, the full house lights have never seemed quite so bright as they shine unexpectedly, or when a captivating green spotlight beckons.

The movements of the ensemble are carefully choreographed as they move through various configurations and behaviors, occasionally stopping to pose, according to some operating system of their own, sometimes robotically or otherwise involuntarily. The skilled performers often enact a kind of voraciousness, from filling up the hungry orifices of the overseeing face in the wall, but also sexually, toward a variety of inanimate objects or each other, especially when a strawberry headpiece is donned by one, and then devoured by another. The gold-chained ogre rages, while dummies and snake-like creatures with shrunken heads are alternatively abused and revered. From above, another figure resembling the Hanged Man tarot card is suspended upside-down, further suggesting ritualistic or magic themes.

The set is strewn with interrupted sequences of random Hebrew and English letters, a bejeweled Torah-shaped wooden panel is carried in and out, a blackboard is repeatedly erased, unintelligible signs and symbols are dropped from above, as the characters stomp on blank-paged books. Even the brief spoken lines express the inadequacy or futility of the written word, and maybe of all language itself, likely due to its intractable human component. One of the few spoken lines in the piece demonstrates this, garnering laughs: “Hiiii. I believe every thing that comes out of a human being’s mouth.”

All of the elements work tightly together, perhaps like the gears inside the grandfather clock we see paraded around, even though it’s stuck at straight-up 12:00. All the while a large pendulum swings almost threateningly back and forth, as a multitude of props and tools are utilized, including giant salt and pepper shakers, lacy hot pink bras, scissors large and small, bullhorns, and ping-pong paddles. Meghan Buchanan, the props engineer and costumer, must have been quite a busy lady indeed.

Moving in Mysterious Ways

Plays about religion come along about as often as Amish taxi drivers, and they are usually about the historical conflicts of church leaders—Becket, A Man for All Seasons, Saint Joan and Luther. But Evan Smith’s thoughtful and richly detailed new play forsakes miters and chasubles for the casual housedresses, blouses and slacks of two middle-aged Catholic sisters and the eager fundamentalist who challenges them. The “disputation” in the sisters’ Savannah parlor (nicely designed by John Lee Beatty, with Kenneth Posner’s spotlights on religious objects in the décor) is about the nitty-gritty of Christianity: doctrine, faith, obedience, Biblical interpretation, and the afterlife. The last is symbolized by an ominous phone message (we never learn for which sister) that test results are ready. That message goes unanswered repeatedly, yet it serves as a deft metaphor—death and uncertainty, after all, hover over everyone.

Does all this sound heavy and depressing? It isn’t. Smith has invested it with plenty of comedy, and director Walter Bobbie has cast two supremely accomplished actresses to play the sisters. Dana Ivey is Mary, the stern—or, by her own admission, “mean”—one. Confident in her Catholic beliefs, she slams the door in the face of Kellie Overbey’s earnest young missionary, Melissa, without a qualm. To Melissa’s “God loves you!” she yells, “I know,” and adds, muttering, “It’s you he hates.”

As Margaret, the sister everyone likes, Marylouise Burke is a fine foil. Burke is a natural eccentric and a great clown—she can give comedic weight to a sigh—but her Margaret is more than that. When she invites Melissa in and listens to the pitch—Catholics are going to hell—Margaret is suddenly confused about doctrine and her own beliefs. Her dilemma provides the catalyst of the conflict.

When Mary learns that her sister has been listening to Melissa, she arranges for Melissa to return on a night that the women’s priest, Father Murphy (Reed Birney), is there for dinner. But the ambush of Melissa doesn’t turn out as expected.

The situation is rife with comedy and unexpectedly juicy, although it ranges over Aramaic vs. Greek translation, footnotes and Biblical scholarship. Character is exposed in the smallest details. Ivey’s glances at Father Murphy show that she’s one of those middle-aged single women who adores her priest. When Father Murphy hands Melissa and Margaret different Bibles to compare quotations and tells them to look up a passage in Timothy, he senses that Margaret needs an assist: “It’s in the back.” Birney’s Murphy knows his flock and their flaws, and he possesses the concern of a true shepherd.

The comic zingers gradually give way to something deeper, and the performers make you feel the stakes rise. In a late speech Mary reveals the pain underneath her prickliness and the causes for her resentment at the world. Under Ivey’s masterly delivery, Mary’s hurt is deeply moving.

It’s a measure of Smith’s skill at presenting the debate that even when Father Murphy cracks the whip over the two sisters and forces their adherence to doctrine, it seems absolutely understandable. The sisters have been practicing religion without thinking, as most people do. It’s not that they can’t think, but they have been lax about examining what they profess. Mary, for instance, views the church as a social club and Christians as the people who dress nicely. She gripes that a nun has brought smelly homeless people into the church and seated them behind her. When she tells Margaret that she was gently upbraided by the nun for failing to shake their hands during the passing of the peace, she says, “I just smiled and said the meanest thing I could think of—‘I forgive you.’ That shut her up.”

Ultimately, Smith comes down on the side of the sisters, laggard and unsure as they may be. The fundamentalists may be decent people, he suggests, and they have some sound talking points, but they make assertions that are too wild to countenance. Still, this isn’t a Catholic play. For Christians of any denomination, The Savannah Disputation serves as a smart parable about the necessity of examining one’s faith.

Father Figure

The title of Elyzabeth Gregory Wilder’s play Fresh Kills doesn’t refer to any recent murders, but that doesn’t mean her characters aren’t up to some very bad things. Director Isaac Byrne navigates a performance of palpable tension to show the dark places to which some people are capable of going, but while he is adroit at bringing the what of the play to life, Wilder’s failure to provide the why makes for a frustrating, though not unrewarding, evening. Occasionally, a show starts off strong but loses steam. That is not the case here, however. Fresh essentially begins in medias res; it starts in the middle of the action. The play finds its characters at a dramatically compelling crossroads, but fails to explain how they got there or where they are headed. It’s a great middle, but still in search of a beginning and end, the dramatic equivalent of an Oreo cookie with only the marshmallow stuffing.

Fresh Kills, playing at 59E59 Theatres, actually refers to the name of the Staten Island town where blue collar family man Eddie (Robert Funaro) lives with his wife, Marie (Therese Plummer). As far as we can tell, Marie is a compassionate, understanding wife, still in love with her husband, whose main concerns seem to be raising their child, keeping their house up and paying their bills.

Which is why it comes as a surprise to find Eddie picking up Arnold (Todd Flaherty), an underage male hustler, in his pick-up truck after finding him in a gay chat room. Is Eddie acting out on latent homosexual urges? Is he depraved? Merely curious? Wilder never clues the audience in as to what has drawn Eddie to seek out Arnold in the first place, or for how long he has been trolling the websites.

Nor does she adequately explain what lands Arnold in Eddie’s car. It is difficult to make heads or tails of what transpires between Eddie and Arnold, because their encounters never add up to a full affair. Then, before you know it, Arnold has ingratiated himself into Eddie’s family. Without seeing or knowing too much about Arnold’s home life, it is impossible to take him at his word, and so we never know if he is looking for a substitute family to replace his own disappointing one, merely pursuing his own sexual impulses, or if he is a deranged sociopath.

Flaherty fits the role physically – the dodgy look in his eyes suggests danger and instability – but the actor has a habit of garbling many of his lines and not always making the dialogue his own. Funaro, on the other hand, overcomes Wilder’s script deficits to peel back the layers of a confused, flawed man. While Wilder never provides sufficient context to explain how Eddie lands himself in such a threatening situation, Funaro does a brilliant job of showing Eddie’s agony with his current plight. It is a performance that is completely open and honest. Plummer, meanwhile, matches Funaro scene for scene in a resourceful performance that constantly stretches beyond mere “beleaguered wife” stereotypes.

Jared Culverhouse rounds out the ensemble in the pivotal role of Nick, caught in the middle as both Eddie’s best friend and Marie’s brother. Nick is a sea of volcanic rage, protective of Eddie yet loyal to Marie. His work further energizes the whole play (very well-paced by Byrne), and his versatility – dancing between comic relief and vitriolic intensity – textures what otherwise could have been a one-note work.

Byrne is to be complemented for staging such an arresting work in an intimate space (the audience sits on either side of the truck in the center of the theater), and Jake Platt’s lighting design goes a long way toward establishing the mood. Nonetheless, Wilder’s structure leaves many questions unanswered in Fresh. Wilder wants to explore what happens to people who pursue interests that run far afoul of what is considered acceptable by mainstream society, yet there remains far more territory to excavate.

Fine Young Cannibal

The case of Jeffrey Dahmer horrified the nation in the early 1990s. Dahmer had raped and tortured 17 young male victims, dismembering and even cannibalizing some. Fiction writer Joyce Carol Oates, who has never shied away from sick violence, published a New Yorker short story, “Zombie,” based largely on Dahmer. Later, she expanded the narrative into a novella, told from the first-person point of view of “Quentin P.,” the semi-fictional killer. Of apparent and macabre interest to Ms. Oates was the fact that Dahmer had drilled holes through the skulls of several of his drugged victims and poured acid into their brains, attempting to create docile, sexual zombies. Bill Connington has adapted the novella to the stage. Mr. Connington’s psychopathic serial killer delivers a monologue with a mostly flat affect, much like a lobotomized patient or his ideal zombie. This may be useful to capture Quentin P.’s sheer incomprehensibility (ironically, extant footage of Dahmer interviews suggest that he had a personality, however dulled), but it does not always make for riveting theater.

Connington’s Quentin P. is a more palatable, sanitized version of Oates’ character and the play suffers for it. His adaptation doesn’t fully let us into the killer’s mind. It doesn’t give us a sense of why Quentin P., an intelligent and fairly educated man, could truly believe, for example, that inserting an ice pick through the eyes and into the brains of his victims would make them love him. It doesn’t help us fathom his capacity for absolute, unadulterated evil.

Whereas Oates’ novella slowly builds the action to the point for which the novel is named, Connington’s Quentin P. simply blurts much of it out at the beginning, rendering later shocks anticlimactic. And, where Oates’ character is a clear racist and drips with contempt for everyone from his father to his probation officer (in the book and play he has been convicted of a sexual offense, as had the real Dahmer), Mr. Connington’s Quentin P. is subdued, flattened. He’s not even all that scary and certainly not as frightening as Mr. Connington wants him to be. It’s almost as if he, himself, has been lobotomized.

Despite his clear familiarity with the part (Zombie debuted at last year’s New York International Fringe Festival), Mr. Connington seems squeamish in his role. In his attempt to strip a persona from Quentin P. and emulate a stereotypical psychopath, a la Anthony Perkins in Psycho, Mr. Connington enunciates words cautiously and self-consciously, sometimes inadvertently channeling Mrs. Doubtfire instead of Norman Bates. Mr. Connington permits himself the occasional outburst—for example, when Quentin P. grades his first four zombie-making attempts as “Fs”— but, rather than terrifying us these explosions make us grateful for the change of pace.

Props are sparse. There’s a small table, an overhead lamp, two chairs, and a chess set in front of which sits a mannequin. The mannequin is used to demonstrate Quentin P.’s bizarre love (and hatred) for his victims, his ice pick technique, and his sexual torture, but it wears thin after a while. I kept thinking how interesting it would have been to introduce, however briefly, Quentin’s father, or his probation officer, or some of the other minor characters from the novella, rather than having Quentin P. describe them in his monotonous voice. Thomas Caruso’s direction and Deidre Broderick’s sound design are fine, though perhaps a bit too prone to gimmickry, such as employing rumbles of thunder when Quentin P. utters something particularly creepy. Joel Silver’s lighting design is inventive and makes great use of shadows.

Mr. Connington tries hard; he really does. He should be commended for even approaching this difficult subject. Yet, he never truly immerses himself in the psychopathy of Quentin P., preferring to stand at its edges, testing the waters. Perhaps it’s an impossible task. Perhaps Oates has already found, in fiction, the best vehicle for this tale’s delivery.

Resistance is Futile

In his book The Blind Watchmaker, evolutionary biologist (and outspoken atheist) Richard Dawkins describes a theoretical process through which our “primeval soup” of proteins and DNA originally thrived by growing on a scaffolding of inorganic crystals. This notion that the first beginnings of organic life on Earth were nurtured into being by synthetic elements seems fitting when one thinks of how humans have reintegrated the synthetic into their lives – glass eyes, fake limbs, implanted boobs. Is this recent compulsion to make ourselves perfect through plastic really just nostalgia for those good ole’ developmental days? Regardless of motivations, the inevitable consequences of this shotgun marriage between biology and technology are at the heart of Universal Robots, Mac Rogers’ adventurous new take on Karel Capek’s 1921 play R.U.R.. The original play’s title stands for Rossum’s Universal Robots and it is often footnoted in science fiction anthologies for introducing the concept of robots and, in fact, the word “robot” to the world. Rogers’ version is equal parts historical drama and parable, expertly presenting the moral and political gray areas a servant class of robots would necessitate.

Czech playwright Capek is actually the main character of Universal Robots and the narrative follows the activist author (rendered with adequate intensity by David Ian Lee) through the peaks and valleys of Rogers’ alternate 20th century. When a gender-confused scientist named Rossum (Nancy Sirianni) invents robots in the early twenties, President Masaryk (David Lamberton) appoints Capek, his sister Jo, and their circle of coffee shop bohemians as the Czech ethical committee on the treatment and usage of robots. At first these humanoid robots are given a strict set of parameters to differentiate themselves from humans, such as alienating speech patterns and a rule preventing use of the first person pronoun “I.” However, as technology improves and there are calls for weaponized robots to suppress Nazi Germany, Rossum’s Universal Robots find themselves on the brink of consciousness and revolution.

If Rogers’ script has any weakness, it is the conceit that the audience is watching a troupe of acting robots “tell the story” of how they came to rule the world. Occasionally the cast chants religiously or breaks character to offer a bit of commentary – sometimes this works and sometimes it doesn’t. The compelling narrative about Capek could easily stand on its own, but the frequent breaks and asides of this “storytelling” framework tend to subvert it.

Yet the story told deserves much praise. Rogers’ script could have been the clunky old “robots are people too” tirade seen so often in films like A. I. Artificial Intelligence or I, Robot, but instead it greets audiences with genuine characters like Capek’s sorrowful sister Jo (played faultlessly by Jennifer Gordan Thomas) and complex philosophical quandaries about whether pedophiles should be given child-shaped robots. Sure, one could parse out allusions to contemporary debates about war and genetics, but the true beauty here is the authenticity of Rogers’ re-imagined twentieth century – where robot-producing Czechoslovakia emerges as a world power. Supported by Rosemary Andress’ sharp, but restrained staging, Rogers’ robots believably progress from faceless mannequins to PTSD afflicted soldiers.

Universal Robots’ cast features many highly competent actors, but two performances stood out as truly outstanding. Ridley Parson infuses much humanity into his fearless portrayal of Baruch, a Jewish American advisor to FDR, who offers U.S. support for Czech President Masaryk to send combat-programmed robots into Nazi Germany. Baruch’s mission is a murky business and Parson doesn’t shy away from the moral implications. After soldiers, women and children in Germany have been efficiently “contained” by the robot army, it is clear that Baruch and Masaryk have exchanged one genocide for another.

Likewise, Jason Howard displays incredible nuance in robot Radius’ evolution from a crude automaton to a self-actualized, but deranged individual. In a tender scene when Jo asks Radius if he is able to embrace her, he affirms and Howard’s deadpan response is hilarious: “Do you wish to enact this scenario?” Through Howard’s performance, these charming encounters make the traumatized android’s eventual descent into madness all the more tragic. The robots’ affecting journey into sentience (and the parallel journey of those who manufactured them) is at once funny, stirring and horrifying.

While Rogers’s sci-fi fable concludes that Dawkins’ ever-evolving romance between the organic and the inorganic might end in heartbreak, he also suggests that inhuman robots could eventually learn to be humane. This leaves us with a final allegory, I suppose, about how all the things we make – like art, war, and love – have our best traits programmed into them.

Or how when you come right down to it… sigh… robots are people too.

Sword Play

With Soul Samurai, Vampire Cowboys have, once again, proven themselves masters of action-adventure theater. Having conquered sci-fi with last year’s hit, Fight Girl Battle World, writer-director team Qui Nguyen and Robert Ross Parker have joined forces with the Ma-Yi Theater Company to move into more badass territory: a bloody story of vengeance with elements of Blaxploitation, hip hop, and The Warriors mixed in. Set in an apocalyptic New York City overrun by rival gangs (worse news: some of them even have special powers!), Samurai tells the story of Dewdrop (Maureen Sebastian), a librarian-turned-warrior on a mission to take revenge on the gang that killed her lover (Bonnie Sherman). Ever the go-getter, Dewdrop takes on the gang – and anyone else that gets in her way – with just a sword, an attitude (she’s got some serious trash talk skills), and an adorable sidekick, Cert (Paco Tolson).

Even with such a dark premise, the show is infused with geeky glee. From the impromptu breakdancing to the witty battle banter and pop culture references, Samurai is ultimately a very playful presentation. Complementing the violent saga, there are puppets with Avenue Q-style attitude and other multimedia touches, such as a great stop-motion film about a forbidden love between a ninja and a samurai starring, naturally, pieces of fruit.

All playing multiple roles, the five-person ensemble nails the goofy-yet-hip style of Nguyen’s script. If high-flying faceoffs weren’t enough, Samurai’s got solid characters to back it up. For every perfect swordfight or sexy quip, there’s a hilarious moment of vulnerability (Cert’s wannabe bad-boy act never gets old) or self-awareness (a villain commenting on her own “kinkalicious” costume). Particularly successful are the scene-stealing Tolson and Jon Hoche, who adds hilarious swagger to his roles (his pimp-like gang leader and one-eyed preacher shouldn’t be missed). The show seems just as much fun for the actors as the audience. You can’t even fault them when they break into an accidental chuckle.

As with other Vampire Cowboys fare, Samurai is action-packed with fight scenes galore. While it sometimes seems on the verge of being too much, Nguyen’s choreography varies the moves and weapons enough (a knife to the eye was a personal favorite of mine) to keep things fresh. A cleverly-rendered car chase is also impressive. Whether hanging onto the hood of a swerving vehicle or slicing an enemy in two, Sebastian slides through her physically demanding performance with finesse.

The design team perfectly visualizes the show’s themes. The set, a gritty, graffiti-covered NYC, also serves as a prop. A storefront grate, for example, is not just a particularly inspired choice for a curtain, but is also used for surprise attacks and getaways. The costumes, too, match each character well: Cert, the comic relief, dons a hilariously tacky T-shirt and overalls, while our sexy heroine wears biker-chick battlegear that shows some skin.

There are some weak spots in the show. A villain’s origin story, for example, ends on a vague, confusing note. However, small inconsistencies do not ruin what is overall an extremely exciting piece of theater. See Samurai before it’s too late.

Only the Lonely

It takes no small measure of self-confidence, and perhaps even recklessness, to present one's own plays along with one from an acknowledged master—deliberately or not, inevitable comparisons are invited. The short plays of Alex Dinelaris, though often strong, just don’t measure up to William Saroyan’s brilliant one-act, Hello Out There, which Mr. Dinelaris has chosen to close the bill of American Rapture: The Lonely Soul of A Crowded Nation. Mr. Dinelaris also directs the plays, all six of which share the themes of isolation and despair. Spin Cycle, the opening piece, is about a psychopath (Brad Fryman) who finds a famous talk-show personality (Donovan Patton) drunk on a late-night commuter train and decides to murder him. The first scene is riveting as the television personality struggles to overcome his own stupor and come to grips with his situation. He offers his assailant money. But it’s not money the attacker wants; it’s the perverted fame that society bestows upon people who commit infamous and heinous acts: “One day they don’t exist, and the next day, everybody knows their name. I mean, even if it’s only for a week. An hour. A minute. They’ve been born.” This is fascinating stuff. Yet, Mr. Dinelaris either loses confidence or interest in his ability to explore this plot and the next two scenes devolve into typical episodes of The Shield and The Practice, replete with highly implausible legal proceedings and even an unhinged police officer, played with sadistic, convincing relish by William Laney.

The next play, Blind Date, is a cute and clever but slight comedy—a sketch, really—about two young people whose self-destructive alter egos follow them around on their first date and make them more nervous than they already are. Rain is a sparse, derivative melodrama, a la Ghost, about a woman (Jane Cortney) whose dead boyfriend (Donovan Patton) appears to her at what would have been their ten-year high school reunion.

Juggling Jacqueline and Forgiven are the most interesting offerings from Mr. Dinelaris. In Juggling Jacqueline, a grief-stricken young man visits his therapist in the hopes of getting over his mother’s death; in Forgiven a middle-aged prostitute, Molly (Jane Cortney) decides to visit a church and confess her sins for the first time in 18 years. Ms. Cortney, peppering Molly’s shame with defiance, turns in a strong performance in this monologue.

Saroyan’s 1941 one-act, Hello Out There has greater depth and richness than any of its predecessors on the bill. A good-hearted young drifter (Stewart Walker) sits in a rural Texas jail cell, falsely accused of raping a local woman. Lonely, he calls out in the darkness, and is answered by the jailhouse cook, Emily, a young, homely outcast. She informs the drifter that, after being knocked unconscious, he’s been moved from jail to jail because the woman’s husband and some of his friends are planning to lynch him. This fact sets up an almost unbearable tension as the drifter tries to convince the girl to find a way to get the jailhouse key.

Diánna Martin is stellar as the naïve, mistreated, and dreamy young girl, mesmerized by the drifter’s big city tales. The impact of the anxiety-provoking spare, dark set by Kathryn Veillette, foregrounding Mr. Walker and his jail cell, was regrettably diminished by the fact that the bars were easily wide enough for him to step through.

Though perhaps a bit overly fond of eighties pop soundtracks to set up his scenes, Mr. Dinelaris is a savvy director. Spin Cycle, for example, benefits from having a table on either side of the stage, one for interrogation and the other as part of a television studio. This keeps the action moving at a brisk pace. All of the plays demonstrate a similar economy and precision timing.

Despite strong performances by those mentioned and by Brad Fryman, American Rapture suffers from unevenness, a tendency toward sentimentality, and an unfortunate debt to well-worn movie and television plots.

For Love and Theater

Playwright Itamar Moses puts it quite nicely when he states that “a short play is like a single.” However, unlike a pop single, which can often become more popular than the longer album format, short plays tend to get relegated to the dust bin, pulled out for One-Act Festivals in the summertime, maybe, but otherwise, playwrights tend to become known only for their longer works. This is a shame as there many truly delightful short plays. Thankfully, the Flea Theater is producing five of Moses' short plays in an evening titled Love/Stories (or But You Will Get Used to It). The Flea's downstairs space works well for the structure of the show — each play has its own section on the wide stage. A “Reader” guides the audience through the transitions and through the final play itself. The plays are thematically linked: they are about love. But not only just about love but about the inner workings of theater and perhaps how difficult it is for one to find love while working in theater. In the first play, “Chemistry Read,” a playwright is forced to watch the actor who stole his girlfriend audition for the lead role in his play. In “Authorial Intent,” the longest of the five plays, we are taken through the breakup of couple, first in regular format, then in highly theatrical and literary technical terms, then finally as the actors playing the actors stripped of their characters. “Untitled Short Play” is all about the writer's stress in attempting to write a scene for a couple at a cafe.

The plays all have charm and the actors are all very engaging and energized, but occasionally the meta- nature of the plays gets to be a bit much. “Untitled Short Play” is the most static of the plays, given that no action in the traditional sense occurs—it is a play “hijacked by its opening stage direction.” However, John Russo is vibrant as the Reader, hopping around the Flea's wide stage obsessing over what could possibly happen in the scene that never happens. One would like it if the “play” were to actually begin, but then again, the Reader is quite compelling and his complaints understandable.

The strongest of the plays is “Szinhaz,” which is structured as a talk show, with an actress, Marie, interviewing a brooding Russian director. The director, Istvan, only speaks Russian, or at least something that sounds Russian. Felipe Bonilla pulls off the “Russian” language, be it actual Russian or not, very well. Marie's attempts to translate Chekhov's titles from Russian to English are quite hilarious as well: The Garbage Bird and There are Sisters and There are Three of Them. “Szinhaz” deals with the relationship between what is created in the theater and what actually then begins to occur in real life: the way in which actors playing lovers occasionally fall in love offstage as well, as they have become so wrapped up in the emotions created for the theater.

Love/Stories (or But You Will Get Used to It) makes for an enjoyable night of theater, particularly for anyone on the “inside” of theater and for anyone who has ever been enchanted by love.