Hours in the Attic

Family ties are known to bind, but they’ve rarely been as constricting as they are in August Schulenburg’s challenging new play, Jacob’s House. Serving as both historical fiction and Biblical allegory, Schulenburg sets the bar high, and at times this very talented playwright’s heavy lifting feels like a bit of a reach. In this play, a Flux Theatre Ensemble production directed by Kelly O’Donnell at the Access Theater, Dinah (Jane Lincoln Taylor) and Joe (Zack Calhoon) are sorting through their father’s possessions in the attic of his house following his funeral. Since Joe is significantly younger than Dinah, his memories of Jacob, his father, filter through a different prism than the perspective of his older sister. Dinah fills him – and the audience, as well – in on some of the many stories of Jacob’s life.

It turns out that with the help of his mother, Rebecca, Jacob (Matthew Archambault) tricked his father, Isaac (Johnna Adams), into blessing him and tricked elder brother Esau (Anthony Wills Jr.) out of his birthright. Later, though he loves Rachel (Kelli Dawn Holsopple, Jacob ends up being manipulated into marrying her own older sister, Leah (Tiffany Clementi). Jacob eventually assumes an awesome amount of responsibility and power.

Do these stories sound familiar? Perhaps the names ring a bell? They very well might, since they come straight from the Old Testament. In House, Schulenburg takes these events and stretches them out over an elongated period of our nation’s history, covering everything from the American Revolution to the First World War.

The events set in the past are the ones that capture the audience most, not just because these are well-known tales, but because the stakes are so much higher. Even the entrance of Tamar (Jessica Angleskahn), a modern-day antagonist who becomes an obstacle to Dinah and Joe’s inheritance, feels more contrived than urgent. Tamar becomes too much of a storytelling tool, a device used to offer lots of exposition and instigate some of Dinah’s more confessional revelations to Joe. (This choice may be due to the fact that Schulenburg reportedly had little time to write the piece; when the rights to another intended show fell through, he drafted House in just a few days.)

Other aspects of the plot still feel somewhat undercooked – how exactly are these parables, so lovingly lifted from Genesis, supposed to inform the contemporary tragic story at the center of the show? And because Dinah, Joe and Tamar spend so much of the play introducing new information, one never gets the sense of any familial connection. They feel more like strangers telling their life story and finding random coincidences than demonstrating the intuitive understanding, both good and bad, that comes with the intimacy relatives share with each other.

And yet, as always, Flux has such sterling talent onstage and behind the scenes that their professionalism makes House an effort worthy of serious attention. O’Donnell proves to be a visionary, able to stage the historic and modern day scenes around each other without confusing temporal perspective. And Jason Paradine’s detailed set accurately recalls the effects that might litter a truly lived-in home.

Most of all, O’Donnell’s acting ensemble raises the game. The women have what I found to be the far more intriguing roles -– they are the ones connected to most of the show’s secrets and duplicity, after all -- and Angleskahn and Taylor sink their claws into their meaty roles. But while they get to drive most of their scenes, Calhoon has trickier terrain, since almost his entire role is reactive. It’s easy to get lost in such a part, but the actor navigates it quite convincingly. Archambault captivates as Jacob, charting the man’s most peculiar journey and shading in the character developments required to bridge one scene to the next. (Another choice, though, in which featured members of the cast play multiple roles, takes a while too long to catch onto.)

While I review House, I very much still see Jacob’s life as an unfinished one at this juncture. Schulenburg has his work cut out for him, but is clearly off to a great start. In continuing to build House, he couldn’t ask for a greater team of architects.

Two Be, or Not Two Be

Now playing at HERE Arts Center in Soho, The One Man (two man (not quite)) Hamlet is a fascinating journey through one actor’s attempt to stage Hamlet solo — well, not quite solo, as the title implies. As written and performed by the charismatic Kevin Brewer and tightly directed by Ross Williams, this multilayered inaugural production from the New York Shakespeare Exchange mixes Shakespeare’s poetry with contemporary language. It's is a clever, entertaining, and unique spin on William Shakespeare’s magnum opus — but don’t go expecting the Bard’s tragedy intact or even abridged. The evening begins as the traditional red curtain parts. A second curtain appears, covering a proscenium-encased widescreen TV. Once that curtain parts, the word “PLAY” appears onscreen and the show begins. As bells chime, a figure materializes on the monitor. It is “V” (the video version of Brewer), playing the guard Barnardo. “Who’s there?” he shouts, as “K” (the real-life Brewer), playing Horatio, enters the stage for the opening scene of Hamlet..

But as in the Shakespeare play, something’s rotten in this state of Denmark as well. As the action progresses through a humorous sequence of a double-faced King Claudius/Queen Gertrude brought hilariously to life by “V,” with “K” sulking admirably as the melancholy Prince, things go awry. “K” is dropping his lines and missing cues. Soon the two “actors” have let go of the façade of recreating Hamlet and begin dissecting exactly why “K” can’t get through the show without making mistakes.

In an effort to pinpoint the problem, “K” and “V” do a riotous speed-through of the opening scenes that is one of the highlights of this production. But the main charms of One Man Hamlet lie in the interaction between the flesh-and-blood “K” and his video counterpart “V,” which brings to the forefront not only the duality of Hamlet’s character, but also, for that matter, all human beings.

Brewer does an outstanding job of creating two distinct personalities in “K,” the insecure lead actor, and “V,” the cheerleading supporting player. Of course, you are led to believe they are two different entities, but the reality is that they are two sides of the same coin: the id and ego of Mr. Brewer himself, with some super ego thrown in too for good measure. It is a credit to both the performer and director that the interaction between “K” and “V” seems truly organic. This is a nimble production that has dexterously combined live and filmed performances into a cohesive whole.

There is a lot of humor in The One Man (two man (not quite)) Hamlet and the audience I attended with laughed a lot, especially when the befuddled “K” addressed the audience directly, even though he did not truly believe we were there. (See the show for what that means exactly.) “V” also had many funny bits, including the play-within-the-play, where he utilized a hand puppet to great comic effect, and his spot-on characterization of a hipster-esque Rosencrantz.

Precisely and fluidly choreographed, One Man Hamlet is an ingenious production that only falters in the last 20 minutes. While everything up to that point has the freewheeling, manic energy of a comedy, the final quarter of the 80-minute show changes gears abruptly to tragedy. “K” begins exploring his fear of failure as an actor and his desire to be not only good in this role, but good — period. These series of (mostly) monologues may correlate directly to Hamlet’s own inner turmoil in the play that bears his name, but they turn One Man Hamlet from an inventive work exploring a singular production of Hamlet into a pop psychology piece about the travails of the acting profession. The tone changes from mirthful and merry to maudlin and morose. “Nothing and no one is perfect,” asserts the video doppelgänger to his real-life counterpart. Future versions of this show might consider cutting down this overly long section. As Queen Gertrude retorts to the loquacious Polonius in the original Hamlet: “More matter with less art.”

Regardless, The One Man (two man (not quite)) Hamlet is a terrific show that offers a fresh take on the Shakespeare classic and an inside look at the mindset of an actor struggling to break through — both personally and professionally. For Shakespeare and Hamletfans of all stripes, it's highly recommended for its originality and humor. “Remember me,” “K” says at the lights black out. I’ll surely remember The One Man (two man (not quite)) Hamlet.

Unfinished Business

An aged Albert Einstein (Richard Saudek) says to an impatient and menacing Time (Lucy Kaminsky) “I have long felt you by my side but there is so much work to do.” The same sentiment can be applied to Triple Shadow’s Breath on the Mirror , which seems more like a work in progress than a finished production. Conceived and directed by Beth Skinner, in collaboration with composer Edward Herbst and videographer Paul Clay, Breath on the Mirror is a multimedia production set in the last year of Einstein’s life. With the assistance of Time, Einstein looks back at his younger self and his relationship with Mileva Maric (Gabrielle Autumn), a former student who became his first wife. The show includes live music, video, mask, puppetry, and dance, making it a truly multi-media, interdisciplinary performance.

Unfortunately, all of these elements have little to rest on as the play itself is missing a clear narrative to connect its various components. Breath on the Mirror is about an hour long, and much of the piece feels unfinished. Rather than witnessing a cohesive evening of performance, Breath on the Mirror is a collection of presentational moments loosely knit together. Throughout the evening, there are moments that are visually impressive and theatrically engaging, but there is not whole, only parts.

Several ideas are presented in the play, but none of them seem fully developed in spite of the artistry of the presentation. The videography for the show is a splendid example of how the video transforms and shapes a space. While each video installment provides a new opportunity, the performers have little engagement with the created space. The projections, which include live-feed video, move us from classroom, to moving train, to forest, and back again. At the beginning of the play, Time writes equations on a chalkboard that is projected onto the back wall of the theater. Einstein can barely keep up with the larger than life notations, a suggestion that the ideas Einstein was wrestling with were much larger than Einstein himself.

Given the first exchange between Einstein and Time (who I presumed was Death until I looked at the program), a competition has been set up between them. Who doesn’t want more time? However, the need for the competition is unclear especially as it relates to the decision to explore Einstein’s relationship with his first wife. It was during this time of his life that he started to develop his theory of relativity, but this play suggests that there is a personal relationship between man and wife that has not been adequately dealt with. What does Einstein need from Mileva? Forgiveness? A second chance?

One element that particularly stands out as successful is Herbst’s live music, which helps to shape and drive the piece. He plays several instruments throughout the evening. Repetitive melodies juxtaposed with jarring, sharp accents frame perceptions of time as either rolling merrily along or moving faster than light.

On the whole, however, Breath on the Mirror seeks to create a performance piece that questions our ideas of time and existence, but ultimately leaves too many dramatic questions unanswered.

Fishing for Identity in The Passion

In the second part of the Epic Theatre Ensemble’s excellent production of Sarah Ruhl’s Passion Play, currently playing at the Irondale Center, a group of Bavarian locals are rehearsing the famous Oberamergau Passion Play. Dressed in various traditional racist depictions of Jews (horns, gold, general ugly), the Hebraic rabbis of the Bible demand the death of Jesus, moments before they dive to the ground in search of falling coins. Spectators immediately recognize the humorous tone. The question, however, is what it is exactly that we recognize – is it the classic stereotypes themselves, now outdated, or at least socially taboo, or is it our own relationship with those images today? In other words, are we relating to an iconic image from the past, or to a breathing part of our own intellectual world today? Or in Ms. Ruhl’s words from her playwright’s note – “Where is the line between authentic identity and performance? And is there, in fact, such a line?” The playwright’s question is alive in this production, in large part due to the fact that her producers at ETE insist that the theater should strive to blur the line between its role as performance and its social role in the community. Playing in a church in Brooklyn’s Fort Greene, the three and a half hour play, often followed or preceded by public discussions about religion and public life, functions as a type of modern day direct democracy gathering. True, the main speakers seem not to come from the Evangelical right, but they do come with a (critical perhaps) love of the Good Lord, and an appreciation for how people have felt about Him at different moments in history.

The three plays that make up the evening, however, are not designed to be didactic. They are, in fact, poetic explorations of the relationship between Church and State, and of the purpose of the theater in times of public strife. Under the competent direction of Mark Wing-Davey, each of the plays drags the spectator’s imagination from simple stories to dreamy theatrical imagery, from Jesus to Ronald Reagan.

“When I close my eyes I see a parade of dead fish coming at me,” says Pontius the Fish Gutter in part I one of the cycle, just a moment before a parade of enormous fish silently fill the stage, Bread and Puppet style (the mobile sets and huge puppets by Allen Moyer and Warren Karp really bring the plays to life) . A short moment later Queen Elizabeth shows up (the marvelous T. Ryder Smith) to shut down the play. Explained in greater clarity in the program than in the play (where she talks about very thick make-up), the 16th century Protestant queen forbid depictions of the Christ, forcing the local actors to sell all their costume pieces but the clunky angel halos.

In Part II we are in pre-WWII Germany, and for the second time we witness the actress playing the Virgin (the lovely Kate Turnbull) get knocked up. This happens in each of the three plays. The reaction to it, however, is different each time, keeping the audience engaged in the similarities and differences between each historical moment.

The rehearsals for the Passion, which we witness as well in every one of the plays, are interrupted during the first two by the irritating Village Idiot. It is unclear what Ms. Ruhl was attempting to do with this character, and despite a valiant attempt by Polly Noonan, one feels quite annoyed at the actor playing Jesus (Hale Appelman), when he lets her out of the cage she was confined to by the play’s director. The worst moment in the cycle belongs to this Bavarian Village Idiot, at the close of the second play. She remains the only one standing for sanity against the Nazi wave, and her speech at the close of that play (right before the generic picture of a stage full of actors standing erect staring out at a fascism dazed audience) definitely presents a challenge for spectators’ desire to come back for part three after the second intermission. Nor does it help that Mr. Wing Davey directs the style of Part II away from the pageantry of Part I and towards tedious melodrama.

But hold tight – Part III brings it all together, and even makes the flat choices in its predecessor seem mildly significant to the sum total offering of the company. At last we’re back in the US of A, in the Badlands of South Dakota. We watch another virgin slip, this time onto the lap of the brother of her war-bound husband. Fifteen years later the husband is still suffering from trauma, even as Ronald Reagen shows up, Hitler makes an appearance and even Queen Elizabeth graces us one more time with her divine presence (“I don’t see why anyone would give their life for anything less than a monarch.”).

By the end of the third play we have reached present times, and that is when the actor playing the traumatized soldier (Dominic Fumusa, who gives a strong performance in Part III of the cycle) can speak some lines to the audience about religion and the state. By this point we are eager to sponge in what the writer has to say. It’s unfortunate that her grit escapes Ms. Ruhl at this critical juncture, and all she has to say is “I don’t know if this country needs more or less religion.” What is fortunate is that she has already given us over three hours of sweet and bitter thoughts to take out of the theater with us, and perhaps even allow them to seep into our daily lives.

Variety is the Spice of Life

167 Tongues refers to the number of different languages that one of the production’s characters, a Rwandan emergency room nurse, credibly claims are spoken in the hospital in Jackson Heights, Queens, the town in which this production is both literally and figuratively set. The borough of Queens is perhaps the most ethnically diverse area in the world; half of its residents are foreign-born. Jackson Heights is said to be the home of families of 100 different nationalities. In unskilled hands a production with 37 characters in 25 ethnic-flavored skits could become an unwieldy, hackneyed disaster. 167 Tongues is anything but, and that’s due primarily to the tight collaboration of 11 talented playwrights and 29 actors, assembled by director Ari Laura Kreith, who also conceived the entire production for Jackson Repertory Theatre. The scenes are not sketches so much as they are a collage of vignettes, many of them quite poetic and touching. Generally, they either avoid cliché or fearlessly embrace it, winkingly knowing.

The opening street scene is a fascinating use of a small space. One by one or pair by pair, characters appear on the stage. They go about their day, bumping into each other or otherwise interacting, singing, and chatting into their cell phones. The ubiquitous Number 7 train roars in the background, until, the stage now full, the assemblage reaches an almost intolerable cacophony of language and city sounds. It’s quite remarkable.

Among the standout characters who populate 167 Tongues are a homeless man who is partial to Little Debbie snack cakes and a graduate student who delivers Chinese food for a living. There’s a humorous dosa chef, a suspicious Korean fruit seller, a Russian bookseller with a poetic side, a cantankerous, housebound Vietnam War veteran, a no nonsense Indian jewelry maker who rejects a footloose suitor, and others far too numerous to mention. Most of them feel entirely real rather than slight, one-dimensional caricatures. Though its “theater” is P.S. 69, this isn't amateur night. And the play doesn’t shy away from adult themes such as homosexuality, teen sex, undocumented immigration, suicide and domestic violence. If there’s any drawback to so many vignettes, it’s that some of the plot threads don’t entirely resolve. Perhaps that’s the point. Life’s colorful pageant simply continues, the good with the bad.

The living residents of Jackson Heights even have a thematic communion with residents long dead. The use of ghosts in a theatrical production can be a disaster. Yet, here, the device is used to great effect, as when a pair of them, one white and one black, haunt a young interracial couple whose lives reflect those of the ghosts’ children, in love in a bigoted society some 40 years earlier. Those were the days of the Princeton Plan, the school-bussing system for racial desegregation, which catapulted many communities into an almost hysterical panic.

Inspired by the production’s depiction of the neighborhood, I took a walk along 37th Avenue after the show and observed its genuine diversity. I ate a late dinner at an Indian restaurant and was served by an Asian waitress. As I walked back to the train station I passed a homeless man sleeping in an alcove, his belongings piled into a shopping cart. I wondered whether he was the inspiration for any of the characters in the production that had just taken place across the street. I also wondered whether he would ever see that production, or whether he was worlds away.

He should know, though, that a creative band of artists at Jackson Repertory care about his life and those of others like him. Due in no small part to consistently first-rate writing, acting, and direction, this production’s tasty concoction, against all odds, manages to work much like the neighborhood it lovingly chronicles.

Don't Fence Me In

Next to an old police precinct, the dilapidated building that houses the American Theatre for Actors (ATA) signals hard-working theater artists occupied with shoestring labors of love. The building’s bathrooms will make you regret having used them; when you leave, you feel that you’ve somehow collected germs. The ceiling panels of the ATA's Sargent Theatre, covered with water stains, appear as if they might peel off during the performance. In short, ATA is the kind of off-off Broadway theater space whose artists you root for. And it’s certainly an ideal setting for prison plays. So, I’m sorry to say that Nutshell Productions’ Spend the Night in Jail, featuring jailhouse-themed plays by William Saroyan and Jean Genet, makes for a generally disappointing evening. In Saroyan’s 1941 one-act, “Hello Out There,” a drifter, simply called The Young Man (Richard Hymes-Esposito), finds himself trapped in a small-town Texas jailhouse, expecting to be lynched on a false charge of rape. He begins a tender conversation with Emily (Kerry Fitzgibbons), the jail’s young, insecure cook and dishwasher, who, intrigued by the man, has stayed past her shift to connect with him somehow.

This is the second off-off Broadway production of “Hello Out There” that I have seen in little more than a year. In both, I have had to wonder why the set designers can’t seem to get the hang of prison bar construction. In the earlier production (by a different company), the bars were wide enough for The Young Man to walk through. In this production, set designer Craig Napoliello completely kills the illusion of fenced in people by making the bars between these worlds-apart characters merely knee-high.

Mr. Hymes-Esposito barely conveys The Young Man’s sense of desperation; he’s just too calm. And he doesn’t even attempt to disguise his strong New York accent, which, oddly, works anyway. Eric Nightengale’s lighting brings portentous shadows that add a level of needed suspense to the production. Kevin McGraw, as the accuser’s husband, is serviceable but impenetrable. He doesn’t let The Young Man get into his head enough when he confronts him with his gang. Despite these problems, Robert Haufrecht’s direction is steady and keeps the play on track. Though it fails to grip as it should, it’s the shorter and better of the two productions.

Jean Genet’s “Deathwatch,” first produced in 1949, uses the same set, so now the characters are confined to only one side of the stage. Green Eyes (Raul Sigmund Julia), the alpha male of a cell of three prisoners, will be executed for murder within a month’s time. His weak and sexually fawning cell mates, Maurice (John Paul Harkins) and Lefranc (Greg Engbrecht) despise each other and fear the upheaval that Green Eyes’ death will bring to the prison’s power hierarchy. At least one of them is already considering throwing his lot in with “Snowball,” an even more powerful alpha male in the prison.

All three characters in “Deathwatch” plot against each other, in sometimes-subtle ways, big and small. However hard they try, though, their respective roles are beyond all three young actors. Though Genet (a recidivist thief who knew his way around prisons) specified keeping the action to a minimum in his own direction of the piece, Harkins and Engbrecht chase each other around the tiny cell like Moe and Curly. Though I won’t give the plot entirely away, the illusion in this production is diminished by all the physicality; a supposedly dead body heaving for breath invites snickers rather than shock. The hysteria is not aided by director Hymes-Esposito and sound designer Nightengale’s inexplicable sound effects, which include the roar of a tiger, the moans of a woman having an orgasm, and the famous Shower Scene screech music from Psycho. One of Genet’s earliest works, “Deathwatch” is a fascinating but not a great play, and this production makes it even less great.

Though the dedication and promise of this small, young troupe are apparent, you won’t want to spend your night in this jail, even as a visitor.

Love My Way

In a nutshell, Joe Tracz’s Songs For a Future Generation, which calls itself a “sci-fi dance party spectacle,” feels a bit like the above iconic 1980s Psychedelic Furs tune expanded into a play. The Lost in Translation meets Back to the Future vibe (plus a dash of film noir); the last-party-for-the-end-of-the-world tone; and the optimistic yet desperately isolated characters all create its moody milieu, the script’s greatest asset. It’s an ambitious piece which mostly hits its mark, and if you are excited to see new work, albeit with a bit of meandering, you will enjoy it. Populated by shape-shifters (lots of fun to see enacted by this multi-talented cast), clones, spies, robots, an unlikely time-traveler, and other odd inhabitants, Tracz’s world is further supported by a fun retro-futuristic set, costumes, make-up, and music, here, channeling the punk-esque early 80s. The nostalgic expedition, led by skilled director Meg Sturiano, is palpable, while the (now familiar) potential doom of an uncertain future looms. It could be argued that it’s all a bit much to meld into a compact, cohesive story. But first, robot DJ, s’il vous plâit, jouez ce disc pour moi…?

Even though it’s billed as a comedy, rather than a musical or dance piece, those two elements form a strong base for Songs. The stylistic choreography by Nicole Beerman, assisted by Charissa Bertels, helps to break up and enliven the pace from some long speeches and scenes, which feel clunky as though the playwright might be trying too hard to explore every possible nuance of plot. Yes, the A- and many B-stories are sometimes intriguing, but overall the exposition feels too long and top-heavy at times, working against its own seemingly whimsical intentions. I think here, a bit less would be much more, trusting the viewers to make their own connections via the set-up and tone with less need for explanation, allowing for a tighter running time as well.

Also worth mentioning is Sturiano's masterful use of the cozy Under St. Marks theater space for the many entrances, exits, and dance breaks of the large cast, including the device of having action take place offstage as necessary. The colorful, plastic-dominated set, designed by Elaine Jones and consultant Tristan Jeffers, while mostly static (clearly out of necessity here) is also one of the most exciting and creative I’ve seen in the space, lit expertly with a variety of multi-color gels by Grant Wilcox. What would a dance club satellite overlooking an exploding star look like? This, of course. Exactly.

The aforementioned new wave dance pop soundtrack, designed by Adam Swiderski, is also well chosen, especially in the key moment whole-company numbers like “Rock Lobster.” And I loved the sound effects, for example the shape-shifting squishy one. My only complaint is that during some scenes, the ongoing music felt like a distraction (although probably a welcomed one from the some of the more talky goings-on). I thought the music worked much better when suggested, as starting/ending bytes, or else the occasional full song, such as Alex Teicheira’s adorable solo as Log, rather than low-volume background throughout a scene. But not to quibble, the songs are so loveable and apt here, it was probably difficult to decide which not to play.

The performances are great and everyone gives his or her all. Always a standout, the talented playwright and Artistic Director of The Management, Joshua Conkel, takes an acting turn (as well as designing the delightful costumes with Nicole Beerman). Conkel plays a key, although largely mute character, complete with a B-52s beehive. He fully works his bizarre costume, executing some hysterical puppet-hands business which reduced me more than once to helpless giggles. (And yes, the impression onstage is definitely (sing-song): one of these things is not like the other...) The three Marika clones (looking nothing alike, of course) are played by Joleen Wilkinson, Ronica V. Reddick, and Tara Giordano with originality and soul; and are pretty insightful, you know, for clones.

Jennifer Harder, a founding member of The Management, portrays shape-shifting bounty hunter Shy with her usual finesse and kick-ass delivery. The nebula-crossed lovers Error and Tess, played by Nick Lewis and Zoey Martinson, are probably the play’s least interesting characters, but Error’s search for his lost love across time and space, dressed in the requisite yellow slicker and goggles of the time traveler, serves to lead us through. And the whole ensemble cast, including Log’s Dude, played by Joe Varca; Thena, played by Cal Shook; and The Kid, played by Matt Barbot (affecting a perfect crime drama hard-boiled accent), keep us engrossed and entertained while we hurtle through the universe into yet another of the play’s many dark corners. It's a new road.

soloNOVA Festival Gives Solo Performers Center Stage

Theater festivals often require a cast of thousands – in addition to the actors, there are crew members, writers, producers, a director, and wranglers to keep the whole operation moving. terraNOVA Collective, however, has found a way to slim down the body count with its soloNOVA Arts Festival, now in its seventh year.

The solution? Put on a festival spotlighting solo performances. soloNOVA is New York City’s premiere site for solo performance. terraNOVA’s mission is to usher in innovative and original theatrical works; as a result, soloNOVA “celebrates those individuals who push the boundaries of what it means to be an artist, aims to redefine the solo form and uniquely invigorates the audience through the time-honored tradition of storytelling.”

That may sound like a tall order, but terraNOVA knows how to keep it simple. This year’s festival only has eight solo performers appearing in a main stage offering.

“We keep it small consciously,” says Jennifer Conley Darling, Artistic Director of terraNOVA Collective. “We want to bring greater production values, marketing efforts and greater care to each show we present. We want soloNOVA to be a springboard for the shows in the festival to go on to larger venues and festivals in the city, across the country and around the world.” Darling acknowledges that past shows have gone on to win awards at Edinburgh and enjoy successful Off-Broadway runs.

Avery Pearson, who appears this year in the show Monster, concurs that what makes soloNOVA unique is the hands-on attention Darling and co-director James Carter provide for their participants. “Jennifer and James give very specific focus to each production,” he relates. “soloNOVA decreased its productions from twelve to eight this year in order to increase the care given to each one.”

“It sounds cliché,” Pearson adds, “however, the reality is that most theater companies and theaters shy away from the solo form. It is a very challenging art form – one which demands an excellent script to hold the audience's attention. Strong acting, direction and production quality must lift the script off that page without alienating its audience. soloNOVA understands these challenges and continues to push forward to find the finest work, championing the solo art form.”

Darling agrees that it was lack of visibility for solo work that lit a fire for the festival in the first place. However, she didn’t just want to provide a home for run-of-the-mill solo performance. “We decided to reinvigorate this art form by curating a festival that showcased all genres, including dance, magic, clowning, puppetry, storytelling, monologues, comedians, etc.,” she explains, going on to point out that “our objective over the years is to get away from the solo form that only rehashes the performer's life story, and, instead, really focus on the ancient tradition of storytelling.”

But just because Carter and Darling strive to reincorporate the original artistic elements of the solo form doesn’t mean these performances are in any way primitive. Take, for example, Jesse Zaritt’s show, Binding, which fuses popular music, costume and puppet elements with interactive video to represent basic human emotion and tell of one man’s search for love and connection.

“What I examine with this work is not just the way a body responds to the drama of love,” Zaritt explains, “but also the potentially destructive or redemptive experience of being in thrall of a profound faith, spiritual transcendence, fame, or violent coercion.” Binding, according to Zaritt, uses these multimedia elements to portray “the connections and slippage between these volatile states.”

In a similar vein, Jessi Hill, director of entrant It or Her describes the show as “a black comedy about a man who meticulously creates an entire world of relationships with objects, in the absence of personal relationships that he has never experienced.”

Star Brian McManamon recognizes the universality of the show. “To me, the play is a partially veiled look at what it is to be an artist in the world. Andrew is an artist in the process of creating what he believes to be his life’s work and is desperate for his creation to leave an important contribution to the world – not an unfamiliar feeling for any artist, or, for that matter, this actor. He is striving for recognition and appreciation for his work from the world around him and those he loves. He ends up finding what he is looking for in the form of dozens of inanimate objects.”

soloNOVA has selected works that range from those dealing with the human heart to others that are almost shockingly relevant. Take Rootless: La No-Nostalgia, a bilingual cabaret about the emotional life of immigrants, starring Karina Casiano; given the passage of last week’s Arizona immigration bill, such a show couldn’t be more topical.

The show, which includes a diverse mix of songs in English and Spanish (with supertitles) that range from rock to tango, follows a confused immigrant who begins to forget her language, her accent and even her gender after many years away from her land. “While we hear the news about the laws attempting to control the entrance of undocumented people to the U.S,” Casiano states, “ Rootless gives a view of what goes on in the minds and hearts of migrants as we leave our whole lives behind and try to adapt to a new, often hostile country in search of a better life. It ponders the feelings of detachment and fear that our painful escape brings upon us but also proposes a self-critical view of the role our own countries play in pushing us out.”

Casiano also praises terraNOVA’s support. “Solo artists are used to having to work alone and, while we may take all the glory when it comes, we also carry all the responsibility. Counting on the support of a knowledgeable and hard-working company like terraNOVA Collective makes me feel ‘not-so-solo.’”

The multicultural aspect of soloNOVA is another plus. “As a Latina artist, I was especially pleased that the organizers of the festival were interested in my show about immigration,” Casiano says. “It not only brings diversity to their program but also allows me to reach an audience of both English and Spanish speakers who I feel will welcome a cool, fun, sexy approach to this hot topic.”

The W. Kamau Bell Curve: Ending Racism in About an Hour, starring Bell, shares Rootless’ topicality. “My solo show is a mix of stand-up comedy, personal stories, pop cultural criticism, slides, video clips, and good old-fashioned American freedom of speech,” Bell says. “It's like a tea party... but for the good guys.” Bell also says that anyone who attends Curve with a friend of a different race gets in two-for-one.

If there is harmony of any kind to be found in regard to the festival, it’s among all of the solo participants, who unanimously praise terraNOVA for their unwavering belief and support. In fact, the relationship begins to paint Carter and Darling as the parents of eight super-happy children.

And apparently, they are parents who reserve judgment on subject matter. How else could Erin Markey’s Puppy Love: A Stripper’s Tail, an autobiographical piece about how her life as a stripper became more complicated after she fell in love with a fellow dancer, make it into the mix?

“There is a lot of assertive nurturing happening,” said Markey. “They really believe in solo work, which is such a niche genre; there really aren't a lot of other organizations that specifically support solo work in the same way. terraNOVA’s investment in live solo work keeps me batting my lashes and making phone calls. They're very hands-on with the artists. We are in contact nearly every day and have been for a long time.”

And while some of the works in soloNOVA look at the world, others reflect inward. Remission chronicles Dan Berkey’s experiences with schizophrenia. “Its primary purpose is to incite curiosity and questions about the condition, which has been maligned by the media and other questionable and outright spurious sources,” Berkey says. Shontina Vernon’s show, Wanted, follows a ten-year-old girl from the West Texas town of Lamesa, who is sent to a juvenile detention center after she forges eight thousand dollars in checks trying to achieve her dream of becoming a singer.

In addition to the eight solo shows, performer Nilaja Sun will receive the soloNOVA Artist of the Year award. “Nilaja's work on No Child… and as an arts educator truly exemplifies the embodiment of a solo performer,” according to Darling. The honor will be bestowed on May 21, and will feature student performances and testimonials on how No Child affected their lives.

“Every year we aim to get new audiences to at least one show in the festival and they are never disappointed,” Darling says. It would be hard for anyone to argue that they haven’t made good on their goal.

soloNOVA runs from May 5 to May 22. For a full list of performances, please visit http://www.terranovacollective.org/.

The Life Aquatic

Polybe + Seats’ latest installation, A Thousand Thousand Slimy Things: An Aquatic Spectacular of Conservation and Change, is an ambitious attempt to investigate our relationship to the sea. It is a theatrical convergence of our romanticism of the ocean and our actual daily destruction of it as land loving consumers. Under the direction of Jessica Brater, the ensemble (Carmel Amit, Jenni Lerche, Elaine O’Brien, Sarah Sakaan, Eugene Michael Santiago, Hilary Thomas and Ari Vigoda) admirably offers an evening of theater that reminds us that ultimately we are all sailing into uncharted waters. The performance is inspired by the real life mermaids of Weeki Wachee, Florida. Since 1947, Weeki Wachee Springs State Park has been the home and performance venue for the Weeki Wachee mermaids. In 2003, lead by Weeki Wachee’s mayor and former mermaid Robyn Anderson, the mermaids lead a campaign to save the park from closure. Upon arriving at the Waterfront Museum in Red Hook, one is greeted by the protesting mermaids, played by Carmel Amit, Jenni Lerche, and Hillary Thomas.

The ensemble efficiently and effectively navigates through the space and through the multitude of characters that the members take on. As a unit, the actors function as a school of scientists. Dressed in white lab coats, they flitter, measure, and investigate. But to what end? Science can tell us what is happening but certainly cannot undo the damage. Ari Vigoda is completely captivating as John, an explorer who is set adrift on his best friend Jake Jr., a melting iceberg. Unlike the school of scientists who take a mechanical and distanced approach to their work, John serves as the emotional center.

A Thousand Thousand Slimy Things has all of the right conceptual and artistic elements.The performance takes place at the Waterfront Museum and Showboat Barge in Red Hook, Brooklyn. Spending an evening on the water, seated on a 96 year old barge, one can feel the motion of the water beneath one’s seat. Natalie Robin’s lighting design compliments the space, drawing attention to the interior when necessary and at other moments beautifully taking us underwater. Set designer Eli Kaplan-Wildman and costume designer Bevan Dunbar use only reclaimed objects for the design. As the performance progresses the stage becomes overrun with the dross of our daily life: water bottle, rubber bands and plastic bags. The visual mess juxtaposed with a lyrical script suggest the abyss that has been created between our idealized relationship to the sea and our actual indifference. The text for the piece included excepts from Moby Dick, Rachel Carson’s The Sea Around Us, The Little Mermaid, Ibsen’s Lady From the Sea, as well as transcripts of interviews of the Weeki Wachee mermaids.

In spite of the precision and cohesion of the ensemble, what is lost is the overall journey of the evening. A Thousand Thousand Slimy Things is a collection of moments, not a unified event. Artfully told and visually compelling, ultimately the play skims the surface but does not quite get to what lies beneath.

The Sounds of Silence

There aren’t any UFOs or three-fingered ETs to be found onstage at the Rattlestick Playwrights Theatre, where The Aliens, Annie Baker’s newest play, has its world premiere. Instead, we get one insecure teen and two rough-and-tumble slackers, all of whom stand in marked contrast to the supremely assured, delicately nuanced work in which they appear. As its very name informs, Rattlestick is a venue interested in nurturing the works of talented playwrights, both new and enduring. Take, for example, Noah Haidle’s Rag and Bone from several seasons ago, Lucy Thurber’s Killers and Other Family and Mando Alvarado’s Post No Bills from this fall. These are thoughtful, enthralling works whose only shared trait is how distinct they are from one another.

Aliens fits right in line with its predecessors, thanks, of course, in large part to Baker, a keen observer of human folly. She eyes minutiae with a magnifying glass, making the small seem not just obvious but vital. This was a skill apparent in her debut, Body Awareness, as well in Playwrights Horizons’ Circle Mirror Transformation, one of this season’s unquestionable triumphs.

In addition to its cerebral observations, Baker’s newest play shares some more physical attributes with Circle. First and foremost, Sam Gold directs both, and why break what’s already fixed? The two are a miracle team. Also, on a surface level, both plays occur in small-town Vermont. While the characters of Circle, however, signed up for the community center acting class in which they all met, the three leads of Aliens end up together behind a local coffee house simply by staying put; they have nowhere else to be.

KJ (Michael Chernus) and Jasper (Erin Gann) are two thirtysomething ne’er-do-wells who have never managed to stray far from their hometown for long. KJ went off to college, but dropped out early on due to a psychological problem. They seem to pass all of their time in their hangout, with KJ singing songs and Jasper writing his first novel.

The two balk at first when Evan (Dane DeHaan), a high schooler newly employed at the coffee house, asks them to leave and take their vagrancy elsewhere. But if Evan doesn’t get the response he wanted, he gets something greater: Jasper and KJ gradually initiate him into their tiny fraternity. All three, it turns out, have been rejected from the world at large, making them the “aliens” of the title (The Aliens was also a potential band name once upon a time for Jasper and KJ.)

Gold knows just how to move his play along while still letting it breathe, making a comfortable rhythm out of Baker’s text. The fascination of Aliens comes from just watching these people be. They are in no hurry to get anywhere. Watching them onstage reminds one of sitting around on a lazy day with friends; that much of their interaction feels inconsequential does not mean it is boring. In fact, the characters’ stasis makes for a rich experience. Jasper and KJ feel that the world doesn’t get them, and have accepted it. Evan, then, is the play’s great hope since he is on the precipice of discovering just what the world might have in store for him.

One key element that adds to the rhythm in these scenes is silence. Baker has her three men-children not speaking almost as much as she provides them dialogue. Far from creating dead air, this adds to the authenticity. It is a choice that makes total sense; when friends know each other as well as Jasper and KJ, there isn’t a whole lot to say. (KJ’s drug use also explains his often muted effect.) We get as much insight into their friendship from what they don’t say as from what they do. Conversely, Evan’s natural hesitations and quiescence only emphasize his awkwardness as an outsider.

Baker’s road could be a tricky one to navigate if not for her immensely talented cast, who go to great effort in order to create Aliens’ effortless feel. Chernus synthesizes a ton of internal emotions in a physically disciplined performance that lets the audience glimpse some of the demons that taunt him. A second-act scene in which he repeats the word “ladder” as a calming ritual should be the stuff of legend. And Gann is every bit his match as his more charged friend; Japer channels his passions into his novel, though he doubts it may ever be heard (his protagonist remains nameless).

Evan ends up being the fulcrum on which Baker’s subtle action pivots. DeHaan is a phenom, suggesting how badly Evan needs to belong somewhere without ever showing it outright. Evan is a turtle emerging from his shell for the first time, and the marvel of DeHaan’s performances is how he chronicles this emergence in such small, believable gradients. There isn’t a false note to be found, particularly in the moments in which he watches and reacts to the things Jasper and KJ tell him throughout the show.

Baker’s ability to see and hear people as they are has allowed her to create characters that are compellingly real. I went in to see Aliens and I left feeling as though I had made several friends.

Dancing on the Plates of Memory

There is very little plot to Kinding Sindaw’s new production, Pandibulan, Bathing by the Moonlight. Framed as a memory, the Philippine dance drama shows the rituals surrounding a Yakan (a southern Philippines island) couple’s marriage, and the birth of their first child. And yet, bringing a taste of the richness of a far-away aesthetic, the dancers manage to convey a movement painting of the emotions surrounding the act of marriage. The play opens with a short scene, the only one in the play using spoken dialogue, between a US customs officer and a non-English speaking Philippine woman. As he belittles her we scroll back to an earlier time and place in her life. We are quickly introduced to the characters and themes that will lead the play along, as well as to the slightly mimetic dance language they will speak through. The lovely traditional music of gongs, drums and flutes begins the accompaniment as well, which will cue the audience into the emotion of each scene until the end of the play.

Evening falls as the women finish harvesting the rice, and the full moon rises, just in time for Dayang and Hassan’s parents to meet and arrange their marriage. Alternating female dances with male ones, we watch the bride and groom prepare for the ceremony. The women dance gracefully, the men with more vigor. While the leading dancers (Emil Almirante, Diane Carmino, R. Alexander T. Sarmiento, Nodiah Biruar and Joseph Ocasio – particularly charming as the monkey) carry the exactitude of the movements elegantly, one does wish for a slightly more rigorously trained supporting cast.

What brings the play to life is the imaginative use of inanimate objects. Each stick, carriage or sword fills the stage with a new idea. The unspecified symbolism of each object fills the dance with meaning. In Pandibulan, it is the plates that most successfully carry the audience both into the Pacific island aesthetic, and right into the present moment on the stage – how could you not be present to the site of six female dancers in elaborate costumes (by Flor De Chavez) dancing on and off of high piles of ceramic plates?

These plates play an important part in the marriage ritual, and these acrobatic dances give the drama a clear focus - ritual, to my mind the heart of the entire evening.

After the wedding the bride and groom are left alone, and quickly they turn competitive, each trying to stay awake longer than the other. In order to win, they tell stories, which we get to see danced in front of us. We watch fishermen, clam, crab, turtle, seahorse, monkey and even mermaid dances. It turns out that the bride and groom didn’t only tell stories that night, and in the following scene we re-encounter the wife, this time pregnant. In a touching shadow scene we watch the moon eclipsing, and the danger felt by the Yakans at this celestial event is expressed through demonic dance and music. The program (an extremely helpful guide to this near-wordless drama) explains the reason for the fear – Yakans believed the lunar eclipse causes fetal abnormalities. Some protection rituals ensue, and then the baby is delivered.

However, then arrive the less mythical troubles, in the form of video projections: soldiers, blood and tears, which force the couple out of their idyllic island. While the attempt of Director/Choreographer Potri Ranka Manis to charge the ancient movements with contemporary immediacy is applauded, the clash of beautified three-dimensional movement with generic news war-feed takes away from the emotional character of the play, unlike her more successful integration of modern strife in her last piece, Bembaran.

In a post-performance event Ms. Ranka Manis spoke beautifully about how she “brought her home with her” to this country. The work is alive, and is authentic to this time and place; but like so many New Yorkers, the tugging of nostalgia on the strings of this place is an integral part of the present experience, and often plays as big a role in our conception of the past as the experiences of the past itself.

Swedish torment

The uncomfortable start of August Strindberg’s 1888 tragicomedy, Creditors, brought to the Brooklyn Academy of Music by London’s Donmar Warehouse, probably has less to do with the new version by David Grieg than with Strindberg’s personal distaste for women’s rights. The playwright’s vehement attack on free-thinking women in this rarely produced drama produces some unintentioned laughter in the first quarter hour—mingled, to be sure, with the genuine humor he invests in the grim proceedings—before it settles into a fluctuating power struggle. Two men enter the lounge of a summer hotel. Adolph (Tom Burke), a painter turned sculptor, walks shakily and carries crutches. He is unburdening himself to Gustav, a middle-aged stranger he’s met at the hotel (designed sparely by Ben Stones all in white, reminiscent of Syrie Maugham’s décor, with some yellowing on the clapboard walls added for naturalism and only a whisper of dove-gray stripes on the cushions of the wood-framed furniture).

Adolph is suffering pangs of uncertainty about his wife, Tekla (Anna Chancellor), who has been away for a week. “My wife is a very independent woman,” he tells Gustav, who elicits descriptions of Tekla’s possessiveness and her jealousy at Adolph’s forming friendships. At parties, he says, Tekla’s hackles are raised if he talks with other men, “as if she wanted to keep me all to herself.” Strindberg’s portrait of Adolph as a man in an emotionally abusive relationship rings with truth. “When she smiles, I smile,” he says. “When she cries, I cry. Even when she gave birth—can you believe this—I actually felt the pain of her contractions.” It's telling that, as she has assumed the dominant role long reserved for the husband, he has become feminized.

Tekla, says Adolph, contains “the very essence of my being—harboring my life force.” Moreover, Tekla is a renowned novelist, whose initial successful book was drawn from her relationship to her first husband. But Adolph nurtured and trained Tekla, who was an abysmal writer, and helped her to her triumph. Like a parasite, she has leeched everything from him, including his ability to paint and, now, his confidence in her fidelity.

Gustav (Owen Teale) warns Adolph that the only way to regain his manhood is total sexual abstinence for a year; he also claims that Adolph may come down with epilepsy if he doesn’t cease intercourse (another laughable moment). Gustav, moreover, does some far-fetched psychologizing about Tekla’s previous husband, whose ghost haunts Adolph and Tekla’s relationship like a “creditor knocking at the bedroom door,” since it’s that relationship that really formed Tekla.

Adolph is persuaded by Gustav to thrash out his problems with Tekla, who is on a ferry to the resort as they speak. Gustav arranges to eavesdrop on the confrontation, and then to face down Tekla while Adolph listens behind the doors to the corridor.

In the next two scenes that’s exactly what happens; the drama deepens, and the stakes become higher. Adolph, in attempting to seize control of his marriage and make his wife subservient, endangers it. And when Adolph leaves and Gustav enters, Tekla is in for a shock. Strindberg ultimately suggests the ruin of both men is the outcome of the social emancipation of women.

Rickman’s fine production is suffused with dread, anguish, and emotional tension, helped by Adam Cork’s rich sound design—dripping water, ferry horns, distant doors opening and closing, and faraway footsteps drawing near (akin to the climax of Rear Window). Howard Harrison adds to the atmosphere with dwindling daylight and lengthening shadows from three large skylight windows on the pitched roof.

The actors are all superb. Chancellor’s Tekla doesn’t appear so unreasonable or horrific as she’s described. She’s a lively, loving woman with an independent streak and a smothering maternal quality, yet there’s no denying her destructiveness. As Adolph, Burke founders between adoration and agony, and he presents Adolph’s physical pain with subtle gestures, such as absent-mindedly massaging his thighs. Teale’s Gustav is stiff, authoritative, and quick-witted, gently feeding Adolph enough rope to hang himself; he segues smoothly from borderline charlatan to merciless avenger. It’s a credit to the Donmar Warehouse that this thorny period piece can still deliver so much food for thought.

Just the Facts, Ma'am

The Theater for the New City’s website and press claims, troublingly (to me, at least), that Barbara Kahn’s “The Spring and Fall of Eve Adams recounts the true story” of its subject. Yet, as far as I can tell, this much is true: Eve Adams (real name Eva Kotchever) “was a Jewish lesbian from Poland, who was proprietor of ‘Eve’s Hangout’ at 129 Macdougal Street in 1926, a tearoom where local poets, musicians and actors congregated to meet and share their work in salon evenings” (from the web site). We also know that Eve’s Hangout closed after Eve was arrested in a crackdown on gay and lesbian establishments and society. Prior to this, Eve and her salon had been vilified by the bigoted editor of a local paper called The Greenwich Village Quill (called The Parchment in the play). After her arrest, Eve moved to Paris where she lived, by some accounts, hand-to-mouth. She always longed to return to the States. Ms. Kahn’s account takes place in and around Eve’s Hangout and paints Eve in broad, sanitized strokes, so that she comes off as a kindly den mother rather than the avant garde provocateur described by some historians. Carefully offered as a saintly, nurturing matron, this likely well-scrubbed Eve (Steph Van Vlack) more closely resembles Mrs. Garrett from The Facts of Life than a radical lesbian intellectual in 1920s bohemian Greenwich Village.

Eve generously employs a young, searching, poor girl, and then generously welcomes another young, searching, poor girl (both are fictional characters); she offers wholesome dating advice (to fictional characters); she winkingly tolerates a ubiquitous, sharp and universally disliked patron (who is fictional); she heartily encourages the writing careers (of fictional characters), and forgives the lies and slights (of...well, you know) with tea and cheerful hugs. Has a kinder, gentler soul ever existed? Sadly, I doubt that Kahn is giving us anything close to the real Eve. At best, it’s a wild guess.

The production’s program states, more mildly, that the play is “inspired by a true story.” Yet, Ms. Kahn takes sometimes-shocking inspiration with the extant facts of Eve’s life. There’s a central plot twist, but it doesn’t ring true at all, not only because it’s fictionalized but also because it’s implausible, even in the context of the play’s own plot. Another problem is that the play is simply too long. You know you have length issues when you start labeling your scenes “Five-b.” We sometimes have to sit through Eve’s interminable and, frankly, not very good, love stories.

So, to get this straight: The Spring and Fall of Eve Adams is a mostly imagined account of the life of an historical person about whom we know some surprisingly few facts. Since she invents so many fictional characters (and two real characters--in name only--who may or may not have personally known Eve), Ms. Kahn might have been better off had she simply invented, rather than appropriated, a protagonist. Kahn’s Eve is not consistent with what is known of her. Kahn’s Eve would have been much too polite to hang a sign outside her salon (a fact the play uses) stating, “Men are admitted, but not welcome.” Kahn’s Eve is too timid and, frankly, dull, for such action--radical at the time.

There are two standout performances here: Anna Podolak as Amalia “Mika” Frank, a young woman whose mother disinherits her for her lesbianism, and Micha Lazare as Alice Hathaway, a longing young woman from Red Bank, New Jersey, in search of her freedom and identity. Mika and Alice start a tentative, innocent relationship. Ms. Podolak’s specialty is body language, and she can welcome or dismiss someone with a simple twist of her mouth. Ms. Lazare, for her part, brings wonder and joy to her character, free for the first time on the indifferent but nonjudgmental streets of New York City.

Deanna R. Frieman’s vintage costuming is chic and smart, incorporating both the 1920s college look and men’s period styles. And Mark Marcante’s set design really does replicate the look of a café or salon, with warm brick walls, period furniture, and even what looks like a kitchen at the back of the stage.

Well-intentioned as it is, The Spring and Fall of Eve Adams is a disappointing and fatally flawed play. Ms. Kahn is clearly sympathetic to her characters and, at its core, this play is about terrible injustice suffered by gays and lesbians in a particular place and period in our nation’s history. In a document entitled “Historical Background of the Play,” Ms. Kahn states, “I enjoy discovering people and events that have been omitted and distorted in history and popular culture.” Unfortunately, Ms. Kahn’s account may serve ultimately to further distort the life of a figure about whom we already know so little.

And You Thought Your High School Was Rough

Don’t be mistaken: Alice in Slasherland, the latest work by the geek-chic stage combat virtuosos that are the Vampire Cowboys Theatre Company, has nothing to do with Lewis Carroll’s fabled tale, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland; it’s not even connected to Tim Burton’s current film remake. But one would also be mistaken to miss out on this highly enjoyable, skillful production. The closest any action gets to Carroll’s classic is in the character naming of Slasherland, written by Qui Nguyen, directed by Robert Ross Parker, and playing at HERE Arts Center. Carlo Alban plays high school outcast Lewis, nursing a crush on childhood friend and cheerleader Margaret (Bonnie Sherman). Much to his chagrin, this feeling is not reciprocated. Margaret leaves a Halloween party with the more popular Duncan (Sheldon Best).

Frustrated, Lewis unwittingly channels some carnivorous demons to his high school, leaving it up to him, Margaret, and an odd, largely mute woman named, naturally, Alice (Amy Kim Waschke) to fend these deadly creatures off. Alice is an amalgam of La Femme Nikita and Samarra, the young girl from the Ring movies. Waschke’s portrayal has her speaking and moving in halting rhythms. We think she’s on the side of the good guys, but we’re never quite sure.

Slasherland could come off as merely mindless, derivative drivel if it weren’t for two things. First of all, the technical skill at play here (nothing strange to those who have seen other Vampire Cowboys shows like Fight Girl Battle World or Soul Samurai) is absolute wizardry. Nguyen’s fight choreography is adroit without ever crossing the line into being too violent; despite a healthy amount of blood spatter, Slasherland knows it is a send-up of teen horror flicks but never tries to enter that canon. It’s happy enough to mock from afar. Additionally, Matthew Tennie’s multimedia design provides for some hysterical moments, including a “sneak preview” that runs at the show’s commencement. Jessica Shay also is to be commended for her outstanding costumes.

The second thing elevating Slasherland is just how fun it is. Nguyen and Parker have invented some ingenious theatricalities to keep their show both fun and fresh throughout. These include a death montage set to Bonnie Tyler’s “Total Eclipse of the Heart” (don’t worry, it plays much better than it might read) and a teddy bear puppet named Edgar who joins Lewis, Margaret and Alice in their quest to annihilate bad guys. (David Valentine takes care of the puppet design.) Best deserves extra props, so to speak, for his ability to operate Edgar and personify him with hedonistic wit.

The Vampire Cowboys have also assembled a cast that knows how to deliver dialogue with the right dollop of camp. Alban and Sherman seem to be having a terrific time onstage and deliver great tongue-in-cheek performances. Andrea Marie Smith is hysterical as both a bitchy teen and an additional character who appears at show’s end who might be even more evil.

Waschke handles Alice’s craziness with care. On the page, her character is the hardest to understand, and therefore the least funny, but Waschke plays her scenes with such mastery that it is sure to elicit guffaws from anyone playing close attention.

The only element of Slasherland that feels gratuitous is Nguyen’s back-and-forth narration. The play skips around to moments in the past and then back to the present within the week where the show’s action occurs. It is actually more confusing to do this than let the play move linearly. I wasn’t sure at various points when Alice and Lewis had first met and how much they had bonded, and what the extent of Duncan and Margaret’s relationship was. Just let the demons wreak havoc and get their comeuppance in the proper order.

Fortunately, that’s what happens for the most part. It’s hard to re-fashion a movie of any kind for the stage, harder to still to do it well. And yet that’s what Slasherland achieves. Nguyen, Parker and the rest of the Vampire Cowboys have taken a dismissed movie subgenre and created a production that should be seen by all. Or else.

Good Acting, but still Thirsty

If someone were to ask me in one sentence what I thought of A Cool Dip in the Barren Saharan Crick by Kia Corthron….I would say, the acting is superb, it's visually stunning, but there are too many themes. This play centers around Abebe, a South African 20-year-old student (William Jackson Harper) newly arrived in the U.S. and studying to be a preacher. He also has an extreme fascination with water and a passion to save the world from ecological doom. Ironically, the town is suffering from a drought. At the top of the play Abebe is living with Pickle, a jolly black woman played by Myra Lucretia Taylor, and her rebellious teenage daughter H.J., played by Kianne Muschett. Both are recovering from a tragic loss, though H.J believes her mother in dealing with this death of her brother and father is not facing reality. Abebe has also taken it upon himself to comfort a town boy, Tay (Joshua King) who’s gone mute after witnessing the brutal murder of his parents. Harper as Abebe is consistently entertaining, impassioned, and in full command of his numerous, fact-laden speeches against corporate America, water bottling companies, and descriptions on how the two destroy our ecological system.

Corthron, our playwright, is also gifted at writing the characters' personal stories, infusing poignancy and humor. Happily, Harper and Taylor are just as gifted at the telling of their characters' stories, and more than once I was choked up. The play is very entertaining at spots, especially when Abebe is practicing to be a preacher. At one point he rehearses baptism and dunks H.J. in the bathtub. The play, seemingly traditional, takes a surrealist turn when dreamlike intruders make an appearance as Pickle’s level of coherency diminishes. By the end of the first act, we are left with a rather horrific image of the now almost-speaking Tay wearing blood-soaked pajamas.

The play skips time to seven years later when Abebe goes back to his Ethiopian village a day too late to mourn his dead brother Seyoum, played by Keith Eric Chappelle. Abebe is confronted with the fact that he did nothing to stop the building of a “mega damn” which displaced 5000 people in his village and caused Seyoum’s entire family to die. When Abebe returns for Pickle’s 50th birthday, everything seems normal, but Pickle has neglected to tell Abebe some very major plot twists. One, H.J has found religion after some drastic life changes and two, an industrial bottling plant helps employ the town but destroys the environment. These new revelations cause Abebe’s spirit to indulge in one of his only moments of defeat, but only for a second. On a quest to baptize H.J, all three take a journey to a beautiful creek (crick) where Abebe had once baptized and saved his first sinners. This moment might be the impetus for the title of the play as the creek has dried up.

Structurally, many of the plot and storylines that were set up in act one finish in the eight years not part of the play. This gives cause for much exposition but also a little disappointment. I would have liked to have witnessed what developed with Tay (King), the harmonica playing boy, rather than hear about his life tragedy. Now his role didn’t seem to have much significance.

Directory Chay Yew keeps the action moving and gives an overall tight production. Taylor is delightfully human in the face of dealing with pain. Muschett as H.J. ages her part well; though I did find her new found religion made her a little less interesting in terms of conflict. Chapelle gave quite nice contrast to his two parts especially his sensitive and comic performance as Tich, H.J.’s estranged boyfriend/husband.

The set by Kris Stone is gorgeous and works cohesively with the lighting design by Ben Stanton. I don’t think the rolling river would have looked so sparkling without the reflection of lights. One breathtaking vision had the stage transform to look like an ice pond with a figurative tree in the back. I am a big fan of details that tell a story so I especially appreciated the colorful magnets and pictures of children on the refrigerator in the first act in contrast to the stark white refrigerator eight years later.

This play is filled with compelling passionate characters with fascinating stories but the potpourri of messages and themes from Christianity to bad corporate baby formula left me at times overwhelmed.

Smoky Suspenseful Ride

While the audience takes their seats for John Ball’s In the Heat of the Night, adapted by Matt Pelfrey, you’ll notice a caged stage enveloped by gauzy curtains while a scantily dressed and overheated girl seductively dances from deep within. Approaching curtain time, the fog seeps in. One would think this sultry atmosphere was the start of a Tennessee Williams play, but this is clearly not the case. There is a history to this play. First it was a novel, then a movie, and then it became a TV series, but this is the first time it has ever hit the stage. Why? Because this racially charged drama is both compelling and powerful and, though set in the 1960’s, still has relevance. The most astounding thing about this production is the directing. The director, Joe Tantalo, faces a challenge, probably one of his own choosing, of staging a linear, multi-scened, seemingly naturalistic story in a theater in-the-round or square, as is the case with this theater. He does so without a set, furniture or props (minus five guns and a cigar). The committed actors mimed specific invisible set items and I honestly believed I could see jail doors being keyed open. Tantalo’s staging was inventive and created intensity during scene transitions. Additional moments filled with physical symbolic gestures coupled with underscored sound or music broke up the real time of the play. The juxtaposition of these intense moments in contrast to the naturalistic playing of scenes proves quite successful.

At the top of the play, Charles Tatum (Adam Kee) is found murdered, and Bill Gillespie, Chief of Police, played by Gregory Konow, is brought in. Virgil Tibbs (Sean Phillips), an African American, is discovered at a nearby train station, racially profiled and immediately arrested. These Southern police officers quickly discover that Tibbs, a police detective from Los Angeles, will now aid in solving the case. This sequence sets up a conflict between Southern bigoted cops and an unwanted black detective that will drive the play.

The racial hatred displayed as part of the South during this time, which I’m sure is authentically accurate with dramaturg Christina Hurtado and adapter Matt Pelfrey under the helm, is an upsetting reminder. It is also unique that each character has varying degrees of racist hatred and tolerance. The play develops as possible suspects rotate in and out of the crime investigation. If you’re into crime drama, which I am, one particular element is similar in structure to TV’s C.S.I. As each new suspect appears, a symbolic crime-like re-enactment is presented on how this person could have done it. The first time this stylized bit happened, I didn’t get it. I thought I was being told how this suspect killed him, but then after it happened again with the next suspect I realized it was to add to the mystery.

Konow, as the police chief, is extremely believable as a bigoted cop and quite a strong actor. Sam Whitten as Pete, one of the more racist cops, celebrated his prejudice so outrageously that I found myself gritting my teeth whenever he was onstage. Julian Nelson as the bereaved daughter, Melanie Tatum, is quite vulnerable and has a well-played scene with Nick Paglina, the actor playing nice cop Sam Wood.

Because of the “in-the-square” stage, the actors are placed in diagonals or corners to aid visibility. After a while, however, the actors start to feel locked in place. Just as this gets tiresome, Bryce Hodgson, a fresh talent, sweeps up the space with energy and much detailed physicality in both his parts as Eric Kaufman and Ralph.

The responsibility of the play depends in large part on the connection between Konow and Phillips. Phillips undeniably grasps the authoritative poise of a northern detective, but his performance tends to be one-note, which I feel takes away some effectiveness. I would have liked to have seen more human or vulnerable qualities, especially during scenes when he was trying to gain information from suspects.

By the time we are introduced to sixteen-year-old Noreen Purdy, Scarlett Thiele, it seems rather late in the play to develop a new plot. I believe that Tantalo might have agreed because this girl was the sultry girl onstage prior to the play’s beginning.

The set by Maruti Evans is effective, minimalistic and comprised of one broad symbol: a noose hanging from the ceiling, center stage. This noose heightens the themes of the play, especially when our L.A. detective stands under it. Evans also serves as the lighting designer and has an interesting light panel on the stage as well authentic looking flashing police lights. Costumes seem “of the period,” and Phillips looks exceptional in his suit. I was confused by Adam Kee’s overly snug suit. Kee plays the dead victim of Charles Tatum as well as two other characters, and at times I wasn’t sure which character he represented because of lack of variety on wardrobe accesories.

In terms of suspense, until the end I never had an idea of who the murderer could be. Having seen the movie such a long time ago, I had forgotten. But you can bet I’ve been inspired and have added In the Heat of the Night, the movie to my Netflix lineup. I can see why Godlight Theater Company would want to adapt this story to the stage, and overall they are quite successful at it.

Good Bett

Ninety years after its debut, it's easy to see why Zona Gale's 1920 play Miss Lulu Bett garnered the first Pulitzer Prize for Drama awarded to a female playwright. Her work is at once a sparkling comedy and a curt indictment of the social position of women in the early years of the twentieth century. In Gale's play, the eponymous heroine has resigned herself to being an old maid and earning her keep as the household drudge for her brother-in-law, Dwight Deacon, a puffed-up, small-town justice of the peace. Lulu's life turns upside down after Deacon's ne'er-do-well brother Ninian arrives for a visit. When the lonely pair accidentally marry due to a peculiarity in the local law, Lulu gets a taste of both love and independence. Although the dubious legality of their marriage eventually forces Lulu to return to her former life, her spirit has been irrevocably altered.

Gale tenderly portrays all the women in the show, each of whom is constricted by the roles they are expected to play in society. Some characters' struggles are obvious: Lulu's chafes at her invisibility while her sister Ina transforms herself into a wheedling toady for her husband. Others, like teenager Di Deacon, suffer more quietly. Each woman, however, is trapped by social expectations which pass them from father to husband with no opportunity to know themselves.

Miss Lulu Bett is unusual in having had two different endings. Gale's original, feminist final scene is reminiscent of Ibsen's A Doll's House, with Lulu, like Nora, departing her hometown to work and to discover her own identity. A second ending, incorporated into the original Broadway production after a negative audience reaction, offers the heroine another chance at marital bliss. Director Kathleen Brant's current production seamlessly reaches a conclusion which is both satisfactory and poignant.

Brant has crafted an excellent, intelligent production, although she could have found more variety in the second act, which falters and becomes repetitive. Fortunately, the humor and honesty of Miss Lulu Bett compensates for its flaws.

The production is blessed with a number of excellent performances. Laurie Schroeder is perfect as Miss Lulu, deftly handling the character's transition from an under-appreciated shadow to forceful woman. Gerrianne Raphael creates a poignant portrait of Mrs. Bett, a woman who has suffered such losses in her own life that she supposes her daughter better off having nothing to lose. Meanwhile, Mary Ruth Baggott's Diana “wiggles and chitters” charmingly, beguiling both her family and the audience into underestimating her emotional compass.

As the bumbling neighbor Neil Cornish, Michael Gnat brings humor and humanity to each of his scenes. Anne Fizzard, however, teeters on the edge of caricature as Lulu's sister, Ina Deacon.

Miss Lulu Bett is also well-designed. Craig M. Napoliello's set seamlessly changes from a small-town dining room to a porch, which serves as a symbolic and literal threshold between Lulu's circumscribed life and her potential future. Napoliello's design is enhanced by Diana Duecker's lights, which create the illusion of a much larger space in the tiny WorkShop Theater. The costumes by Anna Gerdes are simple, yet in one moving scene painfully reveal the deprivation that Lulu has experienced in comparison to her nearest relatives. Jeffrey Swan Jones provides an intelligently-chosen soundtrack for the production.

Zona Gale's Miss Lulu Bett does not provoke the shock that Henrik Ibsen's A Doll's House did forty years earlier. Nevertheless, it is a worthy play which has been lovingly produced. Catch it while you can.

Phantom Whim

Carmichael (Christopher Walken), the main character of Martin McDonagh’s new play, A Behanding in Spokane, has spent the last 47 years searching for his left hand. However, an absent palm and five digits is nothing compared to what is missing from this play: purpose. Behanding, playing the Gerald Schoenfeld Theatre, finds Carmichael holed up in a dreary hotel room in an unnamed town. Marilyn (Zoe Kazan) and Toby (Anthony Mackie) are a couple of scam artists who have answered his online ad and said they have Carmichael’s missing hand. (He explains that when he was younger some bullies had the missing appendage severed by a speeding locomotive.) Unfortunately, the couple has been caught red-, er, black-handed, when Toby provides a hand clearly belonging to a man of another race.

Carmichael then holds Marilyn and Toby hostage in his dingy room while he leaves to investigate a lead Toby has provided; he has lit a flame working its way down to a tank of gasoline. As directed by John Crowley (A Steady Rain), there’s no Hitchcockian tension here, though. He plays Behanding for laughs, and as a result, the stakes feel quite low.

McDonagh’s earlier plays, like The Beauty Queen of Leenane trilogy, The Lieutenant of Inishmore, and The Pillowman (also directed by Crowley), were masterful works but punishing affairs. They were as lacerating for the audience as they were for his characters. But they also provided thoughtful social and existential comedy (so, too, did McDonagh’s overlooked 2008 movie, In Burges).

Behanding is, I suppose, best described as a black comedy. Marilyn and Toby never really seem in peril. Its tone is humorous instead of tense, and McDonagh seemingly intends for his play to be taken at face value. Compared to his other plays, though, Behanding -- the playwright’s first American-set work – feels utterly lacking. Is he branching out, trying for something more commercial, or merely being lazy?

The play also suffers from a kind of identity disorder. It is unclear whether Crowley and McDonagh aim for realism or surrealism. Though both Marilyn and Toby sit handcuffed in the hotel room, a working telephone is within Toby’s reach. (In several humorous exchanges, Carmichael’s unseen mother calls on it.) If the show were aiming for realism, there would either be no phone or it should not work. And if Behanding skewed on the side of something more surreal, the play should emphasize that they know a phone is there but come up with contrived reasons not to use it. The current result makes the play feel unfinished and slapdash.

The excellent Sam Rockwell plays a fourth character. He’s Mervyn, the hotel’s desk clerk, who is just looking for an opportunity to save the day. I don’t know if Behanding was written specifically for Rockwell or Walken, but it certainly plays toward both actors’ irreverent acting styles. There are divergent effects, however. Rockwell specializes in playing disarming men-children, as in Choke and Snow Angels, so Mervyn is a perfect fit. But Rockwell tailors his performance to the character, making sense of the hotel employee’s quirks so that the audience understands where he is coming from when he is dealing with other characters.

Walken, on the other hand, plays vintage Walken here, and the effect is a distracting one. His shtick – tuff tawk and over-enunciation of odd syllables – has provided him with a lasting persona, but that persona can be a hindrance. It makes his performance feel like a caricature, and takes the audience out of the scene. Such familiarity with Walken’s demeanor also detracts from any threat the actor might possess in his scenes. His Carmichael makes one’s initial reaction one of laughter when one should be cowering. I would be interested to see how a different actor would approach this role. (It should also be said that Carmichael is offstage for a great deal of Behanding, and while he is, the play does not miss him.)

McDonagh saddles Kazan and Mackie with the play’s most thankless roles, though. The characters reminded me of half of the Scooby Gang; the two are so hapless one wonders how they ever thought they could pull off Behanding’s central scam in the first place. Mackie holds his own; he’s actually the only actor of the four who commits enough to making it look like his character might actually be in danger, and he does so while still embracing the play’s innate humor. Kazan, however, comes off as more amateurish. Her line delivery is manic and shrill. McDonagh intends for her to be alternately a clever operator and a damsel in distress, and I didn’t believe either persona.

It isn’t fair to penalize McDonagh for creating a play that is lighter than the rest of his oeuvre. In its defense, Behanding is diverting and will please anyone looking for a healthy dose of star power. Still, one cannot help but wish that beyond all the eccentricity, the show had something more to say.

The Ladies Who Lunch

Desiree Burch, Cara Francis and Erica Livingston offer no greater proof of the daring and immediacy to be found in New York theater than in their current work, The Soup Show. The three are part of the New York Neo-Futurists. The Neo-Futurists (or “Neos,” as they refer to themselves) are a group of self-actualized performance artists. Their mission is to create “a world in the theater which has no pretense or illusion,” with no suspension of disbelief. A prop doesn’t substitute for something else, and they use their own names rather than portraying character. In other words, to paraphrase La Cage Aux Folles, they are exactly who they are.

And who they are in Soup, sharply directed by Lauren Sharpe, are three confident and comfortable women, sharing themselves with an audience. Be warned: there is nudity, and plenty of it. From start to finish, pretty much, we see Burch, Francis and Livingston nude onstage. Yet this nudity is in no way offensive or shocking, In fact, after merely a few minutes, one is too busy listening to what the women have to say to be distracted by what they are – or are not – wearing.

Soup is essentially a variety act, a review of sketches tied together by the notion of female solidarity and resilience. At the evening’s commencement, all audience members are handed out pencils and instructed to sketch one of the three actresses. It’s a powerful move, and defines the difference between being naked and being nude – the former is vulnerable and the latter has power. They claim their appearance before the audience before anyone in the audience has the chance to feel embarrassed.

At the center of the stage, not to mention the show itself, is a big hot tub that the three women periodically enter but more often add various items from the evening into. Soup itself is a bouillabaise of stories taken from the performers’ own lives as well as interviews and images put forth by the media.

For instance, Livingston shares her personal feelings about the battles in raising her stepdaughter and the lessons she wishes for her to learn. At the same time, she creates recipe and tries to catch ingredients like eggs and flour into a mixing bowl – this could look somehow sloppy or misguided, but Livingston’s and Sharpe’s touch makes it both personal and a perfectly theatrical way to present how messy parenthood can be for anyone. (You can bet that those ingredients will also find their way into the hot tub.)

Throughout Soup, the performers intermittently quote from sources’ thoughts about women. While one reads, another holds a magnifying glass up against various parts of the readers’ body. One way to view this is that even when women are recounting one’s thoughts, their physicality will always also be under the microscope. All three performers are sublime, and it should be said, work so well together I found myself thinking of the three women as one cohesive unit rather than three separate actresses.

Sharpe’s show is both slick and substantive, moving at a fast clip but never too fast for the audience to process the humor and the emotions that have just been introduced. And while much of the show is deeply personal, it’s also raucously fun. Burch invites a man onstage and shaves half of his face. And in what is sure to be the evening’s most talked-about sequence, Francis demonstrates a special talent she has honed over time.

This combination of deep thought and crudity meshes together perfectly. It allows the show’s three stars to embrace who they are in their entirety. No one can ever be summed up by one simple description, or even a few. Soup explores how each person is a mash of complications and contradictions. One of this show’s key strengths is that beyond supporting any feminist perspective, it espouses a human one.

Another heavy moment of the show occurs when Burch strips down the notion of what motherhood can mean. This perceptive monologue is immediately, followed, however, by a request for anyone in the audience to step onstage and give them a hug. Who wouldn’t want to?

A Slice of Life

Every person has a unique story to tell. Danusia Trevino uses performance in order to share her narrative with us. Her play Wonder Bread traces one woman's journey from Poland to the US -- and sometimes back again -- through theatrical storytelling. There are many bright moments in this somewhat inconsistent piece that make it a tale worth seeing performed. The play follows her through her tumultuous life story. We see her at all stages of her life: as a child dealing with her parents, as a teenage girl seeking her international route of escape, as a young woman desperate to find herself and fit the skin of her new American identity. The events are told in and out of linear time; we jump back and forth from recent moments to those further in the past. This technique, although at times disorienting, highlights the connections between different aspects of her life. We see all of life's subtle causes and effects.

Trevino is quite charming throughout. There is a tender sweetness to her self-portrayal. Rather than using an ensemble of players to fill out the world of her tale, she plays every role in her life story, with varying levels of success in terms of believability. She uses iconic items that emblematize each "other" in her tale, evoking some essential aspect of that individual's self.

The stage literally becomes cluttered with items -- and strewn with tomatoes -- before the play is done. This clutter diminishes the overall effect of the stage picture somewhat. The progression of the narrative suggests that the final image should focus provocatively on Danusia. Instead, we see her almost engulfed by all the detritus of the events that brought her to this moment. Perhaps, however, that is the point -- Danusia will always have these bits of her past surrounding her. She will carry her past with her, no matter where she goes or what she does.

There are elements in this play that do not quite work. There are a number of physical movements and dances that do not quite come across as effectively as they might. Their meanings remain vague in terms of the larger story arc. Still, the stage space is well-utilized and the intimacy of the space emphasizes the confessional nature of the piece.

Overall, Wonder Bread is a sweet, personal story told by a lovable individual. It reminds its viewer to keep a privileged place in her heart for the place from which she came and for all those with whom she has come into contact. One never knows which little details could lead to compelling theater. It could be something as simple as one's first slice of Wonder Bread.