Unafraid of Virginia Woolf

Rebecca Taichman’s production of Virginia Woolf’s Orlando, a fantastical tale of sexuality, intrigue and droll social commentary, is the first of planned adaptations of novels that Classic Stage Company’s artistic director, Brian Kulick, has had on his mind for several seasons, according to a program note. Woolf’s model for Orlando was her aristocratic lover Vita Sackville-West, who lived on a medieval estate and was a poet, cross-dresser, and avid gardener in the 1920s. Sarah Ruhl’s model for her adaptation is Paul Sills’ Story Theatre—appropriately, since much of Orlando resembles a fairy tale, and Sills’ 1970 hit was a staged retelling of Grimms’ tales.

Yet Ruhl’s frank love of the prose is her undoing. She culls swaths of the novel and assigns the narration to various characters—apart from Orlando and Sasha, his true love, all the characters are played by a sterling ensemble of three men dressed in white uniforms—Tom Nelis, Howard Overshown and David Greenspan. Lush and lovely, the prose is still inherently undramatic, and the text is the weakest part of the production.

The story begins in the 16th century, when Orlando is invited to the court of Queen Elizabeth I (Greenspan, highly amusing and occasionally brushing up against Miranda Richardson’s QE I from Blackadder). To play the queen (mistakenly called “highness” rather than “majesty”), Greenspan steps into the front half of a bejeweled farthingale lowered from above.

At court Orlando encounters hangers-on and adoring females (each of the ensemble plays one of the hopefuls) and is the beneficiary of a filial relationship with the queen. He also tries to write poetry, but he lacks any imagination. Eventually, to escape a particularly odd admirer, the Archduchess Harriet Griselda of Finster-Aarhorn Scand-op Boom in the Roumanian territory (Greenspan again, doing a hilarious strangulated accent with a burr as he says, “You have the shapeliest legs that any nibbleman has ever stood upon,” and adding “tee-hee” and “ha-ha,” per Woolf’s text), Orlando flees to Constantinople. There, one night after a sexual encounter with a gypsy, the hero falls asleep for a week. When he wakes up, he’s a woman. Moreover, she’s destined to live at least two more centuries, with many more adventures.

Woolf’s overview of love, sexuality and history is enchanting, and probably a wonderful read. And even if one’s patience is often tried by the narration in the CSC production (the scarcity of it in a very late scene with Orlando and Harriet Griselda, who has revealed a great secret, is a refreshing lark), Taichman and her collaborators have staged the piece strikingly. Allen Moyer’s large square of green grass at center stage is reflected above by an enormous mirror with elaborately carved frame hanging at a tilt. Upstage are three golden thrones for the ensemble. And a miniature lighted palace is always present, on the floor or carried about. When winter comes, a large white cloth is drawn over the greenery.

Choreographer Annie-B Parson keeps the ensemble moving in dance as Orlando speaks at length, although Francesca Faridany has superb diction and passionate delivery that keep one’s attention riveted on her (so do all the actors, including Annika Boras as Sasha). Christopher Akerlind’s lights variously underline the story’s clarity or eerieness. Anita Yavich’s costumes of white for the ensemble are occasionally used to set off, for instance, large red ostrich fans wafted over Orlando in the Turkish capital, or a stunning cobalt jacket for Tom Nelis, who plays the heroic Marmaduke Bonthrop Shelmerdine, Orlando’s true love, and also shines as a frustrated female admirer.

“They had guessed everything of any importance between each other,” a narrator explains: “You’re so entirely sympathetic and you never take more than 10 minutes to dress,” says Marmaduke in a bit of praise that exemplifies Woolf’s typically sly social satire. Christian Frederickson and Ryan Rumery’s music and sound range from harpsichord, violin and baroque instruments to 20th-century minimalism as the centuries progress.

One’s response to Orlando may well depend on whether one has read the novel. To this reviewer, who hadn’t, the bizarre story is clearly told, but the result is highly theatrical without being a satisfying play. Indeed, when so much of world drama is so rarely produced—Wedekind, Schnitzler, Massinger, Marston, Marivaux, Southerne, Pirandello, just to name a few—one may fairly wonder why CSC feels it necessary to bring a novel to the stage at all. Shouldn’t the company concentrate more on unearthing works created with theater in mind, such as Ostrovsky’s The Forest last season? Orlando has some wonderful moments, but the top-heavy narrative keeps it earthbound. It’s the stunning visuals that outshine what is essentially a live-action version of books on tape.

Hipster Than Thou

As a long-time resident of the Italian-American section of Williamsburg (going on 17 years) and a one-time renter on Frost Street off Graham Avenue (two years), I was excited about seeing Belinda McKeon’s new play, Graham & Frost, at PS 122. Presented by The Sullivan Project in partnership with the Third Annual Festival of Irish Theatre (which runs till October 3), this 45-minute one-act centers on an ramshackle Italian restaurant and the trio of neighborhood residents who come together to bring it back to life. Aside from some fleeting moments by the performers, however, this show from the award-winning Irish playwright and novelist simply does not ring true. Perhaps if I didn’t live in the area I would have another opinion of Graham & Frost. But while there are a few genuine laughs and emotions, the characters are too broadly drawn: Benny, the gruff Italian-American butcher from the neighborhood; Sam, the hipster chef; and Luca, the Euro-Italian who bought the restaurant from his great aunt. All have secrets — some shocking, some ho-hum — that are gradually revealed.

Graham & Frost starts promisingly enough. The set design by Tsubasa Kamei and Jennifer Stimple captures the broken-down Brooklyn aesthetic. Sam (Dan Shaked, a recent NYU Tisch grad) enters the dilapidated establishment, strewn with religious iconography and showing signs of DIY improvement, to answer a Craigslist ad for a chef. He certainly looks like a Williamsburgian in his skinny jeans, Converse sneakers, and cardigan. But his costume begs the question: Would someone really wear that outfit to a job interview, even if they were a 20-something hipster?

When Benny the butcher (Steven Randazzo, a SAG/AFTRA/Equity member whose credits include Law & Order) arrives in a blood-spattered apron with a meat cleaver in his hand, one of those few moments of humor I mentioned also arrives as Benny pretends to be enraged at this upstart’s disrespect. But even Benny’s apparel raises the question of why a chef- and menu-less restaurant weeks away from opening would even have a butcher. What exactly is he chopping in a kitchen that doesn’t yet exist?

As the old and new converge in the characters of Sam and Benny, the playwright is clearly trying to examine the tensions between the old and new residents of the rapidly expanding Williamsburg. Benny comments that newcomers expect old-timers to act like The Sopranos. But instead of offering a complex version of Italian-American life like that seminal HBO drama, Graham & Frost indulges in cardboard caricaturization. Benny, in particular, is a goombah stereotype, clueless and useless. And Sam’s smarminess embodies the worst characteristics of the holier-than-thou bohemian that has come to represent the Billyburg hipster.

When the fresh-from-Italy owner Luca (Enrico Ciotti, a Neighborhood Playhouse School of Theater grad) enters, he and Sam strike a rapport due to the budding chef’s knowledge of Italian cuisine and the language itself. As the two young men converse in Italian, Benny becomes enraged that they are mocking him, since he cannot speak the language. This leads to confrontations between the various pairs that highlight the simmering resentments between all three characters. Violence ensues in the most unrealistic ways.

For instance, Luca tells Sam towards the end of the play that Benny is his friend. If so, then why does he not only humiliate the butcher, but also pull a knife on him? And why does Sam seem only to demonstrate arrogance and disrespect when, once again, he’s there to look for a job?

Although the script is problematic, the performers do inject humor in the right moments, especially Mr. Randazzo, who generates the most laughs with the somewhat stale jokes. Mr. Shaked has the hipster looks and attitude, but his character is cliché. At the performance I saw, Mr. Ciotti struggled with his lines. The direction by Thomas G. Waites could use more focus as well with characters many times loitering onstage when the two other actors are otherwise engaged.

In the Author’s Notes to the program, McKeon says that she has lived in the area since 2005 and “even since then, this neighborhood has changed.” The neighborhood has actually been changing over the last 20 years, when artists first moved to North Williamsburg to occupy warehouse loft spaces. That “gentrification” has since spread to surrounding neighborhoods like Bushwick and Greenpoint.

When McKeon asserts “a new community has been making these streets their own,” I think she marginalizes the Italian-American community in East Williamsburg that is still a prominent presence in the neighborhood, including Our Lady of Mount Carmel Church and the Giglio Boys. And ultimately, Graham & Frost oversimplifies the relationship between those residents who have been here for a long time and those who have just arrived.

You’re a Vampire, I’m a Vampire, Too

While attending The Little Foxes at New York Theatre Workshop,, an elderly woman behind me whispered to her companion, “She’s one of the biggest bitches of the theater!” about the lead character in Lillian Hellman’s 1939 drama. In the annals of stage history, few female characters are as evil incarnate at Regina Giddens. The play is a performer’s dream because of its savage dialogue. But although visceral in its physicality, this production of the modern American classic suffers from a lack of any hint of humanity that keeps the action and characters at arm’s length. The powerful performances, however, make the show worth seeing. In a 1939 review of the Broadway premiere, my favorite theater critic, Robert Benchley, called The Little Foxes “a sinister play about sinister people.” The story was based on Hellman’s own Southern family. Set in the spring of 1900, it concerns the psychological and financial warfare of the backstabbing Hubbards. They want to build a cotton mill on their plantation, with the play revolving around the machinations of sister Regina to gain a majority share in the new venture from her venomous brothers, Benjamin and Oscar. She wants to exact revenge for being left out of their father’s will, since only sons were considered legal heirs at that time. Although the siblings each display their own social-climbing ferocity, it is Regina who emerges as the queen bee of avarice.

When The Little Foxes first appeared, Regina was played by the larger-than-life Tallulah Bankhead. The 1941 film version — with a screenplay by Hellman — starred Bette Davis as one of the greatest villains of American cinema, according to the American Film Institute. Subsequent revivals featured Anne Bancroft, Elizabeth Taylor, and, most recently, Stockard Channing.

Acclaimed Flemish director and NYTW go-to guy Ivo van Hove of Toneelgroep Amsterdam once again teams with Obie Award-winning actress Elizabeth Marvel for this radical reworking. Their previous collaborations, Hedda Gabler and A Streetcar Named Desire, were highly praised for their eye-opening new interpretations.

Van Hove strips down a play to its basic elements to get to the core of its meaning. The Little Foxes is stylistically staged. With a plush staircase in the center, the floor-to-ceiling purple-carpeted set has the decadent feel of a nightclub. There are the barest minimum of set pieces and props. No time or place is mentioned in the program in an effort to bring the action into the present day.

In this austere setting, the performances stand alone — and they are worthy of praise, although sometimes bordering on camp. Many times I couldn’t help but think of the cartoon villain who twirls his mustache in delight at the suffering of his victims. The cast alternates between moments of control and rage. Characters are dragged and punched, with hair pulled and faces flush with screaming.

Marvel as Regina has the haughty air of a Southern belle, with a genteel smile that turns on a dime into a viperish snarl. She is manipulative and malicious. New Zealander Marton Csokas (who appeared in The Lord of the Rings) is like a coiled snake as bad-boy bachelor Ben. Csokas plays up Ben’s attachment to his sister as somewhat sexual, which ups the ick factor in his already icky character.

Thomas Jay Ryan, recently of In the Next Room or the Vibrator Play, is the violent family man Oscar, who physically and verbally abuses his wife and son. Nick Westrate (from this year’s revival of Boys in the Band) as Oscar’s offspring Leo shows that the apple never falls far from the tree. And Christopher Evan Welch (currently seen on AMC’s Rubicon) as Regina’s sickly husband Horace spends the last of his strength manhandling his wife, though his intentions are to end the Hubbard family reign of terror.

Even the supposedly innocent characters display hints of malevolence. Regina’s daughter Alexandra, as portrayed by Cristin Milioti (The Lieutenant of Inishmore) and Oscar’s alcoholic wife Birdie, in a standout performance by Tina Benko (Restoration), are not above their own brands of bad behavior.

Which leads to my biggest concern with the play’s direction. Although The Little Foxes has more betrayal and double-crosses in its two hours than an entire season of Dallas, this production completely lacks a humanity that would allow the audience to relate to the characters and understand them beyond their insatiable desire for wealth. There seems to be nothing besides their greed.

Are we suppose to believe these despicable people are continuing a pattern thrust upon them by previous generations? If so, then why the ray of hope at the end as Xan escapes the house of horrors? Van Hove may have stripped the play to its core, but The Little Foxes remains a gripping and unnerving portrait of a family of fiends.

Unstuck!

Trans-Euro Express by Gary Duggan, directed by Chris Henry, is simply a well-structured, well directed, and well acted play. The play, set in Dublin and making its US debut, is so universally appealing it could be set anywhere. I kept saying to myself, sometimes regrettably, “I’ve done that," and “that’s me!” The story revolves around Ballard (Charlie Kevin), a “stuck” Dublin commuter who never pursued his creative film ambitions, and who is now recovering from a failed relationship and regretting the loss of a potential romantic interest. The play starts off with Ballard (Kevin) performing a poetic mouthful to the audience, recounting the mundane routine of his commute and corporate job. Ballard is later joined by the three other actors: Patricia Buckley, Roderick Hill, and Katy Wright- Mead, who all credibly jump in and out of telling the story to the audience and playing the scenes.

The play feels like it’s in two parts. In the first, we meet Gram, (Hill) who has just come into rock music success with a new CD. Both men, recuperating emotionally from ex -girlfriends or ex-potential-girlfriends, decide to go on a journey by train to make a video for Gram’s CD. This journey, filled with partying and promiscuity encompassing Amsterdam, Berlin and Prague, is what gives the play its title. The first stop is at Ballard’s good friend Fleur, (Clarkson) a pregnant woman with whom there has been some unfinished business. One of the most heartbreaking and well-acted moments in the play is this truthful scene in which the two discuss their state of happiness.

Part two begins when attractive Anna (Wright-Mead) meets the duo in Berlin to act in the video. But when Gram and Anna seem to hit it off, Ballard gets ugly. Though you do empathize with Ballard, you are routing for Anna and Gram to get together.

Wright-Meade as Anna is quite convincingly charming. Charlie Kevin deserves special mention for his multi-layered portrayal of the suffering Ballard reaching his breaking point. His decline into drinking and partying is also horrifyingly realistic. Roderick Hill, as rocker Gram, really can sing and play guitar which boosts his rock star credibility up to high notches.

The set and lights by Paul Smithyman and David Bengali work together, combining projections on rotating screens. At times it gives the play a rock concert feel and I could see this play working in a much larger venue. One particularly “cool” projections effect is the moving landscape that really makes it feel as if they are traveling on a train. Costumes by Lena Sands are interesting, though I was a bit startled by the enormous size of the 6 month old pregnant belly on Fleur. Sound by Jeanne Wu and music choices energize the show.

When Ballard finally decides to make a choice and get unstuck, I must admit, I was confused with the ending. I don’t want reveal too much but my friend thought that without a doubt the ending was happy while I was not so sure. Maybe that was our gifted director Chris Henry and talented playwright Gary Duggan’s intention.

Dickens with a Twist

Brevity is not a word customarily used to describe the works of Charles Dickens. Writing in serial form, and essentially paid by the bulk, Dickens’s wealth and celebrity were the result of some of the most sprawling narratives in English literature. And so, condensing the most familiar qualities of the Dickensian formula into a spoof of little more than an hour in length is no small feat. Impressively, Emerging Artists Theatre’s production of Penny Penniworth is able to do just that, with good fun and more than a few laughs. Written by Chris Weikel, Penny Penniworth hews (for the most part) closely the requisite Dickens tale. After Penny’s true love is banished, Penny and mother become destitute. An anonymous benefactor provides for Penny while a relentless villain tries to marry her. Ultimately, secret identities are revealed, heirs are uncovered, villains are vanquished and loved ones return from oblivion. The Dickens recipe is unmistakable, which makes its ingredients ripe for riffing. Just as the Broadway production of The 39 Steps was a romping homage to the Hitchcock brand, so is Penny Penniworth to the Dickens brand.

Mark Finley directs a game ensemble of actors, made up of Christopher Borg, Jamie Heinlein, Lee Kaplan and Ellen Reilly. Each actor takes on an array of characters, from Mr. Pinchnose to Mrs. Havasnort to the Dodgeful Archer. Each actor inhabits these roles with great gusto, flavor, and dialects aplenty. They succeed in playing the buffoonery without cheapening it to the point of tedium. Outside of what’s called for in the text, they do not wink through their roles and the bits they are asked to play. With material like this, such restraint is refreshing.

Some of this credit should go to Finley, who keeps the action moving while maintaining the script’s clarity. He is aided by Tim McMath’s functional set and, in no small part, by G. Benjamin Swope’s lighting design. The play spans a number of years and transitions to countless locations. Swope’s efficient design helps the audience make these transitions along with the play.

The production makes little use of props. Morphing from one character to another, actors rely mostly on vocal and physical changes. The ensemble no doubt pulls this off, making the most of the costume each wears throughout by simply modifying some aspect of it to fit their shifting characterizations. Still, while the play is admirable for its adherence to economy, there are points that crave for more fun to be had with wild wigs or distinctive props that would playfully enhance the outrageous brio in some of Dickens’s archetypes. Such flair and variety may help prevent a flat sparseness that sometimes causes the play to sag. The production is at its best, such as with a splendid sequence involving a costume ball, when it incorporates more of these elements.

Minor quibbles aside, Penny Penniworth makes for a brisk and delightful evening. Even if you are a novice to Dickens, the play should still be accessibly pleasurable. And if you are a Dickens aficionado, be assured that some very juicy, very un-Dickensian surprises await.

Golden Ages

The lyrical sensibility at work in the delicately wrought Exit/Entrance no doubt comes from the poetic instincts of playwright Aidan Mathews, who has published three volumes of verse. There are beautiful passages in this two-act 1988 work about two Irish couples, both named Charles and Helen. Although the language often comes at the expense of dramatic momentum, the piece invites rumination. Each couple inhabits half the play. The first couple is elderly, in their 60s, and taking stock of their lives. They chat about their love of Greece and their time there many years before as part of their honeymoon excursion. But there is a melancholy feeling as well. Helen becomes upset that Charles won’t answer the phone, which rings periodically. She believes it’s their son Philip calling (named for Philip of Macedon). Charles becomes splenetic at her insistence, and lets his guard down momentarily for a slur that suggests his son is gay. Yet there’s something more seriously awry in their relationship. Helen is, perhaps, too overmastered by Charles. Has it always been so?

The act is an extended reverie about the couple’s youth and the promise of a lifetime of happiness, as well as a realization that time has ravaged them and there's probably no contentment ahead. There’s minimal action; the play develops through dialogue, and lighting designer Chris Dallos superbly sets the mood of this elegiac piece with waning winter light and car headlights periodically rolling in the window. The only interruption to their conversation comes from the apartment next door, where a young couple has moved in. Helen has met them in the hallway and spoken to the woman; she thinks the youngsters are nice, and she was struck by the smell of tea from their tea chests. But they’ve been hammering on the wall to hang some of their things, and Charles finally becomes so irritated he hammers back.

In Act II a young couple, also named Charles and Helen, are unpacking tea crates to move into a new apartment. They bang nails into the wall to put up their pictures, and they too rhapsodize over Greece. In addition, Helen fears an interruption to their evening by a third party, Stephen, who seems to be a constant visitor. She beseeches Charles not to let Stephen enter their lives on this night, as they unpack crates smelling of tea, and light candles for a romantic evening.

Although the play moves quietly along, there’s an underlying tension in M. Burke Walker’s production. Unlike the published script, there is no date for the acts, and that adds intrigue. Are we seeing the same couple some 40 years apart, first at the end of their lives and then at the beginning, à la Harold Pinter’s Betrayal? Or is the second couple inhabiting the room next to the first one? Are their names just by chance Charles and Helen, and are they merely a timeless parallel to their unseen neighbors? For instance, younger Helen (a warm, luminous Lara Hillier) mentions a conversation in the hallway with an older woman neighbor, but that might happen at any place or time. Is the universality of youth’s hopes and age’s infirmities what Mathews is showing?

The second half Charles (David L. Townsend) is, unfortunately, annoyingly pretentious, and one wonders why Helen puts up with him (though, indeed, the elder Helen clearly is a mollifier—if she is the same person). Charles II blathers about various Greek places like Epidauros, and he calls Helen “my little Penelope,” to which she responds, “Not Penelope. I don’t want to be Penelope.” Penelope, of course, was Odysseus’s wife, who remained faithful—and asexual—during his absence, and the atmosphere of unconsummated sex is thick in their interaction.

Unfortunately, the younger couple has a childish streak that manifests itself in an awkward scene with puppets. Nor can Townsend make his Charles appealing: he’s a twit, and his personality defies a connection, even over 40 years, to that of the later Charles. Helen’s continual worry that Stephen might come suggests a rival to her affection for Charles and the possibility that he’s homosexual—but older Charles’s anti-gay slur toward Philip seems to undermine the hint that as a young man he would have had any same-sex affections.

Yet Mathews’s point may be that time changes people in unexpected ways, not merely physically—by cruelly afflicting them with illness and a loss of hope and dignity—but perhaps also by bringing two disparate people, who shouldn’t have married, closer together. Though the unions of both couples seem imperfect, they leave a lasting impression.

Post-Colonial Entertainment Entertains but Does Not Grip

The Man Who Ate Michael Rockefeller excellently subverts some well-known stereotypes, but fails to involve the audience on a deeper level. At the top of the show, the ensemble enters, moving slowly like animals on the hunt, wearing wooden masks, war paint and small bits of cloth, surrounding the sleeping Designing Man (played by Daniel Morgan Shelley). Suddenly, Half Moon Terror (David King) wakes Designing Man and together they jump and yell animatedly in a foreign tongue. I feel like I’ve seen this before. The scene freezes, and a spotlight shines on Designing Man. In the tone of a curious scholar, he states, “Half-Moon Terror and I were talking politics at the edge of the swamp when the billionaire’s son first appeared.” The juxtaposition of image and sound is funny and unexpected: I laugh, not just at the actors, but at myself, at my surprise that a ‘savage’ could be articulate, intelligent.

Unfortunately, Designing Man’s initial tone of academic curiosity is the main note in Jeff Cohen’s adaptation of Christopher Stokes’ brilliant short story. Michael Rockefeller is directed by Alfred Preisser and produced by Dog Run Repertory Company at the West End Theater. The play deals with the disappearance of Michael Rockefeller, anthropologist and son of NY governor Nelson Rockefeller. M Rockefeller went missing in 1961 while studying the Asmat tribe in Papa New Guinea, and was never found.

Stokes’ smart and poignant story imagines the tale from the Asmats’ point of view, told by the tribe’s talented, sensitive artist, Designing Man. Cohen’s adaptation, though smart and funny, fails to capture the emotional depth of the piece that made Stokes’ story so powerful.

In the script, Cohen relies too heavily on the original text, giving large chunks of it to Designing Man, who pulls away from the action of the scene to deliver these monologues directly to the audience, as would a narrator. Much of what could be performed is instead described, and in Designing Man’s academic tone. We are again and again pulled away from the action, therefore unable to connect to the characters and deprived of moments of pathos.

An example of this is a scene between Designing Man and his wife, Breezy, (sweetly performed by the spry Shannon A.L. Dorsey). Designing Man has been wrestling with the word “love,” a word unknown (as word and concept) to the Asmats at this point in time. Breezy’s face sparks a revelation for Designing Man, and he says to her, vulnerably, earnestly, “Love. You are love to me.” Breezy stares, unresponsive, for a fraction of a beat. I lean forward, my heart about to break for Designing Man. But the scene freezes, and Designing Man pulls away, describing Breezy's response instead of letting us see it. I sit back, disappointed.

Various strengths of Michael Rockefeller are worth mentioning. I took particular note of the masks, designed by Kimberly Glennon. Worn by a chorus of Asmat spirits and made of a kind of light wood, they are hauntingly simple, portraying gaunt faces with deep empty sockets in place of eyes.

Unfortunately, the other design elements do not aid in turning these masked figures into ethereal beings. The set and lighting are insufficient; the designers do not manage to fully create a unified world. Granted, the specific quirks of the West End Theater, like its colorful, decorated walls, are difficult to hide; they are a constant reminder that we are in a theater, not Papua New Guinea.

In the end, the production’s main strength lies in subverting the audience’s expectations. Two scenes besides the opening are particularly striking in this regard. The first is a montage of sex scenes between Designing Man and his friend’s wife, Plentiful Bliss (the hilarious Tracy Jack), in which Plentiful Bliss attempts to engage Designing Man in serious debate amidst gruntings, thrustings and hair-pulls.

The most satisfying, though, occurs near the play’s end: at a pivotal moment, the ensemble breaks out in a highly energetic and entertaining ‘tribal’ song and dance, the likes of which we’ve yet to see in the play up to this point. At its close, the character Bringing Man (a solid performance by David Brown, Jr.) appears, speaking to us, the audience, as tourists who have just witnessed an ‘authentic’ ritual by ‘authentic’ Asmats. Suddenly we’re implicated as colonial travelers, made to question our enjoyment of the ritual we just witnessed.

Though these moments are entertaining, and momentarily give one pause, they fail to deliver lasting blows. In the end, the staged version of The Man Who Ate Michael Rockefeller does not live up to the richness of its source. Cohen and Pressier fail to fully translate the heart of the text into theatrical language; that is, spectacle, bodies onstage, the power of two people connecting, or failing to connect, in real time. One might as well stay home and read the story.

Double the Trouble

Identity is very likely the theme at the heart of Edward Albee’s muddled new play, which might fairly be described as absurdist comedy that falls terribly flat. If Albee is in a mood to be playful, the pleasure is all his. A woman known as Mother (Elizabeth Ashley), who has identical twins, cannot tell her grown children apart. It’s partly her own fault, as we learn from her companion, Dr. (Brian Murray). At birth she named one twin OTTO and the other otto. Now OTTO, resentful that their father left and also that Dr. has been Mother’s companion for 28 years, wants to do away with his brother. He doesn’t exactly want to kill otto, but just ignore him into non-existence.

But it’s more than the identical names for the identical twins that confuses Mother. (To be fair, she maintains that the names are not identical. There are those capital letters vs. lowercase, and then OTTO, she says, should be read from left to right; otto, however, reads from right to left.) Mother knows that one twin loves her and one doesn’t, but she does not know which is which. “Isn’t that sad?” she says. “I can’t tell them apart, either one of them. I’ve never been able to tell them apart—except maybe that moment when I first saw them.” Perhaps Albee means to comment on the fact that no parents can ever really know their children, but it’s not clear.

Meanwhile, OTTO impulsively wants to become Chinese. “I’m not happy being—what do they call it?—occidental?” he declares. “The future is in the East.” He also has designs on his brother’s girlfriend, Maureen, whose Irish and Cherokee heritage comes in for some borderline racist razzing from Mother.

It’s all just as loopy as it sounds, and Emily Mann’s production gets off to a slow start as Mother belabors her confusion over and over. At other times the action does pick up. One scene echoes Beckett: when Mother and Dr. go for a picnic, Dr. wears a bowler, visually connecting him to the tramps in Waiting for Godot,, who also wear bowlers and engage in dilatory banter. But if Albee’s parallel is meant to lend his work some heft, it only points up the shortcomings. Beckett’s tramps are undeniably, painfully human. Even in absurdist comedy, the characters have to be plausibly so, but apart from Natalia Payne’s worried Maureen and Preston Sadleir’s fine, flummoxed otto, they aren’t.

Nonetheless, Albee uses every theatrical and metatheatrical trick in the book to enliven it. The fourth wall is periodically broken, as OTTO narrates his plan and even engages the audience in a question-and-answer at times. He announces that “in Western theatre, there’s the tradition that if you lean against a proscenium just so, you can watch a scene and the people who are in the scene won’t see you.” And he proceeds to do just that. The confident and personable Zachary Booth does a fine job with the interplay, but his claim to be evil is overstated. He’s just a mischievous prankster.

Albee’s fondness for grammatical wordplay pops up in chatter about ways to pronounce “lama” vs. “llama,” the definition of “strait and narrow,” and the meaning of “ta-ta.” (It matters little that probably no one in his right mind misunderstands what “ta-ta” means; the wordplay becomes tiresome all too quickly.) At times the piece feels like a theatrical version of minimalist music. A theme is repeated and repeated and repeated. Then it’s repeated with a slight variation, and that’s repeated and repeated. Et cetera. (The plank walls and floor of the sparsely furnished set by Thomas Lynch are comparably minimal, as is Kenneth Posner’s subtle lighting, and both are much more satisfying.)

Early in the second act there’s an exchange between Dr. and Mother about why they are carrying a picnic hamper. It’s amusing for a bit, but, like too much of this play, it’s theatrical filler. And Albee pointedly uses a hoary deus ex machina, right out of Tartuffe and Threepenny Opera, for his climax, though it’s splendidly staged.

The actors certainly commit to the nonsensical premise wholeheartedly, particularly the redoubtable Ashley as Mother. She spends much of the first scene sitting in bed, swinging from querulous desperation to supercilious hauteur, but all her talent can’t make her character believable or sympathetic. Murray delivers his lines with requisite dryness and a good deal of his patented facial expressions. His glances and grimaces provide many of the choicest moments in the play, but the actors struggle to raise stakes that just aren't there.

The Scottish Play, Revisited

First things first: “MacBeth,” spelled backwards, is “The B Cam.” Well, almost. Playing on its near palindromic title, TheBcam/MacBeth sets out to pick up, like a filmic B Camera, the secondary shots implied by Shakespeare’s famous play. It does so by condensing the Shakespearan text, juxtaposing it with new work by Don Nigro, splattering live and prerecorded video feeds across the backdrop, and choreographing a few zany, full company movement pieces. Such an approach ought to square neatly with the Inertia Production’s mission, as the company seeks “new ways to synthesize text, physical performance and media.” Unfortunately, this production offers less synthesis than it does incoherence. MacBeth is perhaps the mother of all horror stories, yet under the direction of Kevin Kittle, TheBcam/Macbeth forgoes the original’s fear factor, and with it, its dramatic tension. Maybe because the production focuses so heavily on the ripple effects of the play’s themes, the Macbeth segments here serve more as source material than as dramatic content. It’s not that the Shakespearean performances are uneven -- just the opposite. As Macbeth and Lady MacBeth, Charlie Sandlan and Danielle Liccardo are consistent to the point of predictability, which prevents the cautionary tale of power hunger from achieving a compelling depth. Their most famous lines (“Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,” and “Out, out, damned spot!”) come across as mere placeholders, marking the inexorable progression of a familiar plot.

The company fares better with the original material, written by Don Nigro and the ensemble. In particular, a series of exchanges between a pair of young teens (Robert James Walsh and Carrie Watt) sparks with a palpable unease from which the whole production would benefit. The production suggests a relationship between the contemporary teens and a kitschy pair of fifties housewives, yet their oblique connection doesn’t make a lot of sense, and the housewives’ alcoholism is unconvincing as high camp.

Additional contemporary sequences include a diatribe against the perils of being an attractive single woman that is as fresh as a rerun of Sex and the City, though Liccardo delivers it with appropriately self-assured indulgence, and an imagined game show in which a contestant (Michele Slater) identifies YouTube videos by the horrific things YouTube commenters have written about them. The game show scene is an inventive, insightful take on contemporary aggression, yet rather than integrate it into the production as a whole, Kittle relegates it to the intermission, when much of the audience is out of the house, and bound to miss it. That’s a shame, because the YouTube game show, more than any other element of the production, elucidates the Shakespearean themes of power, cruelty and spectacle within new media.

The original video segments, designed by Theo Macabeo, are better integrated into the performance, though for a production that aims to take mediated elements as a central theme, the images do surprisingly little. Projected against the painted white backdrops of Doug Durlacher’s sets, TheBcam/Macbeth’s mediated images compliment the production much as a shifting scenic painting might. They are overpowered by the specter of the YouTube video which closes the intermission and, for those who catch it, creepily haunts the play’s second act.

At two and a half hours, TheBcam/Macbeth is a long production that encompasses a lot of disparate elements. Still, audience members most excited by the production’s promises should stay in their seats for the intermission.

Sight for Sore Eyes

Christian Masciotti’s Vision Disturbance , playing at the Abron Arts Center, is a variation on the doctor-patient relationship with some pleasant surprises. A socially awkward ophthalmologist with a poor bedside manner prescribes classical music for his patient’s eye disorder. It’s true the music can relieve stress, but is it enough? In the midst of her divorce, Mondo, a middle aged Greek Women played by Linda Mancini, awakes one morning to find that her eyesight is impaired. As she describes to Dr. Hull, “I looked up and the chest of drawers, like someone took a hammer. . .The whole room, everything was pieces.” She is suffering from terrible migraines and has lost all sense of depth perception. Add to this the mental stress of discovering that her husband is having an affair and has moved in with the other woman, it is obvious that Mondo is need of medical attention. Dr. Hull’s prescribes symphony tickets, Bach and Tchaikovsky. Mondo, although a lover of classical music, is not impressed by the prescribed therapy but continues to see Dr. Hull, played by Jay Smith.

It seems as if both Mondo and Dr. Hull are suffering from a similar ailment: loneliness. Mondo drives much of this story, never failing to update Dr. Hull on the latest antics of her ex-husband, and Dr. Hull is an eager listener. At one point, Hull suggests that Mondo come in for an extra session, preferably in the afternoon. Mondo says she is only free in the morning. Without even checking his calendar, Hull says “That’s fine. I had a cancellation.”

In Masciotti’s world, all the senses are in fact disturbed. For Mondo, her limited sight affects her hearing and listening to classical music is a form of torture. The inclusion of both live music - Mondo’s attempt at clunky improv on the piano juxtaposed with recordings of classical pieces - offers a lovely contrast. When the piano fails to relive Mondo’s stress, Dr. Hull gives Mondo a drumstick and recommends that she bang on a cymbal until she feels better.

Director Richard Maxwell’s decision to stage Vision Disturbance with a sort of myopic direction is on point with the essence of the play—being limited in sight, in space, in expression. The set, two chairs, a simple wooden floor and matching wall panel obscure the larger theater space, providing a visual limitation for the audience. Mondo’s piano playing prevents us from fully hearing the classical music that she is mimicking. Like Mondo, we cannot see the bigger picture. However, I am not sure if this narrowing served the overall production. In a two-person play with limited design, the performances are central key and Dr. Hull’s clinical monotone performance veered towards the tedious.

The final moment of the play offers a triumphant, symphonic revelation that should not be missed. It would have been interesting to see if there had been more opportunities to reveal some of this depth earlier in the production. Overall, the “big picture” that emerges in the final scene is one worth seeing.

Still A little Hungry

Feed the Monster, a one-woman show with a live rock band that is written, performed and produced by Stephanie Ehrlick, played to a packed high-energy audience Wednesday night. Stephanie Ehrlich played the fictional character Rita Emerson a wannabe rock star who left her Jewish, suppressed, boring parents to pursue a rock career in the mid 60’s and make her mark. This story involves that journey from home to rock goddess and back to present day 1985. Overall, the play is well-crafted structurally. Certain themes or back stories are stated but don't hit you over the head. Early in the play it is revealed that Rita wasn’t encouraged creatively as a child, but, years later, when she returns to ailing parents, she realizes their incredible sacrifices. I loved the uplifting scene when Rita makes it her mission to encourage children, especially women, to be themselves in "I’m Gonna Shout," an original energetic song by Jim Keyes (composer and band member). The perfect ending for this show involves a call-back to an earlier inspiring scene where the traditional "Joshua Fought the Battle of Jericho" is celebrated. That song resonated in my head well after the show was over.

Ehrlich has a true rock-voice similar to that of Janis Joplin. It makes sense that she chose to create and portray this character, modeled loosely on types like Janis. Her band, two multi-talented musicians and composers, rocks just enough not to be intrusive. The music is a combination of original rock numbers and traditional rock numbers. Kia Rogers, as lighting designer, does a great job in creating a night club feel with Howard Rappaport, sound designer, supporting with appropriate reverb and echo effects. As a backdrop, a projector screen displays various top-notch graphic styled 60’s artwork by Gregory Nemec and Todd Spenceman, which relates to parts of the play.

Ehrlick as an actress is quite adept at comedy, specifically in playing the broader characters of her mother, her father, and her friends. She has some funny bits as a folk singer and one hysterical moment when she gets a job on a kids show doing vodka shots between singing lyrics. As a narrator, however, Ehrlick/Rita falls short. She doesn't have a compelling reason to tell and sustain a through line. I asked myself a couple times why she was even telling this story. Her vocal energy as Rita is low and her stories have an overlaying feeling of regret, as if she has given up. Rita also refers to herself as a 250 pound overweight woman during the span of this journey. Erlich, an ultra-attractive actress, doesn’t have a weight problem, so I kept waiting to hear the juicy tale of how she lost all that weight.

In Ehrlick’s bio, she expresses that after 20 years of working in the non-profit world, turning 40 with her life was passing before her eyes, she realized she needed to sing, write and perform. In my opinion that’s a story that is quite compelling. I suggest she write about that in her next show; I’d come to see it.

Hiding Out

Protected, written and directed by Timothy Scott Harris, is about the sacrifices people choose to make for their loved ones, and the new directions these lives take as a result. We meet Langley Peterson (Jeff Paul) just as he has begun a new life, transplanted from New York to Albuquerque as part of the Witness Protection Program. Mourning the life he left behind (for reasons audience members can discover on their own) and fearing new connections he might have to make, Peterson keeps himself at a distance from others. But those pesky others just won’t leave him alone! His neighbor Mirna (Cam Kornman) snoops on him and then tries to play yenta with her OCD daughter Debra (Dee Dee Friedman), who has also rejected a life in New York to come to her mother’s aid. Langley’s new colleague, Matt (Matt Walker) is anxious to find a friend and thinks he might be able to win one over in the new arrival. Langley, meanwhile, is still trying to reconcile himself to this new life.

Harris shows a nimble hand as director, guiding the show along at a laconic pace and letting his actors be. But what he has written is more situation than story. Protected feels more like the pilot episode of a television series – Lost in the Southwest, perhaps? – than a complete work. We’re watching a group of quirky characters come together, setting the stage for future hijinks and misunderstandings (a major thread involving Langley unwittingly inviting Dee Dee to a gay bar gets way too much attention here). Still, the cast makes these off-kilter characters likable, especially Paul, who makes Langley appear as though he could come unhinged at any second. It’s a group that makes life in Albuquerque seem pretty darn tolerable.

Protected is part of the 2010 New York International Fringe Festival.

MISS KIM

Miss Kim, a play by Gina Kim and Ryan Tofil in the NY Fringe Festival, centers on Gina Kim’s true life story thus far. Kim is a Korean American woman whose past childhood trauma of incest and later rape deeply affected her and caused her to engage in self destructive patterns. Kim’s repressed Korean upbringing discouraged her from acknowledging or dealing with this pain and the tragedies in her youth. Revealing her story in play form certainly lets all these gritty secrets out of the bag, and Kim bravely doesn’t shy away from them. The show goes back and forth from narrative to flashbacks in which four other non-Asian actors, Tessa Faye, Justin Gentry, Mathew McCurdy, and Ryan Tofil, play numerous characters in scenes with Kim. Kim, along with Cristy Candler, a very American-looking redhead, share the title character of Miss Kim. At times this convention of two actresses in the same role energizes and adds humor to the scenes, but, on occasion, I found myself wondering why there needs to be two actresses playing the same part. Kim, a very likable actress, at times fails to capture the emotional rawness the role requires. Perhaps Kim's multiple roles as playwright, producer and lead actress are too much for one plate.

The play, by Kim and Tofil, could benefit from some trimming, especially when the same information or stories are being retold with no new information. However, it is lightened up nicely with quirky, contemporary dialogue.

One highlight is that all of the talented actors give solid, performances and work as a cohesive ensemble. They are responsible for a surprising amount of comic moments in a drama of this subject, and are equally skilled in presenting the harrowing re-enactment scenes of Kim’s gritty and harsh traumas. Director Mathew Corozine deserves high recognition for orchestrating such a seamless show. Stand-out performances go to Mathew McCurdy as the incestuous uncle and rejected date,Vladimir, and Ryan Tofil, whose overall physical and vocal variety in his characterizations impressed. Tofil also was quite endearing as Justin, a love interest.

Lighting designer Kia Rogers manages well with a limited light plot. I did sympathize with Rogers when, at times, the actors' blocking and their light focus were out of sync, which can happen in festivals when multiple shows share the same light plot. The set, which consists of stage boxes, serves the physical actors well.

Overall, Miss Kim is an enjoyable show and I left the theater uplifted in the knowledge that this woman has and still is overcoming these painful traumas. She even started an organization on the subject: ARAI-Awareness of Rape and Incest through Art: http://www.ariany.org. The final cathartic moment, when Kim thanks and hugs the actors in a goodbye scene referencing the Wizard of Oz, is a nice touch.

A Leopard and His Spots

In Randy Cohen’s sometimes disturbing monologue, The Punishing Blow: An Illustrated Lecture Delivered By Order of the Orange County Criminal Court, a pompous and unlikable professor named Leslie White (Seth Duerr) is inconsolably irked that an Irish judge has forced him to atone for an anti-Semitic rant following a drunken automobile accident. His sentence: to deliver a community lecture at the Orange County Public Library. Leslie must choose to speak about one figure from a list of the “100 Most Influential Jews of All Time.” (If you’re curious, Jesus is # 2 on that list and Moses comes in at # 1). Leslie picks # 82, an 18th century Sephardic bare-knuckle boxer named Daniel Mendoza, who became a tough-as-nails ethnic hero at a time when “Jew baiting” was a popular pastime on London’s streets. Our lecturer, though, in this highly recommended production, has little intention of atoning for anything. Ascribing ulterior, mercenary or selfish motives to Mendoza’s every act (e.g., his agreement to proceed with a bout scheduled on Shabat is seen by Leslie as particularly loathsome) and positing dubious theories based on his research and “brilliant” conjecture (of course, Leslie declares, despite scant evidence, that Mendoza and his mentor were gay lovers), Leslie hijacks the judge’s well intentioned but naïve sentence and systematically contorts Mendoza’s virtues into stereotypical vices. Thus, the pugilist’s strategic thinking becomes deceit in Leslie’s description. Leslie rationalizes, fully aware of his own deficiencies: “Mendoza always discovered a justifiable motive. People do.” When Mendoza progresses from street brawls to money contests, Leslie snorts, “Does anything convey reality more powerfully than money? You know: to certain people.”

Leslie makes half-hearted denials of his anti-Semitism. He purports to direct his diatribe against the brutality of the sport of boxing. We don’t believe him because he doesn’t believe himself. “It’s self-deception that we need,” he even declares, approvingly, at one point. When he recounts how Mendoza took a job as a traveling salesman, Leslie betrays his seeming admiration: “How Arthur Miller. How Jewy. Sorry: Jewish.” Perhaps the key to understanding Leslie’s dangerous bigotry comes in a line he utters about two-thirds through the play: “It takes sophistication to hate properly." He knows more than you do. He’s thought out his racism, and since it’s not a kneejerk reaction, he’s ok with it.

Smug, sardonic and condescending, Leslie also is often bitingly funny. Mr. Cohen, who once wrote for both Rosie O’Donnell and David Letterman, has a lacerating wit; Leslie peppers his lecture with mean-spirited jabs at the audience and at his wife (he continuously refers to her, sarcastically, as the “Beloved Spouse”), who, behind the scenes, is incompetently running the overhead projector.

The young Mr. Duerr, who also directs the play, is surprisingly convincing as a middle-aged professor. He never falters during the 85-minute production and he completely nails Leslie’s superior and haughty personality, so much so that you may fight the urge to jump the stage and wring his neck.

The play slowly reveals the true extent of Leslie’s unhappy existence. If there’s a drawback to the script, though, it’s that Mr. Cohen never explains exactly why Leslie hates Jews so much; there’s no history that helps us understand why an otherwise intelligent and capable person who, in his heart, knows better, bears such irrational vitriol for an entire race of people.

The Punishing Blow presents an irreconcilable scenario that may be difficult for some in the audience to accept. To his credit, Mr. Cohen declines to moralize. Court-ordered community service will not likely rehabilitate this hardened anti-Semite; and one of The Punishing Blow’s virtues is that Cohen refuses to wrap everything up in a tidy package for us. Having said that, I recommend this play without reservation. Just don’t expect to go home feeling all warm and fuzzy.

Gay Life Lessons

Though shows focusing on homosexuals have been unusually frequent this past year, Jonathan Tolins’ ambitious, bittersweet new play about gay men has a depth and subtlety that few dramas can muster in any season. Secrets of the Trade examines the coming-of-age of a young gay artist: it touches on the rocky relationships of parents and children; the coming-out process; finding a mentor; and pursuing one’s dreams (and sometimes failing), yet its various concerns cohere into a satisfying whole. It’s a smart, richly woven tapestry whose meanings and patterns may not emerge fully by the end. As a really good play should, it sends one away with questions and a desire to talk about it. The central relationship in Secrets of the Trade is between a mentor and his protégé: at 16, young Andy (Noah Robbins), a bright theater aficionado and would-be artist, writes a fan letter to Martin Kerner, one of the leading directors and writers in the medium. As the play moves through the next decade, they connect, and Kerner becomes a strangely passionate yet volatile adviser to Andy, who expects a chance to work on a Kerner show, even in the smallest capacity, but never gets it.

As the play marches through the 1980s—John Gromada provides a sound bite that places it right at the start of the Reagan era, and he contributes the tuneful music as well—Andy goes to Harvard, becomes involved with the Hasty Pudding theatricals, and waits and hopes for Kerner’s calls and letters. They keep in touch, occasionally speaking by phone or meeting for lunch. Amid the minimal but effective sets by Mark Worthington, Robbins shows a slowly maturing Andy, alternately confident and uncertain, who is not without doubts, but who hangs his hopes on his idol. The slightly built Robbins often sounds like a teenage Woody Allen, but he's superb both as a precocious teenager and a confident, resentful adult who finally challenges his icon.

John Glover tears into the role of Kerner, a monstre sacré who is by turns encouraging, temperamental, engaging, rebuking, and sympathetic. It’s a grand part that allows an actor a multiplicity of emotions, and Glover seizes it wholeheartedly.

Director Matt Shakman skillfully keeps questions hanging as long as possible. Is Andy gay? Does Kerner have a sexual interest in him? Does Kerner himself know it? And what is Kerner’s relationship to his assistant, the ever-watchful Bradley, played with cool, sphinx-like observation by Bill Brochtrup? Bradley is a constant in Kerner’s life, and his big revelation scene packs a punch, but the play is rife with surprises.

Shakman also stages the comic scenes beautifully. In one imaginative dream sequence, Andy is Charlie and Glover plays Willie Wonka—in Andy’s words “this magnificent, exasperating older man who was giving him the keys to his kingdom…”

Despite his gay mentor, Andy’s parents are a crucial part of his life. His mother Joanne, whom Amy Aquino invests with a heavy dose of skepticism and regret, was a would-be dancer who once auditioned for Kerner but wasn’t hired. She knows the risk Andy runs in setting his hopes too high.

Mark Nelson brings heart, encouragement, and paternal pride to Peter Lipman, who wants his son to succeed, as any parent would. But Peter, an architect who once met his own idol, still smarts from the disastrous and hurtful results of that encounter. Indeed, if architecture is the most public of arts, then all the characters are artists with different experiences of success and failure—and ironically Peter is, with Kerner, the one who has succeeded at his chosen profession, but with a decidedly more humane disposition. Yet it’s impossible for him to fill the role that Kerner does.

Tolins suggests that a parent can’t really mentor a gay child the way an outsider can, and that only a gay mentor can assist a gay protégé like Andy with accepting his sexuality. “Andy came to me,” Kerner tells Joanne, “because I can give him what you can’t…. Permission to become himself, as fully as possible.”

But Secrets of the Trade also suggests that no artist can chart another’s path to success or tell him what he should do. It’s a lesson that Andy ultimately recognizes in the rueful moment that closes this deeply honest play. “Nobody helps anybody,” he tells his mother. “Nobody can. Not the way you think.”

I Love Lucidity

One-act plays need not be throwaways. The format can be memorable and powerful. The five short plays that comprise Encounters (in a non-lucid state) are, regrettably, neither. And that’s a shame because the young Rising Sun Performance Company has been forging a reputation for solid, albeit low-budget work, such as this summer’s The Last Supper. I’m not even sure I would credit any of the works in the present collection as plays so much as I would label them sketches. Stacey Lane’s too-long “Residue” frames the set and then continues with interstitial reprisals, like an irritating MC. Lane’s writing is breathless but dull. Despite the flatness of the material, Anastasia Peterson does a terrific job as Eleanor, a frenetic and confused young woman, reliving archetypal dream states: cheating on one's spouse, failing high school, dying, and public speaking. Eleanor wishes to learn the skill of “lucid dreaming," in which the dreamer can control her dreams' outcomes.

John Patrick Bray’s “Cookies,” an ostensible comedy about mean kids, is a weak skit that goes nowhere. Grownups who talk and act like children are always creepy, and it’s much worse when they have nothing interesting to say. Mark Harvey Levine’s “Shakespeare Lives!” in which he imagines the bard as an undead zombie, is corny, silly and, hopefully, bad on purpose.

In Rebecca Jane Stokes’ “Binge Honeymoon,” a newly married couple (Anthony Mead as Ted and Becky Sterling Rygg as Luanne) returns to their hotel after a 24-hour post-wedding drinking binge. Luanne fears that she’s a suddenly changed person because of her new status. Ms. Stokes’ script has a moment or two but mostly serves up warmed over jokes:

LUANNE: (head in hands). I don’t believe this. Am I going crazy? TED: You’re not crazy. You’re drunk. LUANNE: I’m Irish!

Thomas J. Misuraca’s “Meet Up,” a sketch alluding to the ubiquitous social networking phenomenon, is the most well-written and acted of the bunch. Ms. Rygg plays Cyndee, an intrusive exaggerator whose obnoxious behavior masks insecurities and loneliness. At a tapas bar get together she encounters Jane (Mariana Guillen), a new Meet Up organizer who doesn’t yet know enough to avoid Cyndee like the plague. Revealing their various problems in an overwrought Oprah moment, they form a kind of bond. Ms. Rygg, who can play vapid extremely well, has comedic chops of the absurd variety (when she catches the waiter looking at her, she bellows, hilariously, “Men are raping me with their minds all the time!”) and Ms. Guillen admirably plays Cyndee's slightly repressed foil.

It’s obvious that much if not all of the work here comes from very new writers. In and of itself, that’s not a bad thing. Yet, the unoriginal and uninspired majority of these five sketches come across like sitcom pilot rejects rather than thoughtful, measured works. I would recommend that the playwrights read more classic short plays and try not to bowl the audience over with cleverness.

Having said that, it’s difficult to believe that these were the best submissions to come across the desk of Akia, Rising Sun’s Artistic Director. Hopefully, Encounters (in a non-lucid state) is an aberration on an upward climb for this promising group.

I sat through this so you don’t have to. In the end, this mishmash might best be summarized as, well, non-lucid.

Passion Plays

For its seventh season, Redd Tale Theatre Company, in residency at Nicu’s Spoon Theater in Midtown West, has taken on two classics in repertory. Each runs about two hours, with William Shakespeare’s Macbeth a little bit over at 130 minutes and Pierre Carlet de Marivaux’s Triumph of Love a little under at 110 minutes. Seeing two shows in rep allows for interesting contrasts, as sets are used twice, themes reoccur, and many of the actors perform in both plays. While tightly directed by the company’s artistic director Will Le Vasseur, Macbeth and Triumph succeed only intermittently in being completely compelling evenings of theater. There are, however, strong performances in each and some innovative directorial choices in “the Scottish play” in particular. Redd Tale’s “tightly edited version” of Macbeth is the more enjoyable, more engaging of the two. The weird sisters open the play with their supernatural mojo, standing on a black-lit rune resembling the symbol on the cover of the fourth Led Zeppelin album. As the play progresses, the witches retreat to three different corners of the stage where they stand motionless — observing. They also occasionally become minor characters, adding an interesting twist to their manipulation of the action.

But the most important ingredient in Shakespeare’s tragedy of politics and ambition is two lead actors who can inhabit the guile and guilt, might and madness of the characters of Macbeth and his social-climbing wife. While Redd Tale co-artistic director James Stewart, as the doomed regicide, is technically proficient, his performance is unfortunately emotionally deficient. His Macbeth never truly connects to the audience as a man who morphs from an unwilling murderer to a tyrant willing to do anything for the crown. Founding company member Virginia Bartholomew, in contrast, as Lady Macbeth, is like the bloodthirsty star of The Real Housewives of Scotland, egging on her recalcitrant husband and plunging into insanity as her indiscretion gets the best of her. Bartholomew is both devious and delicate, formidable and fragile. Her interpretation of the role is the highlight of both shows.

The remaining characters in Macbeth are fleshed out by actors of varying degrees of skill, with Morgan Auld as Ross/Porter, Brad Lewandowski as Malcolm, and Collin McConnell as Banquo/Menteith faring best with Shakespeare’s poetry. Outfitted in fetching kilts and tartan sashes, the cast moves briskly through this pared down version of the story, which never loses sight of the main narrative thrust and retains most of Shakespeare’s rhythm. It is praiseworthy that Le Vasseur’s cuts seem seamless.

His adaptation of Triumph of Love, however, suffers from an overeager attempt to “throw in a healthy dose of RTTC’s signature sci-fi twist,” according to the company’s press release. While Redd Tale’s previous season’s Maddy: A Modern Day Medea earned acclaim for its audacious reworking of the classic Greek tale, the changes made to Triumph seem like square pegs forced into round holes.

Landing in between Molière and Beaumarchais in the French dramatist timeline, Marivaux wrote some 30 comedies about love, of which Le triomphe de l’amour is the most famous. Working from a new translation by Virginie Maries, Le Vasseur keeps the plot essentially intact. But the play now begins with our cross-dressing heroine Leonide subservient to a sorceress who turns back time so that the disguised princess can bring back her love from an untimely death. It is a device that adds nothing to the charms of the play — and also tacks on an unfortunate and nonsensical ending.

Adaptation aside, this production also suffers from what seems like a concerted attempt at cohesion with its repertory partner, Macbeth. Much like the witches in that play, the cast of Triumph surrounds the stage motionless until their time in the spotlight. But while this blocking makes sense in the context of the previous tragedy, where all eyes are watching, it makes much less sense in this comedy, as the statue-like actors have their eyes closed most of the time. They are neither observers nor manipulators of the story, as the weird sisters are in Macbeth.

In addition, Triumph has the misfortune of having odd costume choices, as everyone but the lead actress is bedecked in grey jersey-cotton togas. Is this meant to be a nod to the Greeks and/or the rationalist views of the holier-than-thou philosopher, Hermocrate, who is one of the main characters of the play? And why is Corine, princess Leonide’s handmaid, dressed in an obviously femininized toga when her character is supposed to be in disguise as a man throughout the play?

Unfortunately, these directorial choices distract from what is overall a well-acted and tightly constructed version of Triumph of Love that shares with Macbeth themes of royal succession, politics, and deception. Founding company member Lynn Kenny is utterly charming as Leonide/Phocion/Aspasie — a true feat since the motives of her character’s deceitfulness are specious to say the least. Brad Lewandowski is also winning as the object of her affection, the young and naïve Agis.

Virginia Bartholomew proves once again that she is a force to be reckoned with in her spot-on performance as the old maid Leontine, seduced by the princess in disguise as a young, beautiful man. Tom Cleary is equally as delightful as the self-righteous thinker Hermocrate, caught off guard by the wiles of Leonide masquerading as the young maiden Aspasie. And James Stewart as the scheming gardener Dimas fares much better in Triumph, in which his Kiwi accent works well with his character instead of against it as in Macbeth. (Stewart hails from New Zealand.)

Redd Tale should be applauded for its courage in doing shows in rep — particularly challenging shows by the likes of Shakespeare, Chekhov, and Marivaux — and for attempting new adaptations of classic works. Their motto is “to provide enlightening, entertaining theatrical experiences that contribute to humanity’s next step forward.” Both Macbeth and Triumph of Love can be considered entertaining and both include a number of charismatic and captivating performers. But a little more enlightenment next time around regarding the original source material would be greatly appreciated, too. Macbeth is the more successful of the two, while sadly Triumph does not live up to its title. I do, however, look forward to seeing Redd Tale’s “next step forward.”

A Source of Power

We are all capable of changing the world. Or at least our little corner of it. So says Gone Fission, or Alternative Power, a high-spirited performance of street theater presented by Theater for the New City. The play uses its exuberant score to remind its audiences -- young and old -- that if people want change, then they must stand up and make that change for themselves. The play centers on a young man in search of employment, having just quit his position as a mechanic, which itself was a replacement job for his initial career in finance. He realizes that he cannot do a job in which he feels he is taking advantage of people or being taken advantage of himself. Rather, he wishes to be able to do some good in the world. His friend suggests he apply for a job as a census-taker. Upon acquiring this new occupation, however, our hero receives more than just a paycheck. Rather, he is taken on a journey through New York City and the rest of the east coast, confronting a great deal of this nation's problems as well as plenty of its goodness.

The piece is punctuated with catchy, if at times kitschy, musical numbers. The players all assume a myriad of zany roles, from assorted immigrants, to celebrities, to sea life. The play uses these figures to tackle serious political and environmental issues through humor and charm. There is an episodic quality to the work, but the lessons learned by our census employee tie all of the episodes together. He needs to meet all of these people in order to learn something from them and, eventually, to be affected by his experiences.

The work is uneven. Some sequences are cleverer than others and the story is often so extreme that it becomes difficult to follow. Without the more entertaining aspects, this play could seem preachy or overly didactic. Luckily, there are plenty of laughs to be had and the protagonist is a very likable individual. The performers are all to be commended for keeping their energy high throughout. Their message is easier to swallow because of all the fun to be had throughout the show.

Overall, Gone Fission is a unique and enjoyable work of theater. It touches on important subjects while ultimately being able to entertain. This play makes for a fine summer hour spent outside watching a play. Anyone can find an aspect of this play to enjoy. In addition, he or she may also learn something in the process.

Conspiracy Theory

Free Shakespeare productions are a familiar, and welcome, mainstay of the summer months in New York City. Most famous, of course, is the Public Theater’s annual Shakespeare in the Park. If one searches, however, one will discover a myriad of other outdoor Shakespearean traditions that are worth checking out, such as Shakespeare in the Parking Lot. This summer’s offering is Julius Caesar, the classic tale of behind-closed-doors conspiracies, political intrigues, and assassinations in Ancient Rome. Unfortunately, this particular production does not quite live up to the charm that should accompany hearing the words of the Bard from the comfort of a lawn chair in a municipal parking lot in the Lower East Side. The production starts off quite promisingly, with the players all in contemporary, business-casual dress, walking amongst and directly interacting with the audience. Each performer either carries a sign or a petition, some promoting Caesar and some condemning him. It seems from this opening that the production as a whole will play up the modern resonances of this classic text, suggesting that our own political structures often mirror those of the Roman Empire. Particularly noteworthy is a sign that one player holds that calls for “No third term” for Caesar. The expectation was for a political allegory for our own day encapsulated in a retelling of those fateful Ides of March so long ago.

From this point forward, however, when the play proper begins, there is little reference to any of these ideas again. Yes, the characters are all clothed in modern dress and regularly tote modern props, like iPhones and leather briefcases, but it is unclear in what era we find ourselves. After the opening sequence, in which the “Beware the Ides of March” line is cleverly shouted from a lamppost by someone attired as though homeless, the actors also rarely, if ever, point to their unique stage setting or utilize any of the bizarre locales it creates for them. There are high concept techniques employed – like red ribbon to symbolize blood and catchy tunes to underscore or punctuate the action - but their meanings are obscured. After the climactic murder of Caesar, many of the characters clothe themselves in red attire. Although one level of meaning for this – that they are unable to wash the blood from their hands – is clear, it also feels a tad arbitrary who wears red, when they wear it, and how much of it they don.

Mark Jeter’s performance as Brutus is the highlight of the production. The other performances are inconsistent amongst each other and even within themselves. It is frequently difficult to establish when an actor who is doubling roles has switched from one character to another, making the story vague for those who are not already familiar with it. Also, the production lacks an emotional build; at the moments of highest tension, there is nothing to glue the viewer’s eyes to the stage and at the times of relief, therefore, there is no real cathartic sigh possible.

All in all, the opportunity to hear Shakespeare’s famous text performed outweighs many of the flaws of this production. Shakespeare in the Parking Lot is a clever and community-minded way to expose people to these plays. Julius Caesar is certainly an ambitious production, even if it falls a little short. If you need a Shakespeare fix this summer, this is an easy way to get it.

The Truth Will Out

Tall, with a mop of overgrown hair and terrible posture, Jamie (Trip Langley) is awkwardness incarnate. Fortunately, Trip Langley, the actor who plays this uncomfortable teen with secrets in the Nicu’s Spoon production of Jonathan Harvey’s Beautiful Thing, knows exactly what he’s doing. And he isn’t alone. While the play shows signs of age and Harvey’s script contains some holes that still need some filling, director Michele Kuchuk has assembled a top-notch ensemble to tell this sensitive and amusing tale.

Beautiful, which debuted in the early 1990s, looks at the lives of several neighboring families in working class South London. Jamie lives with his mother, Sandra (Julie Campbell), a bartender looking to expand the options for her career and her life, which also includes boyfriend du jour Tony (Tim Romero).

Jamie spends most of his days with his friend, Leah (Rebecca Lee Lerman), an attention-seeking rebel who has been expelled from school and harbors an unhealthy worship of Mama Cass, and Ste (Michael Abourizk), a classmate who lives to his other side with an abusive father and brother (occasionally seen but never heard). Eventually, Ste seeks asylum under Sandra’s roof, and literally finds himself sharing a bed with Jamie, who is coming to terms with his homosexuality.

Eventually, Jamie and Ste realize that they are more than just friends, though Harvey never fully explores Ste’s journey. Has he always wrestled with uneasy feelings regarding his sexuality? His decision to embark on a clandestine relationship with Jamie seems to happen in too quick, and too easy, a fashion, although both Abourizk and Langley go a long way toward suggesting their characters’ inner torment. They provide the tentativeness where Harvey’s play provides only forward motion.

The play also lacks narrative focus. Is it about Jamie’s journey of self-discovery, his burgeoning relationship with Ste, or the way Sandra must reconcile what she learns about her young son? The idea that she might have a problem with Jamie being gay is introduced late in the play. And a potentially important scene, in which Jamie and Ste sneak into a local gay bar, is mentioned instead of shown.

Leah is also a red herring. As played at least in Kuchuk’s production, she is there to provide comic relief and distraction. Lerman does a great job with her madcappery, delivering sharp dialogue with a highly enjoyable dose of venom, but her subplot becomes a distraction when it should entwine more naturally with that of Jamie and Ste’s – will her jealousy turn her into a viable threat to their secret? Or will her choice to support them put her in a dangerous position? Neither happens, and her character’s ultimate journey feels somehow lesser as a result (it should be said, though, she can do a wicked imitation of Mama Cass).

Langley gives a heartbreakingly nuanced performance, full of the anguish attendant with anyone’s uncertain teen years. I wouldn’t say that he and Abourizk share great chemistry with one another, but the two work very well together, sharing a naivete and the feeling of what it means to be ostracized. Their scenes together provide the heart of the show, which is why it can be so frustrating when the action moves away from them.

Campbell is also magnificent, and adept at adding subtext to fuse Harvey’s narrative disconnects. She channels the character’s earthiness as well as her frustration at not being able to balance everything. It’s a marvelously layered performance. Lerman and Romero deliver sympathetic turns, though their roles do not afford them as many opportunities to explore their characters. And Stephanie Barton-Farcas, too, deserves applause for choreographing a realistic second act fight scene within the limited space allowed by the Spoon. (John Trevellini designed the minimalist set.)

Harvey’s play gives us characters that we come to care about, but he has put them in situations that feel too canned. If he were to have upped the stakes, then Kuchuk’s cast would have a play worthy of their skills.