Desk Love Gets Sensual

Hangman School for Girls is an exorcising first work of writer Lucy Gillespie, one which follows Hazel, a pariah through her years at a well-established boarding school. The story is packed into a quick tempo two hours, where imagination, psychological turns and creative staging conjure an intense sense of involvement with Hazel’s story and her bearings on reality. Leta Tremblay, director of Girls, calls it a story of “an outcast, the lowest of the low.” But as for its directing, it is in fact at the top: the synchronicity of exaggerated movements, the concentration of the actors, in particular Sarah Anne Masse and Laura Wiese, and the bold usage of space make this a robust piece. The five actresses begin by playing childish games of pretend, in which Chelsea, played by Masse, is the clear leader, symbolized by her standing on a chair and balancing a book on her head. The games they play are always sharply driven by the power relationships of the girls, and lines are crossed. The pretend seems awfully real: at some moments, the lights change to a menacing red, and the chants of the girls who taunt Hazel bring her once to tears of terror.

The hostility of Hazel’s school environs drives her deeper into her imagination and she only finds consolation in a desk, played by Nick Afka and a desk, literally. The desk is so fashioned that Afka sits on an extra posterior bench, and manipulates the drawer in front of him in a cartoonish fashion. At one point Hazel, played by Gilliespie, sits reading on the desk, while Afkas' hands connect to her shoulder, although he himself appears “turned off.” The symbiosis of man and object is one of many clever stagings in this piece. The subtext of Girls is also noteworthy; the power dynamics serve as a commentary on the law or authoritarian relationships, which is represented in mock trials.

Throughout the play the process of the girls' maturation is symbolized by their dialogue (spoken in English accents) and their costuming. They remove their red sweaters, open their blouses, exchange their flats for pumps, wear make-up and by the end reach sexual maturity. The desk is driven mad by the generations of blossoming bodies of girls who sit upon him. It is this endless cycle which makes the “uniqueness” of Hazel seductive enough to bother both of them. A relationship, however unconventional, ensues. In the end, it has profound consequences for desk as well as girl.

Manhattan Theater Source, where the show is playing, is a unique space with a façade of intricate wrought iron filigree painted fading red. Inside a stage greets one on the right, then one ascends to the black box of Vanguard Theater upon a tree house-like set of stairs with a multipurpose landing situated half-way up, hovering in the main room. The black box seats approximately 65 people, although the first row spectators will be uncomfortably close to the action. The set design of this production is simple: desks, faux- lockers and clocks, a chalkboard, and a map of England-- it serves its purpose well. The space creates a pleasurable, intimate setting, and intensifies the connection of the audience.

Because the story line is very unique, it may not satisfy those looking for a traditional ending-- or middle for that matter. As a piece of new writing, however, it is very psychologically engrossing and for its directing and staging Girls deserves some recognition. If nothing else, there is a shocking love scene with desk - perhaps that says it all.

Rewrites Wanted

There are lots of holes in Suzan-Lori Parks' The Book of Grace. One of them is the ominous open grave which one character digs in his backyard to deter another from rebelling. The other holes, unfortunately, are in the script, resulting in a production which is unsatisfying at its best. At its worst, it is downright dull. The play opens with a self-consciously poetic prologue introducing The Book of Grace's players: Vet (John Doman), an order-obsessed border guard; his battered wife, Grace (Elizabeth Marvel), who insists on seeing “evidence of good things” in her bleak and circumscribed life; and Buddy (Amari Cheatom), Vet's angry twenty-something son from an earlier marriage, who plans to give his abusive father three chances to redeem himself or he will take vengeance. A play about these three characters could have been explosive. Unfortunately, Parks never develops her characters beyond the cardboard archetypes of authoritarian father, self-deceived wife, and angry young man.

The Book of Grace takes it title from a collection of secret writings created by the title character to record all the good things that happen in the world around her. Determined to see the best in everything and blind to the flaws of her husband and stepson, Grace brings Vet and Buddy together again after a fifteen year estrangement. Hints of past sexual and physical abuse taint the father-son relationship as Vet dangles the possibility of a job and a promising future in front of his son.

The Book of Grace tries to be a metaphor for the dysfunctional attitudes which are at the core of contemporary American society. Its effectiveness is blunted, however, both by heavy-handed characterizations and by the uneven text. Parks seems to have discovered her characters as she wrote, taking up and discarding multiple threads without fully exploring them. With one dramatic and effective kiss, Buddy exposes his father's past sexual abuse. Soon after, however, this theme is forgotten and another shocking scene ensues. Grace and Buddy, who haven't seen each other since they were twenty and ten years old, inexplicably have sex within moments of their reunion. Later, Buddy develops an intense identification with home-grown terrorists such as Timothy McVeigh. Sure, there is some suggestion that Buddy had been “trouble” as a child, but other than a few broad hints here and there about the characters' pasts, no explanation is given for the characters' baffling and changeable behavior. All these flaws are compounded by a sudden and incomprehensible ending.

In a way, it is a shame that The Book of Grace is as much or more about Buddy as it is about the title character. While Buddy is never consistent enough to seem real, Marvel imbues Grace with a genuine sense of tragedy. In some ways, Grace is reminiscent of Mae in Maria Irene Fornes' 1983 play Mud. Small towns (and big cities) are full of Graces; good-hearted but cowed by husbands and brothers, they try to find some means of self-expression, be it via a night course or poorly written but earnest prose that they dream will become a bestseller. When Grace finally stands up for herself, the moment is electric.

Director James Macdonald is helped by solid performances from all three of his actors, who do the best that they can with the material they have been given. Macdonald comes up with some memorable bits of staging which capture the ambiguity and violence which lies beneath the surface of family relationships. At one point, Vet seems ready to greet his prodigal son with a hug but it swiftly turns into a pat-down. At another, Vet interprets one of Buddy's gestures as a victory “V” to celebrate the medal that Vet is about to receive. In fact, Buddy is indicating that his father has only one more strike to go before he will take revenge. Aside from a few moments, though, Grace generates surprisingly little tension.

Susan Hilferty's costumes are straightforward: Vet's impeccably creased uniform, Grace's pink waitress outfit, and Buddy's neutral jeans-and-undershirt ensemble each hint at the nature of their characters. Hilferty's only misstep is a red dress which Grace longs to have; although the dress is built up in earlier scenes, when it finally appears, it is too bland to reveal anything about Grace's interior life.

The scenic design by Eugene Lee is a metaphor for a crumbling American family. Detritus of other family dramas—a couch, a television set, an ironing board, and a kitchen sink—sit uncomfortably on a dirt floor. A encircling wooden path represents the outside world while upstage, a shovel and a pile of sandbags scattered with red sand lay beneath a huge highway billboard. The desolate landscape works both on a literal and a metaphorical level. With the addition of atmospheric lights by Jean Kalman and sound by Dan Moses Schreier (who provides a porn soundtrack which reads disturbingly and evocatively like sobbing), Grace is lovely both to see and to hear.

Unfortunately, a strong design and a few strong scenes are not enough to save The Book of Grace, a disappointing effort from a talented author.

Pregnant Pause

Many writers forget that in order to create a valid work of art in response to a controversial issue, be it the war, violence in the media, or the death penalty, a piece must integrate opinion into a narrative that both supports its thesis and entertains. Without a gripping story or intriguing, believable characters, all that is left is posturing. Girls in Trouble, the supremely entertaining work currently mounted at the Flea, demonstrates a keen understanding of all sides of the hot-fire topic of abortion. Playwright Jonathan Reynolds makes one smart choice after another in a charged work that never stoops down to mere demagoguery.

Reynolds understands that no matter where one might stand on the right-to-life debate, the underlying issue is one of respect: of feelings, of trust, of privacy, and that is what his work brings to life. As a result, it is one of the most engaging works I have ever experienced at the Flea.

Trouble, directed by Flea founder Jim Simpson, is a triptych of three unique vignettes that reveal the different mores of three time periods in the last fifty years. While this concept isn’t entirely new – HBO’s If These Walls Could Talk did very much the same thing nearly fifteen years ago – the work shows how little progress we have made as a society in tolerating each other’s differences and stepping outside our own solipsistic viewpoints.

Beyond that, Trouble also provides several meaty opportunities for its Bats, the astonishingly capable group of repertory players at the Flea. Andy Gershenzon captivates in the play’s first portion, as Hutch, a collegiate gool ol’ boy who races across state lines late one night with a friend, Teddy (Brett Aresco), to get his one-night stand, Barb (Betsy Lippitt) a crude illegal abortion. Hutch is trying to race Barb back post-procedure in time for her morning exam. Gershenzon is fully committed to playing his part as reprehensibly as Reynolds demands; there isn’t a false note in his portrayal of a character who wants to be unhindered in life with utter disregard for the damage he might leave in his wake. He is human, in many of the ugliest ways imaginable.

This sequence is familiar, particularly as Hutch and the gang finally meet Sandra (Akyiaa Wilson), the nurse who will help Barb, but Simpson’s genius lies in using the situation as a mirror. How much of ourselves do we recognize in Hutch, or even Barb? Would we behave in a similar fashion? How, in fifty years, has so little changed? Pay close attention to the subtle work of Aresco as well, who makes the malleable Teddy a perfectly realized example of tacit approval.

Trouble heats up in its second act in a great showdown between Amanda (Laurel Holland) and Cynthia (Eboni Booth). Set in modern times, Amanda is an NPR host with a gorgeous career, apartment (John McDermott did the set design) and daughter. However, she also has a problem: an unwanted pregnancy. Sunny is a pro-life advocate who bluffs her way into Amanda’s apartment to dissuade her from an imminent abortion. Reynolds has both Amanda and Sunny recite the expected rhetoric in defense of their respective sides, but in a way that informs the characters more than shouts to the audience. It is perhaps Reynolds’ greatest accomplishment that one can never truly infer his stance on this issue by play’s end.

Booth and Holland are incendiary. The irony is that the more the two women argue, the more similar they appear to be. While their battle royale is akin to a great tennis match, the two actresses are so in sync with one another, and Simpson helms the act so deftly that it plays more like virtuoso jazz piece. In essence, Reynolds uses Trouble as the sugar to help his medicine go down. Without shoving it down our throats, he makes his point clear. Regardless of one’s opinion, it is never right to turn a private matter into a public game that always requires a winner and a loser.

Booth is the evening’s MVP, appearing in all three sequences. She commands the stage for the first act closer, a daring spoken-word piece in which Sunny, a pregnant woman, laments her situation, the man who helped her get there, and the ramifications of her options. Booth nimbly moves around the dialogue and gets under the emotions. How she is able to play three so disparate women in the course of one show and not look exhausted is beyond me. I’ll let it remain her secret.

But it’s no secret that Reynolds and Simpson have created a must-see work. Trouble sheds light on a fight that shows no sign of stopping any time soon. It’s easy to be blinded when discussing a taboo subject. In an entertaining – no, riveting – way, this play reminds us that beneath the issues are real people. Regardless of their flaws, they cannot be forgotten.

State of Chaos

What if Michael Jackson had ruled an empire? What might he have done? Well, he might have spent a large chunk of the national treasury to stock magnificent zoos with exotic animals. Or, he might have hired a group of astrologers and alchemists rather than raise an army. He might have even secluded himself for weeks at a time while ignoring affairs of state. That’s just what Rudolf II did in Renaissance Bohemia and these actions and their consequences contributed to the devastation of the Thirty Years' War. You’ve heard of Edward II, Richard III, and Henrys IV, V and VI. Rudolf II? It turns out Rudolf II, who ruled Bohemia, Hungary, and Croatia from roughly 1572-1608, had quite an interesting story. And playwright Edward Einhorn has imagined and presented it in a manner that is nothing short of dazzling.

Rudolf’s reign was a chaotic one, and Mr. Einhorn sketches some of its basic facts, taking broad imaginative license in many cases. Despite some necessary omissions (the whole story of Rudolf II might take days), Mr. Einhorn gives us a fascinating man loaded with contradictions: formidable, yet highly insecure; unmarried and actively bisexual, yet also the Holy Roman Emperor; Catholic, yet spellbound and influenced by mediums who claim to communicate with spirits in puddles of water. Rudolf was also obsessed with his hated younger brother, Archduke Matthias, and, though he feared losing his crown to Matthias, he knowingly made many decisions which actually sped up that very process.

Director Henry Akona maximizes the generous space of the new and magnificent Renaissance Revival Bohemian National Hall on the Upper East Side. The space has spent the last 15 years under renovation by the Czech government. A royal bed, on and around which much of the action occurs, sits at the head of the hall. A bright red carpet runs down the length of the hall (the audience is seated, lengthwise, two rows deep) and every inch of its space is used at one time or other during the production.

Since he spends much of his time in bed, Rudolf (Timothy McCown Reynolds) is almost always dressed in a sleeping gown. Despite this, he exudes a kingly, if effeminate, demeanor that would make one think twice before crossing him. Mr. Reynolds’ acting is first-rate; he moves effortlessly from charming, to bewildered, to enraged. A small orchestra/chorus sits in the balcony and contributes conservatively, never overbearingly. The king’s headboard at one point features a replica of Guiseppe Arcimboldo’s portrait of Rudolf as Roman god of the seasons, a prize possession of an emperor noted for his patronage of the arts.

Mr. Einhorn is an accomplished playwright who confidently breathes life into a complex and paranoid ruler who was uniquely unqualified to rule. Yet, Mr. Einhorn also captures Rudolf’s eccentricity, humanity, contradictions and humor. The love scenes between Rudolf and his mistress Katerina (Yvonne Roen) are playful and sweet. Ms. Roen expertly plays the apprehensive and long-suffering mistress, loving Rudolf despite his numerous dalliances and his open long-term affair with his chamberlain, Philip Lang (Jack Schaub). Each actor in this production is greatly talented; there are no weak links. Standouts include Eric Oleson as Rumpf, Rudolf’s first and candid chamberlain, and the bearish Joe Gately as the great but haughty Danish astronomer, Tycho Brahe. Carla Gant’s costuming can only be described as majestic and Ian W. Hill’s lighting has a touch of the surreal.

It takes chutzpah and no small amount of self-confidence to pen a historical play such as this. Mr. Einhorn surely grasps the magnitude of the undertaking and turns the effort into an unmitigated success. You don’t need to be a scholar of the Austro-Hungarian empire to enjoy this play; all you need is the willingness to be entertained and enlightened.

Long Live the Revolution

Theater can be many things -- it can be an escapist evening of entertainment, it can speak about important social and political issues, it can raise serious and provocative questions, it can imbue people with a sense of hope. What is rare from a performance piece is that it be all of these things at the same time. Revolution!?, written and directed by Pavel Dobruský and Vít Horejš, is the epitome of the combination of all of these elements. It is at turns funny, poignant, relevant, and an all-around thrill to watch. The play is a loose collection of scenes that all present different historical instances of political revolution. This idea, though compelling on its own, might not prove a source for great dramatic literature. But when paired with the best of performance aesthetics and techniques, the recipe it engenders is for brilliant and meaningful theater.

The piece opens with humor; a funny rendering of the little man being continually put down by the bigger one. From here, the journey the play takes us on is a fascinating one. The ensemble traces important revolutionary moments -- from Prometheus to Spartacus to the Boston Tea Party and beyond -- through the use of various performance elements. There is almost no text (and of the text that there is, much is not in English), but the stories come across loud and clear. We see these instances come alive through the actors' bodies, through the use of puppets, through song, dance, juggling, stiltwalking, and the like.

The lack of dialogue reminds the viewer about universals. Play this piece in any country, regardless of its mother tongue, and the narratives have the potential to be understood. Nearly every nation has faced a revolutionary struggle, be it a success or a failure, and nearly every human has grappled with the struggle for freedom from some controlling force. Performance is also a universal; we are all capable of being entertained by the same things. No matter our homeland, we all share certain bonds. These bonds can be used to enact great change.

This play depicts the human facing the worst of situations and finding ways to stand up for him or herself. The humans we see before us on stage evoke one level of this experience and the use of generic wooden puppets emphasize another. They are faceless, identityless personas, yet their manipulation on stage makes them seem to be unique individuals. When they are tossed aside or vanquished, the pain is still visceral. Their presence suggests the multitude of unrecognized individuals who fight for good in the world regardless of the long-term consequences.

Despite powerful and disturbing moments, this play also evokes delight and brings a smile to a spectator's face. There are individual visual images that are entirely unforgettable: the floor strewn with bodies that must be revived; a young woman writhing around a desk avoiding questions about the Russian Revolution; the final vision of the performers standing in solidarity, shaking their keys, about to change their nation's history.

Revolution!? leaves an indelible impression on anyone who bears witness to it. It is powerful material rendered in a most enjoyable manner. It shows us how powerful the individual can be when she stands with others. Change can, and does, come if people perform.

It's My Party and I'll Cry If I Want To

The photo on the front of the program for the Transport Group’s revival of Mart Crowley’s The Boys in the Band is somewhat misleading. Seven of the cast members are shown literally bursting through the doors of a closet with broad smiles and giddy dispositions. Only one cast member, tucked ominously in the fetal position on the closet shelf above the rest, hints at the dark depths of this seminal gay drama. This production is both a laugh-filled and emotionally fraught showcase of a landmark piece of theater. According to their mission statement, the not-for-profit Transport Group Theatre Company (Normal, The Audience) is “dedicated to developing and producing works by American playwrights and composers that explore the American consciousness in the 20th and 21st centuries.” The Boys in the Band certainly fits the bill. First produced in 1968 one year before the Stonewall riots and the birth of the modern gay liberation movement, Mart Crowley’s dramedy about a birthday party gone horribly wrong was the first successful contemporary play that featured (mostly) uncloseted men. According to Playbill.com, it ran for 1,000 performances in its original Off-Broadway production. It was also made into a 1970 film by director William Friedkin (The Exorcist, Cruising, The French Connection) starring the original cast of unknowns.

The shadow of that film hangs heavy over the Transport Group artistic director Jack Cummings III’s new version. The celluloid Boys in the Band is practically de rigueur for queens of a certain age and virtually queens of all ages. Filled with bitchy bon mots, the script overflows with what I like to call “quotential” — delicious lines that can be quoted out of context and thrown into conversation for guaranteed laughs.

The plot is simple. Harold, the self-described “ugly, pock-marked Jew fairy,” is turning 32. His best frenemy, Michael, is throwing him a birthday party that brings together a motley crew of gay men in his stylish downtown apartment. The arrival of Michael’s former college roommate — a straight-laced, married man — starts the booze and insults flowing, culminating in what can only be called a harrowing group therapy session.

This new version has the novelty of being site-specific, and located in gay-centric Chelsea no less. The performance takes place in a penthouse studio apartment designed to time capsule perfection by Sandra Goldmark. The 99 audience members sit around the set like party wallflowers. (Note to the micro-bladdered: The show runs two hours without intermission and there is no re-entry since the “front door” of the apartment is also the entrance/exit for the actors.)

Critics and audiences alike have often commented on the supposed self-loathing of the characters, and this revival of Boys in the Band will not silence them. These are gay archetypes — the flamboyant queen, the bookish neurotic, the fresh-out-of-the-closet homosexual — and drama is after all filled with stock characters. What most theatergoers probably want to know most is whether the show holds up over 40 years later. The answer is yes — and no. The Boys in the Band is still a terrific text for scenery-chewing actors that generates a bundle of laughs and even a fear tears.

The mostly gay, mostly middle-aged audience at the Sunday matinee I attended most likely had previous knowledge of the show, but that in no way interfered with the enjoyment of the play in the here and now. Kevin Isola unleashed a closetful of emotions as the college roommate Alan who crashes the party, deftly weaving the character’s ambiguous sexuality into his portrayal. Graham Rowat as the straight-acting teacher Hank and John Wellmann as über-queen Emory were pitch-perfect. Special notice should also be given to Jonathan Hammond, who brilliantly navigates the tricky waters from hopeful sobriety to ugly drunkenness in the lead as Michael. His role is the most problematic and, in many ways, the most unsympathetic, but Hammond brings an empathy-stirring pathos to Michael that saves the show from maudlin sentimentalism.

Which brings us finally to the scene-stealing character of Harold. Jon Levenson looks the part, attacks the part, and has fabulous comic timing, but I felt like instead of making the role his own, he was simply mimicking the iconic performance of Leonard Frey from the original cast. Harold still gets most of the best lines and the biggest laughs, but the shadow of Frey looms over Levenson, as do the forever-on-celluloid characterizations of all the roles.

Seeing The Boys in the Band live on-stage, literally trapped at the party, one can’t help but feel the urge to flee as the tension rises and the laughs surrender to vitriol. And one can’t help but ask why the partygoers endure such personal attacks without either fighting back or simply leaving. As the shell-shocked audience filed out at the end of the show, I wasn’t the only one who voiced this common refrain: “I need a drink.”

History of Violence

Jesse Berger’s bloody adaptation of The Duchess of Malfi for his Red Bull Theater, which specializes in playwrights who toiled in Shakespeare’s shadow, is a respectable, if not completely satisfying, staging of Webster’s masterpiece about the perils of seeking normalcy and happiness in a state of moral and spiritual corruption. His production, drenched in gore and provided with dim lighting—and swaths of blackness—by designer Jason Lyons, seems to take its tone from Webster’s imagery of crawling things, like snakes, salamanders, leeches, and lice. Three siblings are at the core of the action. The vivacious Duchess, newly widowed, resides with two brothers, Duke Frederick (Gareth Saxe) and the Cardinal of Aragon (Patrick Page). Both caution the Duchess not to marry again, partly because they want control of her wealth, and perhaps in the dissolute Frederick’s case—he first appears with a bad case of bedhead and a hangover—because of something unhealthier. The Cardinal, however, is cut from the same cloth; he has a mistress, Julia (Heidi Armbruster), the loose wife of another courtier.

But Rouner’s Duchess has already fallen for Matthew Greer’s open, fresh-faced steward Antonio and intends to marry him. (Webster rather boldly dismisses their class differences.) She woos him in a subtly comic scene and weds him in a secret ceremony of pledged troths. Meanwhile, her brothers have assigned a hireling named Bosola (Matthew Rauch) to her household as a spy. As Webster’s plot swiftly advances, Bosola reports that the Duchess has had three children, but it takes longer to determine the father—until she betrays herself by trusting him too much.

Bosola, in fact, is arguably the real tragic hero, a man caught in the net of his own ambition. Once a scholar in Padua, according to Antonio’s friend Delio (Haynes Thigpen), Bosola has a grudge against Page’s smooth, wily Cardinal, for whom he did something underhanded that landed him in the galleys as a slave for two years. Still, his will to get ahead knows no bounds, so he hitches his wagon to the star of his betrayer, who passes him along to Ferdinand. As Antonio notes, Bosola “would be as lecherous, covetous, or proud/Bloody or envious, as any man/If he had means to be so.”

Bosola’s compromised nature suggests the dangers of a world where evil thrives and decent people fall easily into temptation. If Bosola initially seems a bit too like Iago, one discovers in the second half that he has a lot more gray area. Rauch finds the layers as the spy has misgivings about his work. By turns he’s witty, eager for advancement, and appalled.

Berger’s production goes for a minimalist look that’s alternately garish and grim. Beowulf Borritt’s sets underscore the nature of the state. In the first act everything from walls to chairs is covered or wrapped in what looks like a bright pink vinyl shower curtain. It’s ugly and cheap, yet there are flecks of gold design in it, and lighted a certain way, it can seem pleasant. When it’s pulled down late in Act I, a network of scaffolding is revealed, stark and dark, with courtiers dressed by Jared B. Leese in gray riot gear. (The pulling-down flourish has become a cliché, however: my companion pointed out that it was employed the last time he accompanied me to the theater.) An awkward element is the use of a central platform that actors have to jump from and hoist themselves onto throughout the play.

Some moments can seem ludicrous, but even the most bizarre make sense. Ferdinand confines the Duchess to a madhouse, where her dress has been shredded into that of a B-movie starlet in a low-budget horror film, appropriate for this potboiler. In a fever dream, she is beset by the lunatics, rises amid them, and sings a Rodgers & Hart song as they perform dances à la the June Taylor dancers. It’s outrageous, but it works. (And it's all in Webster, apart from the choice of song.)

Berger himself has pruned the jagged verse into a softer, more flowing text, spoken commandingly and usually clearly by a fine cast. Saxe is an effectively dislikable and unbalanced Ferdinand (though he might make more of the incest that’s inherent in the character), and Armbruster as Julia is marvelously seductive and willful in the small role; Carol Halstead also shines as Cariola, the Duchess’s loyal, bawdy, superstitious servant.

Rouner’s Duchess is problematic, though; somehow she never summons the sympathy one needs to feel. Her plan to marry Antonio against her brothers’ wishes indicates a cunning at odds with her tragic fall, for which more naïveté seems necessary. She’s also tall and imposing, which undercuts a sense of grandeur regained when she delivers her famous defiant line, “I am Duchess of Malfi still.”

But Berger’s untraditional staging, in spite of some lagging in the second half, gives full rein to the horrors of Webster’s morbid imagination. If your taste runs to stabbings, poisonings, stranglings, severed hands, and even lycanthropy, this is your cup of wormwood.

A Dish Best Served Cold

You have to give the American Globe Theatre a “G” for guts—for taking on Titus Andronicus, which, despite its popularity in its time, is now frequently dismissed as William Shakespeare’s weakest (and it’s certainly his most despised) play. Guts also happen to be a big part of the play—at least in the manner and speed with which they’re spilled. Titus Andronicus is Shakespeare’s bloodiest work and probably his earliest revenge tragedy. Students at the University of Liverpool have dubbed it the bard’s “Quentin Tarantino Play” because so many characters die, or are raped or tortured in barbaric, grotesque and improbable ways. The critic S. Clark Hulse estimates that an atrocity occurs every 97 lines. Much of the story, and its main focus, is far older than Shakespeare, so we can’t blame him for all the brutality. Much of the tragedy is derived from Ovid’s Metamorphoses, and its portrayal of the rape of Philomela.

The venerable literary critic Harold Bloom once famously opined that Titus Andronicus could only be played as a farce and vowed that he would only see it again if Mel Brooks directed. Too bad he’s missing this one because, for the most part, John Basil’s American Globe Theatre plays it straight and it goes quite well as a direct, albeit psychotic, drama. Mr. Basil follows the script where it leads and wisely leaves it to the audience to decide whether or not it’s parody.

Titus Andronicus elicits sniggers and eye rolls because the play’s militaristic Roman and Goth characters exact continuous revenge on one another, constantly upping the bloody ante, until the heinous acts turn blackly humorous. Eventually, warring factions greedily and unknowingly consume the cooked remains of family members in pies. Mr. Basil gives the humor its due (i.e., we’re allowed to laugh) but he refuses to let it get out of hand, keeping tight reins on the story and the gore.

Once again, the commanding American Globe Theatre staple Richard Fay steals the show as Titus Andronicus. Powerful, intimidating, convincing, Fay is a consummate Shakespearean actor. You can’t take your eyes off him, and the other actors orbit around him gracefully. Also notable in the 16-member cast are Jon Hoche as a fierce Lucius, Lamont Stephens as the inexplicably and irredeemably evil Aaron, and Nick Vordeman as the whiny, weak-willed and humorous emperor Saturninus.

Once again, the American Globe Theatre maximizes a small space and employs a flexible stage to great benefit. Two projection screens at the top of either side of the two-storey stage frame the action. When the action takes place in a forest, a black and white sketch of a forest scene might appear. It’s a very effective strategy where elaborate stage changes are not practical.

Unlike other productions, and in spite the photo that accompanies this review, the theatrical blood is used quite sparingly. This is a good thing when so many people die horrific deaths. Mr. Basil smartly removes our gaze from the machinations of the horrors and places our concentration on the fact that they do, indeed, occur; the actors dispatch most of the deeds with quick, choreographed and graceful strokes. We are left not with the horror of that graphicness but rather with the horror that one could do such things to another human being - and that one can spend time plotting endless, total revenge. The bard’s derided tale really has enormous significance for our fractured, vengeful age.

I recommend the play to anyone who is curious about this underperformed Shakespearean oddity. The mere existence of Shakespeare in today’s Times Square is remarkable and The American Globe Theatre is still the best theater bargain in the area.

Next-Door Haters

Clybourne Park , Bruce Norris's new drama, loosely based on the Lorraine Hansberry classic A Raisin in the Sun , is a searing and blisteringly funny look at race relations and the power of property. Enjoying its premiere at Playwrights Horizons, the play is presented by a talented cast of actors -- a few of whom (Christina Kirk, Frank Wood and Chrystal A. Dickenson) raise the bar exponentially on already-excellent writing. It is finely directed by Pam McKinnon.

Clybourne Park , (also the name of the all-white Chicago neighborhood depicted in Raisin , begins Act One in 1959, with neighbors up-in-arms over the sale (in the wake of a tragedy) of a home at 406 Clybourne Street to the community's first African-American family.

Russ and Bev (Kirk/Wood) play a traditional 1950's couple, who - while packing up the house with the help of their maid, Francine (Dickenson) - are confronted by angry neighbors (Jeremy Shamos/Annie Parisse) concerned about the effect of the sale upon local property values.

Kirk and Wood are outstanding in this simmer-to-boil act. Kirk infuses Bev with such energy that she wrings out every drop of the hostility-behind-the-gentility of a 50's-era woman, both in her condescending interactions with Francine, and in the way she summons the community priest (Brendan Griffin) to aid her preoccupied husband and comfort herself. As a deeply depressed father, Wood is achingly funny - and uses some of Norris's shorter lines like lethal tennis volleys.

Racial misconceptions and fears are dredged up as arguments by the intruding neighbors -- ranging from vapid concerns over ethnic food to obscene sociological observations ("So what I have to conclude is that the pasttime of skiing just doesn't appeal to the Negro community.")

The act is washed down with Bev's ostensibly well-meaning but nauseating platitudes thrown in for good measure ("Maybe we should learn what the other person eats...maybe that would be the solution, if someday we could sit down at one big table.")

A Raisin in the Sun was to become the first play written by an African-American woman to be produced on Broadway. It draws its inspiration from the Langston Hughes poem, Harlem, taking its title from the line, "What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun?" For The Youngers, the play's central family, home ownership - in spite of objections from Clybourne Park's Improvement Committee - is held up as a Holy Grail of sorts.

In Act Two of Clybourne Park , set in 2009, we find a young white couple (Parissse/Shamos) thumbing through a contract that would allow them to bulldoze their freshly-purchased house at 406 Clybourne Street to reconstruct it, plus an addition (of the upwardly-mobile variety). As their home would then dwarf other nearby homes, they face objections from the Historical Society of the rapidly gentrifying neighborhood, in the form of another couple (Dickinson and Damon Gupton).

The second act starts out civilly, but soon emerges into raw conflict and the artful but brutal use of (racially-inspired) jokes. The second act really belongs to Dickenson (as Lena), as she evolves from benign impatience to increasing frustration with not being heard, to finally showing her teeth. The space in the room that Lena claims once she explodes personifies all the underlying metaphors in question. Kirk also shines as the narcisstic lawyer for the young white couple, langorously sipping iced-coffee Weeds style, and delivering well-placed comic lines.

The racism in this act hurts, it's meant to, but it's also raw and funny. It touches close enough to the nerve to be both unsettling and hilarious. The intra-couple tension that is also present only adds to the building rancor.

The only disappointing thing about Act Two (once it gets revved up) is the tail end of it, which harkens back to events in the house, as it existed in 1959. This attempt to tie the two stories (1959 & 2009) together - joined already by virtue of place - feels manufactured and gratuitous.

The set, engineered by Damiel Ostling and rich in detail, undergoes a stunnning transformation in-between acts. The pale greens and rose purples that contrasted with well-chosen costumes like Bev's dress in Act One, become grafitti-stained walls with off-stage glimpses of overturned paint buckets in Act Two.

There is an acute sense that no easy resolution is possible for still-festering racial tensions over territory and community. ("You can't live in a principle. You live in a home." )

Still, an evening of smart writing and terrific acting where risks like these are taken makes every startling moment completely worth the price of admission. Hurry to Playwright's Horizons to catch Clybourne Park while you can.

American Nothing

It’s a truly American creation. Grab an inspiration here, a pulpy reference there, plug in a badly sung song, a dance or something resembling one, some sexy violence and lots of lights and screens (way more screens of course) – and you got a play. But don’t forget the most important thing – even if you’re actually trying to say something about the world make sure to bury it deep under layers of irreverent hollowness. It is Art after all. This is the cutting edge of American theater. And Radiohole is at its forefront. Whatever, Heaven Allows is a 90 minute multi-media art installation about Americana. It draws on Milton’s Paradise Lost, and on Douglass Sirk’s 1955 film All That Heaven Allows. The five performers (all interesting, but none attack the material with as much punch as Eric Dyer) lead the audience from one type of rush to the next, with nothing but the life of the performance itself at stake. This is a performance about performance, and its main contribution is in its exploration of performance. One might call that in itself a reflection of society, which of course it is, but this show’s meta-nature overpowers its statement. Just like America!

Here’s another American experience for you – mid-way through the show, just as I was losing interest in the extravagant action on the stage, an aging man sitting next to my friend began fondling himself, occasionally elbowing my friend in the process. I’m only relating this experience because my first thought was that perhaps it was part of the play. Anything could happen, it seemed. The lights had already come up on us spectators once or twice, and I wouldn’t have been surprised to find an actor or two join our side with the various colored globs of food coloring they had just splattered all over their faces. A gently masturbating man making spectators feel uncomfortable could easily be another odd moment that goes along with the collective beer chug, the mopping of the floor and other eclectic images.

Would it have meant something if it were part of the play? Again, no, but clearly the play has succeeded in opening the playing field of what might happen in the theater.

What the piece does not do as successfully is to explain the reason for its existence. It tries. The last quarter of the play takes on a stronger narrative quality, detailing the love affair between a mother and her gardener, and its disapproval by her children. We see images of classic domesticity, and watch the American dream trashed and belittled. While it is gratifying to see the troupe attempt some social commentary, it comes too late and so is lost in the sea of whimsicality that comprises the first three quarters of the play.

Nonetheless Whatever, Heaven Allows stays with you, making you wonder about the nature of art today, and what that says about the world we live in.

Dress Blues

ReEntry, Emily Ackerman and K.J. Sanchez’s enthralling work currently gracing Urban Stages, is as relevant as a show can get. The play, culled from real-life interviews with many Marines, examines the difficulties involved in realigning to life in the States after serving overseas in Afghanistan and Iraq, and it does so with no political judgment regarding the cause of such service. However, a show this well-honed would be a must-see at any time. Sanchez also directs ReEntry, following a successful run at Two River Theatre Company in Red Bank, New Jersey. Over the course of a year, she and Ackerman conducted interviews with war veterans and their families and shaped characters from these voices. This kind of testimony theater excels at being informative, even enlightening (i.e., Erik Jensen and Jessica Blank’s The Exonerated), but Sanchez’s adroit production goes one step further: it succeeds at finding the beating heart in this play’s narratives.

That’s precisely the key to ReEntry. Though these tales are hard-hitting (one voiceover recounts a father’s obsessive need to re-watch video news footage of an accident that took his son’s life), it finds just the right balance between dramatic entertainment and reportage. The stories are far too compelling to make us want to close our eyes or stop listening.

This is largely due in part to the show’s stellar quintet of actors who honor the servicemen and servicewoman sharing their stories. Joseph Harrell, acting as de facto narrator, plays the first character we meet. He’s a Marine Corps commanding officer who addresses us as though we are about to embark on a military detail of our own, lecturing on how in order to survive – and perhaps, take the lives of others – some mental re-wiring is required (if Harrell looks authentic, you’re onto something. In real life, he’s an erstwhile underwater Marine.) His performance is a beautiful embodiment of the dedication such a lifestyle demands.

Take, for example, the family of John (PJ Sosko) and Charlie (Bobby Moreno), both of whom saw combat overseas. Both find it immensely difficult to reset their mental clocks. Their mother (Sameera Luqmaan-Harris) and sister, Liz (Sheila Tapia), attempt to make sense of and justify their new temperaments. (Ackerman and Sanchez use this family as the home base for characters they introduce us to over the course of the evening.)

Mom also crosses a line, conducting a relationship with a soldier, Tommy, who was blinded in an accident that Charlie was lucky enough to survive. Luqmaan-Harris and Sosko also play Maria and Pete, a Marine family. Maria goes to great lengths to explain that they are a team unit – while she keeps the home fires burning and Pete fights, the suffering, fear and pride are equally shared at all times.

There is no single inherent dramatic conflict moving ReEntry along, at least not for those only inured to standard Aristotelian structure. Rather, each tale offers its own sense of heartbreak and emotional struggle. And in the aggregate, these individual stories add up to something much greater.

ReEntry addresses what these Marines have seen in the Middle East and also what they must react to upon the return to a “normal” life. Of course, there are problems waiting for them back on home turf as well. Charlie finds that his girlfriend has been cheating on him, and John is a powder-keg, suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), with no tolerance for the minutiae in which “civilians” get wrapped up. Moreno is a skilled performer, using great subtlety to distinguish between Charlie, a born follower, and Tommy, a natural leader. Sosko is outstanding, particularly in portraying John’s difficulty keeping his fury on a leash.

The women of ReEntry are not to be overlooked either. Luqmaan-Harris makes each of her characters unique and believable, and Tapia comes the closest to hitting Everywoman status. Their naturalistic work is endearing, and in the show’s greatest moments, riveting. Zach Williamson’s sound design and Marion Williams spare art direction also add to the show’s you-are-there effectiveness.

ReEntry is a work you won’t soon forget. There’s a word for a work this important, and it is one that applies to the play’s subject just as much: heroic.

Playing with Time

Moments and Lemons, written by Fred Giacinto and directed by Thom Fogarty, is a truly meaningful work of theater. The performance is made from the bare bones elements of performance -- two actors, four chairs, some basic lighting tricks, a superb story to convey, and a beautiful utilization of a theater space -- but the result is so much greater than just the sum of its parts. Tony King plays Casper, a man who is bent on telling the audience his life story. He comes on with some hesitation and is egged on by Jessica Day, who portrays Pepper. Casper is willing to carry on with his tale so long as she agrees to enact every part in the play he is constructing, beside his own. She agrees, and we in the audience are lucky she does.

The forward moving action is told in and out of time; Casper tells an anecdote and then jumps years ahead in time for his next detail, then steps out of the story completely to comment on the events with Pepper, who often also stands outside of the narrative frame. Casper's story is a difficult one: he speaks of his dog's death, his father's paralyzing and ultimately fatal accident, his tumultuous affairs, and his all-too-well-remembered stint in prison. It is this episode, more than any other, that he suggests had the power to define who he was and who he would become. Yet, his trying and at times overpowering circumstances are not without the glimmers that only interpersonal connections can provide. At all of his lowest moments, someone is there to comfort him, to protect him, even to save him. This forces him to remember that life is not a one-way, dead-end road. Casper must contend with the fact that no matter how bad things get, with some effort and a lot of determination, a person can transcend his or her past.

Jessica Day plays all of the supporting roles with grace, strength, and an immense depth in her character development. She carries herself in each role with poise, using both her voice and her body to create distinct, profound individual personages. Tony King plays off of her with bravado; he is at turns angry, bitter, sweet, melancholy, charming, and confused. These two performers make the world of this play come alive for the viewer with the assistance of little more than their selves and the poignant text.

This play is remarkably well-written. The storytelling is both believable dialogue and compelling poetry. The narrative arc builds beautifully to an honest and powerful moment of catharsis. A motif of yellow items -- for example: some mustard, lemon cupcakes, and sliver of yellow ribbon -- provides a wonderful thread to follow throughout the work and it is woven in with perfect consistency.

The lighting design by Alexander Bartenieff adds to the overall production's structure. The cues are extremely well-timed and executed and they work nicely at accentuating important moments and creating stark contrasts for the transitions. One particular instance, in which Casper finds himself in solitary confinement, is pulled off totally realistically with nothing more than a corner and an intense spotlight effect.

Moments and Lemons is one of the most worthwhile theater experiences imaginable. The performances are incredibly strong and the direction is satisfyingly simple. This simplicity facilitates the telling of a story that is difficult to confront but necessary to hear. It reminds its viewers of how dark life can be, but it never leaves them in that dark place for too long. It tackles important issues, but always leaves a sliver of hope that things can and do improve, no matter how bad things get. Life is made up of various moments -- some good and some total lemons -- but all worth remembering and sharing.

Promises, Promises

Sometimes we just can't deliver on our promises. Conviction, currently playing at 59E59, looks like a compelling contemporary mystery wrapped around a fascinating true story from the era of the Spanish Inquisition. Unfortunately, despite the efforts of the actors and the creative team, this version of the story never takes off. The premise of Conviction certainly intrigues: after an Israeli scholar is caught trying to steal a confession extracted from a priest by the Inquisition, a Spanish official attempts to discern what was attractive about that particular file. Upon examining the documents, the two men uncover the ill-fated love story of a 15th century priest, Andrés González, and a Jewish woman, Isabel. Andrés' writings reveal his struggles as a convert to find a spiritual identity as he rediscovers his heritage. Meanwhile, the scholar, Professor Tal, seeks clues about his own roots.

Despite the interesting premise, there are basic dramaturgical problems which hobble Conviction. The greatest flaw is the diluted and ill-constructed adaptation by Mark J. Williams and Ami Dayan, who also stars as Professor Tal and the priest, Andrés. The play, which is based on a novel entitled Confession by Yonatan Ben Nachum, was originally performed as a one-man show. For this production Dayan and Williams have attempted to transform the play into a three-actor show. Their transformation, however, is incomplete.

In its current form, Conviction all too often betrays its origin as a monologue. Dayan as Andrés continually delivers long speeches about events from his past as he confesses his religious and sexual sins to his mentor, Juan de Salamanca. Much of the time, his words lack freshness, and come across as premeditated.

Meanwhile, his fellow actors rarely have much material with which to work. Kevin Hart in the dual roles of the Director of the National Archives and Juan has the unenviable job of questioning a totally unresponsive Tal on one hand, and acting as a sounding-board for Andrés' lengthy stories on the other. Catharine Pilafas is lovely as Isabel, but is also let down by the text, which fails to explore the psychology of her relationship with Andrés, reducing it to melodrama.

A few moments in Conviction prove that the story could have soared. In one beautiful tableau, as Andrés speaks of his and Isabel's growing intimacy, the two lovers begin to strip and bathe in the river in a poetic reverse-baptism. Later, Andrés affectingly describes the violent event in his childhood which made him realize that he had been born a Jew. Finally, in one superb but regrettably short scene, sparks fly between Andrés and Juan when the older man's own secret is almost revealed. By then, alas, it is too late to raise the stakes effectively for their characters.

Although director Jeremy Cole succeeds with these moments, he would have served the show better had he explored the tensions between the characters. Instead, most of the events in the play remain safely and resolutely in the past, resulting in a production which lacks immediacy.

Jeremy Cole's minimalistic set—a black-painted room which serves as a backdrop for some lovely projections—provides the bare minimum required for telling Conviction's story: a table with chairs, a pair of black prayer stools substituting for a confessional, and a candle-encrusted alter which doubles as a second level for the actors. Occasionally, when aided by Jacob M. Welch's lighting design, the space transforms, but most of the time it remains nothing more than a stage peppered with a smattering of props by Annette Westerby which belong neither to Franco's Spain nor the age of the Spanish Inquisition.

Kevin Brainerd's brown and blue costumes are attractive and serviceable. Although the sound design (uncredited) is clunky and distracting, the music by Jon Sousa and Yossi Green is truly lovely. Overall, Conviction is a visually and aurally appealing production.

It is just a shame that it does not live up to its promise.

Blood Lust

In the program that accompanies Sex and Violence, Travis Barker’s new play, the playwright admits that it was no less a source than his father who encouraged him to write a play about, well, sex and violence. Discouraged that his previous work, The Weatherbox, hadn’t transferred up to Broadway, or even Off-Broadway, his father purportedly suggested that those were the only two surefire draws for a massive audience. Appealing to such prurient interest may indeed get people in the door, but it isn’t necessarily enough to keep audience members in their seats, and that is precisely where this play errs. This four-character relationship drama may aspire to the fire of a David Mamet play, but it only manages to simmer at a low boil for its duration.

Marshall Mays directs this Kaleidoscope Theater Company production at Theater 3 in a sleek production designed by Arnold Bueso, but looks can only account for so much. Barker presents plenty of what, here: Jimmy (Jake Millgard) is married to Clair (Lauren Roth), who’s been cheating on him with the reptilian Chris (Tyler Hollinger). One night when Chris and Clair step out, Jimmy pays a visit to Molly (Kendall Rileigh), Chris’ aloof girlfriend. This evening, as one might expect, takes some disastrous turns involving, yes, both sex and violence.

But what Barker forgets to provide, and what ultimately makes Sex a hollow work, is the why. Why did Clair and Jimmy marry? And if they were at one point aligned, where did things go awry? Why does Clair tolerate any of Chris’ shenanigans? A work this gimmicky could get away with an emaciated plot only if it provides plenty of meat for its characters, but alas, Sex comes up deficient in that arena as well.

Tonally, Sex plays awkwardly as well. Baker’s mix of darkness and humor is awkward, and as events grow more dyspeptic, the play becomes downright off-putting. And yet, the play’s second act is an improvement over the first, which feels too static, consisting of little more than two distinct couples taking turns in separate scenes on opposite sides of the stage. Every time Sex focuses on Chris and Clair, for example, Jimmy and Molly are left alone on the dark for long stretches, and vice versa.

Nonetheless, while most of the play’s action occurs in the second act of Sex, there’s too much of it. Baker presents the theatrical equivalent of throwing spaghetti at the wall to see what sticks. As the number of sexual and violent acts climbs (with considerable overlap between the two), with no allegiance to any character nor organic escalation of plot, there is no payoff.

In the past few years, Hollinger has proven himself to be one of the most vital presences on the New York stage, and he injects Chris with the appropriate amount of hedonistic sliminess. Rileigh, too, demonstrates mastery in her performance of a wounded soul.

Millgard and Roth, though, are saddled with far less-defined roles, since Clair and Jimmy don’t quite make sense as individual characters nor as a couple. Of the two, Millgard fares better, suggesting how being one of life’s perpetual also-rans can cause one’s fuse to blow. I’m curious to see what Roth can do in a different role that proves to be less contradictory.

In the end, Sex subverts its author’s intent. This kind of play should leave audiences hot and bothered. Instead, all it provides is a winter chill.

Our Times

“The people must be amused,” slurs the tippling circus-man Sleary in an early scene of the Pearl Theatre Company's current staging of Charles Dickens' Hard Times. If diversion is the goal, the Pearl delivers with this production: Hard Times is solid if not flawless, and its power only grows as the show progresses. Stephen Jeffrey's adaptation of Dickens' sprawling novel portrays a world in which fact is valued over fancy, numbers and tables are preferred over dreams and desires, and the individual's quirky inclinations are stifled in favor of stalwart practicality. Teacher Thomas Gradgrind tries to manufacture students as efficient as the looms in the factory of his industrial-tycoon friend Josiah Bounderby. No hypocrite, Gradgrind raises his own children, Louisa and Tom, on an intellectual diet devoid of fancy.

Far from offering salvation, the fact-based and emotionally devoid world cultivated by Gradgrind is soul-crushing, contributing to the “hard times” of the drama's title. The crux of the plot revolves around Louisa, who enters a loveless marriage with the much-older Bounderby. When she encounters a seductive and sentimental rogue, she starts to suspect how much her father's philosophy has damaged her.

Jeffreys' adaptation is written in the tradition of another famous Dickens adaptation, Nicholas Nickleby, which was seen on Broadway during the 1980s. Winnowing the text down to a still-lengthy three hours, Jeffreys reduces the dramatis personnae to nineteen characters played by six actors. Unfortunately, he also preserves large sections of narrative during which the characters must describe themselves, their settings, and their own actions. While at times effective, the abundance of narrative in the first act leads to pacing problems. Fortunately, by the second act the characters and plot have been firmly established and this flaw in construction is less noticeable.

Artistic director J.R. Sullivan has staged Hard Times well, creating attractive tableaux and an upbeat tempo. He finds both the poignancy and the humor in Dickens' deeply-flawed characters. Sullivan is aided in this by the Pearl's resident actors, who navigate their multiple roles with aplomb. Rachel Botchen as Louisa captures her character's listless depression until she finally explodes in an emotional confrontation with her father (T.J. Edwards). Edwards, who is affecting as Gradgrind, is especially good as the hard-luck hand Stephen Blackpool. Sean McNall is excellent as Tom, the selfish and degenerate brother who brings ruin upon Louisa yet is not without a conscience.

The set design by Jo Winiarski is practical and workmanlike. A wide, thrust-style wood-grained set dappled with concrete slabs and an imposing brick wall emblazoned with Bounderby's name create an appropriately vintage Industrial Age look. Meanwhile, light designer Stephen Petrilli takes advantage of the painted over factory windows and hanging oil lanterns to create some stunningly atmospheric effects. Most of the time, the set design fades into the background, providing a neutral space for the performance, but on occasion, when enhanced by Petrilli's lights, the characters are transported to another world—most strikingly, at the beginning of the second act, when the economically oppressed “hands” hold a union meeting. The attractive costume designs by Devon Painter clearly define each of the characters.

Although the Industrial Age setting seems remote, Hard Times is surprisingly relevant to our current cultural and economic moment. As the divide between the rich and the poor is increasing, the American education system has become obsessively focused on test scores, facts, and memorization. Frivolous subjects like art, theater, and music, which feed the imagination, are increasingly devalued. The Pearl Theatre Company's production of Hard Times forces us to confront the kind of reality this mindset is creating. Is a world without entertainment and fancy tenable? As art institutions shutter across the nation, Dickens' entertainer Sleary pleads, “make the best of us, and not the worst.”

And the people are amused.

They Rage Against the Dying of the Light

Pat Kinevane’s one-man performance play Forgotten reminds us that behind the walls of every nursing home live real people who once led fascinating, sometimes improbable lives and who, however physically restricted they may appear, and however ravaged by time’s cruel assaults, remain proud. Many still lead vibrant lives of the mind. Forgotten questions the way that society values, or rather devalues, its elderly charges. Forgotten speaks, with great Irish humor, for these residents and those like them, angry at the bodies that betray them, their dignity assailed daily by intrusive nurses, condescending sales clerks, officious bank tellers and ungrateful, greedy offspring. Though Kinevane’s four characters reside in separate nursing homes in Ireland, they share a fascinating interrelated history, which they gradually reveal to us through alternating narratives.

Mr. Kinevane, one of the principals of Ireland’s acclaimed Fishamble Theater Company, marvelously plays all of the endearing characters: two men and two women, each between the ages of 80 and 100. One, a man named Gustus, is physically infirm due to a stroke. Kinevane, in lithe shape and even a bit of a contortionist when necessary, comes up with a fascinating way of portraying Gustus’ infirmity by sitting in a chair with his back to the audience and wearing glasses on the back of his bald head.

Kinevane peppers his narratives with surprisingly fitting Kabuki-style introductions, providing the characters with a physical grace that their advancing age and frailties often eclipse. Among its most moving parts are the opening and closing segments, both of which use recordings and music and neither of which I want to disclose more about because their power must be experienced; they frame the performance perfectly.

Theatergoers should be prepared to listen closely and work hard to follow the meandering plot lines. They should also be prepared to miss some of the dialogue or have some of it go over their heads. Kinevane, from County Cork, sometimes employs a thick Irish brogue, colloquialisms and slang (the program includes a helpful glossary of terms), particularly with the character of Flor, a fiery former laborer with a vivid, agitated imagination that the nurses try to keep medicated, who proudly protects his physical dignity at any cost. The payoff of Kinevane’s authenticity is in the rich originality, deep humor and pathos of these characters.

Lurking in all these narratives is the advancing specter of death for these residents. One, Eucharia, even wonders about the physical position in which she’ll die. Yet, Kinevane’s material avoids becoming bleak or depressing. In fact, it’s often scandalous, randy and uproarious. These characters are still very much concerned with living, with figuring things out for themselves.

Kinevane is a first rate writer and performer who captures the essence of, and utterly inhabits, the souls of these four personalities. Ably directed by Jim Culleton, Kinevane harnesses the power of light, sound and his own physicality to tell the stories of those who find themselves in a death-struggle with their own bodies, senses and minds. His feisty characters still retain unique opinions and important tales to tell. And they’re not going anywhere until they tell them.

BFFs, 80s Style

Carl and Shelly, Best Friends Forever, directed by Janice L. Goldberg, is a joyous romp with two misfits, both still caught up in the culture of the 1980s. Carl and Shelly entice the audience to laugh at the foibles of their day-to-day lives and to feel real empathy for their friendship’s trials and tribulations. The play is a whirlwind of silliness, at times bordering on the ridiculous, but never without a great deal of heart and spirit behind whatever nonsense the protagonists get themselves into. When we meet Carl and Shelly, they are hosting their public access program, in which they read original poetry and present their arts and crafts projects. The two are clearly not gifted artists in either field, but they make up for what they lack in technical skill with energy and enthusiasm. The titular pair are also truly "BFF's;" they love each other’s strange artistic creations and share an affinity for the same television shows, movies, and music. They take us back in time to their laundry room meeting, where they initially bonded over Punky Brewster and Alf.

The play hinges on a tiff that ensues between the two regarding Shelly's sudden artistic success - she is invited to show her work in a New York gallery - and Carl's fanmail from an admirer. This central conflict is competent and compelling, but the play's real power lies in the two performers' energy and bravado. In each role that they play, Andrea Alton and Allen Warnock give strong, hilarious performances that keep the audience tuned in and looking for more.

The main story line is interwoven with presentations of some of the other public access programs. These scenes add an extra boost of laughs, particularly the Home Prescription Pill Shopping Network, which perhaps deserves a whole future play of its own. There are also phone calls received from offstage characters, such as their respective parents, which clarify some of the character backstory and act to cover the scene transitions.

The performers do a marvelous job of jumping between characters, creating unique identities for each. These secondary personages are all quite humorous and show off the actors’ physical and vocal skills. Despite the enjoyable nature of watching these two individuals create the entirety of the world that they inhabit, the transitions are long at times and the piece could benefit from some trimming.

The set is well dressed with accoutrements appropriate to people stuck in a time gone by. The stage is scattered with DVD sets of 80s programming, snack foods, and toys that these characters should have long since outgrown. The artwork that they share is both worthy of laughter for its amateurish design and somehow intriguing in its own right.

This is not a play that tackles hard-hitting political or social concerns. It is not designed to ask serious questions or to interrogate major issues. But this seeming lack of relevance is not a problem at all; the play actually feels quite relevant due to its exuberance. It reminds its viewer to be proud of whoever you may be, and to enjoy the company of those for whom you care most deeply. Overall, this play is a fun theatrical experience. It is a play designed purely to entertain, and from this perspective, it succeeds perfectly.

Penny for Her Thoughts (Or Sometimes, More)

Brooklyn’s Gallery Players have long held a reputation for producing some of the finest productions at any level of New York theater. Recent stagings have included Like You Like It, Once On This Island, The Who’s Tommy, Urinetown, and Yank, all of which were stellar productions that supported the Players’ mission of providing the community with professional-quality theater at an affordable cost. And yet despite such a pedigree, I couldn’t help but wonder if the Players had bit off more than they could chew with their current choice of show, Caroline, or Change. Written by Pulitzer Prize-winner Tony Kushner and Jeanine Tesori, Caroline is easily one of the most important recent contributions to the musical theater canon. Could the Gallery Players pull off a show this profound?

The answer is a resounding yes.

Caroline is an incredibly complex show; esoteric and elliptical. Caroline may occur during a time of revolution, but it’s a show about a one-woman kind of revolution. The plot is little more than a conceit: Long-suffering Caroline Thibodeaux (Teisha Duncan), a black maid for the Jewish Gellman family, wrestles with ethical dilemmas and responsibility against the backdrop of social unrest and the burgeoning Civil Rights movement.

And yet, at the same time, Caroline, a completely sung-through, operetta-style musical, is also a very interior show. All characters undergo major internal arcs. This certainly makes for an impressive work, but not an innately expressive one. Could the Gallery Players pull off a show this profound?

Every aspect of Jeremy Gold Kronenberg’s carefully nourished production – the first revival since Caroline’s initial, Tony-winning bow – is magnificent. First and foremost, of course, is Duncan, in a perfectly modulated performance of sustained intensity, the kind of work that bears remembering at the end of the season. And she isn’t alone in that.

Set in the fall of the 1963, Caroline takes place between two households. One is that of the Gellmans, who have relocated to Lake Charles, Lousiana, following the death of the wife and the father’s subsequent remarriage to her friend, Rose Stepnick (Eileen Tepper). The show charts the distance loved ones create and then must navigate between each other. Stuart Gellman (Peter Gantenbein), a clarinetist, is largely an absentee father, leaving Rose as both the guest and disciplinarian in her own home, trying to find an impossibly delicate balance.

We are also privy to the home life of Caroline, a divorced mother just barely able to provide for her four children, including Elyse McKay Taylor as eldest daughter Emmie. As perfectly articulated by Duncan, the 39-year-old Caroline’s life is barely above that of a prisoner, and with every upward glance and movement, the actress shows how riddled her character is with regret, both of choices made and of those which have never been made available to her.

What unites these two fronts is Caroline’s relationship with young Noah Gellman (Daniel Henri Luttway, a natural in a major role here), silently mourning the death of his mother and the recent upheaval in his family. Largely to her unwelcoming chagrin, Noah bonds with Caroline, even lighting her daily cigarette (Noah’s mother died of lung cancer).

Mostly to teach Noah a lesson but also to stave off personal guilt, Rose creates an intriguing form of punishment. She instructs Caroline to keep whatever change Noah leaves in his clothing when she does his laundry. Despite Rose’s unknowing condescension, and even though she does not want to take money away from a child, it actually makes a difference, and Caroline takes what she finds home.

This arrangement cannot abide forever, but Caroline is far too measured a show for Kushner and Tesori to let it erupt in a melodramatic way. Rather, the effects take hold in smaller, more humane ways that allow Luttway, Taylor and Teppe to shine, particularly when members of the Gellman and Thibodeaux households come together. Gael Schaefer, Bill Weeden, John Weigand make the most of their small roles as the grandparents; after a minimal amount of stage time they all feel intimately familiar.

Kronenberg’s entire ensemble is exemplary, and certain actors warrant special praise for illuminating portrayals of the household objects that have become some of Caroline’s truest companions. Marcie Henderson is wonderful as The Washing Machine, and Frank Viveros s terrific as both The Dryer and The Bus. Heather Davis, Markeisha Ensley, and Nikki Stephenson conjure the spirit of Supremes-esque ‘60s girl as The Radio. And I’d be lying if I said I was ever anything less than bewitched by Gisela Adisa as The Moon. (Bravo to Edward T. Morris’ set design, which allows the show’s action to move fluidly.)

The “change” of the title is both literal and metaphorical. For Caroline, there isn’t enough of it, and it can’t come fast enough, a sentiment echoed in Duncan's aching eleventh-hour number, "Lot's Wife." Caroline, though, is a show about the journey rather than any particular destination. And in the hands of Gallery Players, there is no greater chauffeur.

Battle Cry

Yank!, the durable and impressive musical currently playing at midtown’s Theater at St. Peter’s in a York Theater Company production, tells two different kinds of love stories. One is a fairly familiar one, told frequently, though frustratingly, for it should be unnecessary: the love that dare not speak its name. Conceived by brothers David (who penned the book and lyrics) and Joseph Zellnik (who wrote the show’s music), Yank!, subtitled “A WWII Love Story,” is the story of Stu (Bobby Steggert), whose great awakening occurred against the backdrop of the greatest generation.

Stu reports for service in the army at the age of 18. As he narrates to the audience, he knows he feels different, and expresses awkwardness with living – including showering – in such close confines with his fellow servicemen. That includes Mitch (Ivan Hernandez), a bunkmate with far more experience than Stu in many things (but as it turns out, not everything). It doesn’t take long before Stu realizes he has romantic feelings for Mitch, and it comes as a surprise to both that Mitch feels the same way.

The other love story at play in Yank!, though, is for storytelling itself. Building off of the Zellniks’ template, director Igor Goldin has crafted a production that hearkens back to an earlier era of musicals, specifically, the Hollywood canteen style of the 1940s. The brothers pay tribute to and utilize movie and musical clichés of that bygone time period – characters quote Irving Berlin and watch movies designed to boost morale or appeal to their testosterone. Some of these choices work better than others (an eleventh-hour ballet performance, though well-choreographed, feels shoehorned in and slows down the action).

Another choice that subverts some of Yank!’s power is a change made to the show’s framing device since its earlier incarnations at the New York Musical Festival in 2005, Gallery Players in 2007 (where it took home a New York IT Award for Best Musical), and the Diversionary Theatre in San Diego in 2008. Earlier, Stu narrated the show from a senior citizens’ home in his old age.

Now, Steggert plays a young gay man in San Francisco who finds Stu’s war-time diary and reads from it to the audience, finding solidarity with a kindred spirit from 65 years ago. This decision doesn’t quite mesh with the musical’s homage to 1940s war stories. It comes off as amateurish in comparison to the rest of the play, as though the creative decided it was necessary to make Stu's parallels to modern problems overt. Also, it removes the audience from the action more than it actually moves it along.

Still, that central story will grab the heartstrings of anyone with an open mind and an open heart. When Stu’s squad goes to fight on the frontline, Stu works separately as a photographer for Yank, the magazine written by and for servicemen during the war, under the tutelage of Artie (Jeffry Denman, who does double duty here – he has also served as the show’s choreographer.) Artie is a closeted soldier who educates Stu on the war, journalism, and, presumably, no-strings sex.

Perhaps in a bid to appeal to general audiences, Goldin and the Zellniks choose to jump ahead a year in the life of Stu and his erstwhile bunkmates, thus depriving the audience of crucial development of the lead character. He goes from being a young virgin to accepting who he is as a sexually active gay male in a bracket offstage. It isn’t that the action that follows, in which Stu and Mitch reunite with disastrous effect, isn’t important, but that action is foreordained; it feels like we only get part of their story.

Hernandez is terrific as the conflicted soldier caught at a crossroads between two paths of divergent risk, and he and Steggert share believable chemistry. Steggert nails the awkwardness of a young man trying to find himself and is wonderful when Yank! calls for him to sing and dance, but in many moments, he doesn’t seem to be acting in period. He delivers Stu’s dialogue with the casual inflections of a more contemporary character. This doesn’t detract from the vulnerable emotions he displays, particularly near the show’s end, but it makes him appear less polished than the rest of this mighty ensemble; there is a hesitancy that permeates his portrayal which is absent from that of his co-stars.

Other standouts of that ensemble include Denman, who is tough and yet also envious of Stu’s feelings for Mitch. His choreography, too, is spot-on. Tally Sessions also makes the most of a less featured role.

But enough about the men. Nancy Anderson dazzles as the lone actress in Yank!, playing a variety of roles include the mothers and girlfriends left behind, female pinups, a stern (though perceptive) WAC, and several singers embodying the style of 1940s female crooners heard on the radio. Her radiant presence elevates the show. It doesn’t just preach to the choir; she provides the numbers that turn the audience into said choir. It is a star turn that in no way outshines the work.

Yank! remains a lively piece of theater with its combination of a talented cast, great musical numbers, and an important, relevant message. It’s definitely a show worth enlisting in.

Erica Watson is One 'Fat Bitch!'

In the dimly lit basement lounge of the West Bank Café, candles sparkle in anticipation of the arrival of comedienne Erica Watson, star of her own one-woman show, Fat Bitch!. The crowd erupted into applause when Ms. Watson emerged in a cream sleeveless dress delicately cinched around the waist with a ring of black lace. She strolls, generously voluptuous, onto the stage and says, in imitation of a voice she has heard many times, “You have such a pretty. . . face.” This oft heard compliment, which makes Watson feel her beauty is “boxed” into a small space on her body, is the launching point for an evening of comic insights, one which causes incessant, abdomen-clenching fits of laughter. Luckily, the dining set-up of the Laura Beechman Theater allows the audience members to drink and eat in order to replenish the energy expelled by the constant chuckling. Several comic turns propel Watson’s comedy - for example, the character of “super mammy” who flies from one ridiculous situation to the next - each one more extreme than the one preceding it. Inspiration for the character of “super mammy” begins when the child of Watson’s friend says she looks like Iris from the Incredibles. “Is she fat too?” Watson asks. Discovering it is her hair and eyes that the children recognized as being Iris-like, Watson then muses, if she were a superhero, who could she be? “Women who look like me only play ‘mammy’ on TV!” Watson exclaims, thus arriving at the superhero named “super mammy.” Not only does Watson have a no holds-barred sense of humor, she dissects the character of “mammy,” and what it says about stereotypes of large black women throughout the history of the entertainment industry. Watson is not overly serious, however, her humor is smart and cutting and it is aided by her expert control of voice and facial expression.

Having decided on the name for the show, Ms. Watson says she feared some people would be put off. While handing out fliers, she recalls how it was often other fat women who were most offended, screaming at her “b-tch, you’re fat too!” It is clear, though, that Ms. Watson’s size and body image is not the only theme of this show; she weaves race, self-esteem, self-fulfillment and many other themes into it as well. For example, one of the these themes is “penis envy.” She says “penises love themselves; vaginas take note.” Watson does not mince words, and while she is quick and witty, she makes every effort to bare each inch of her soul. At times, Watson reveals intimate details of her sexual life. Some are unfortunate, but others are redeeming, such as the story of her first orgasm, a double “climax” within the in the structure of her routine.

Many audience members may recognize Erica Watson from the small and big screen. She has had roles on Oxygen, BET and in the movie Precious, directed by Lee Daniels. In the movie she plays a small but important role as an abusive mother of a little girl who is seen throughout the film. Watson’s penchant for both dramatic acting and comedy, her elegance and raunchiness, and her ability to be both a fat bitch and prophet for rethinking body image makes this show worth every minute.