Scary Brooklyn

The Halloween Plays, running in Brooklyn through October 31st, is far from the only spooky offering of New York’s experimental theater scene this year – but it may well be among season’s the best. The production marks the first collaboration between the Brooklyn-centric Brave New World Repertory Theatre and Carroll Gardens dance theater group Company XIV. It’s is a stellar example of the artistic depths that can result from smart companies pooling their resources. The production’s opening act harnesses the distinct neo-Baroque aesthetic of Company XIV and applies it to the creepiness of the Halloween season. Inspired by the Marquis de Sade, Dénouement—A Murderous Masquerade is a dance to the death. Set at a royal masquerade ball where the host supplies his guests with a handgun and invites them to play a series of macabre party games, Dénouement is a meditation on love, lust and devotion, in all its creepy glory. With choreography and direction by Austin McCormick, Artistic Director of Company XIV, the skilled dancers demonstrate a flare for elegant violence.

The host’s narration does a suitable job of framing the story, but Jeff Takacs’ text is easily overpowered by Dénouement’s provocative dancing. That unsettles the balance of power so central to the story – the dancing guests ought to read as mere plaything’s of the host – but no matter. A costume drama is a rare treat in an evening of one acts, which often skimp on production values. Here, Zane Pihstrom’s set and costume design are integral to the evening’s indulgent presentationalism. Dressed in period-inspired reds, mauves, and golds, the performers radiate with athletic vulnerability from their powdered wigs to their high-heeled feet. An upstage tree and several chandeliers give the impression of a fashionable dance hall, while an ornate, metallic looking proscenium decadently frames the playing space.

Directors Nell Balaban and Chip Brooks make effective use of the proscenium during the Brave New World portion of the evening. Too Much Candy, a clever reimagination of Hansel and Gretel by Cynthia Babak, puts a grown Hansel suffering from OCD on a journey to recover his repressed childhood memories. The familiar, creepy Grimm tale unfolds behind the proscenium in disorderly fragments, while the shallow playing space downstage of the proscenium exposes Hansel (Stuart Zagnit) in the present day. He neurotically muddles through his responsibilities as a family man and regularly visits a psychiatrist; he suffers an inexplicable fixation with candy.

Psychoanalytic readings of fairy tales comprise a major strain of folkloric scholarship, and Babak milks great performative comedy out of such heady analysis (pun intended). When Hansel dreams that he is locked in a cage – recall that in the fairy tale, the witch cages Hansel to fatten him up before she eats him – his psychiatrist delivers a pleasantly self-satisfied interpretation. As the doctor, Brave New World artistic director Claire Beckman is pitch-perfect in her summation. “Perhaps the cage represents the part of you, your consciousness,” she tells her patient, “that is not letting you access the memories of your youth!” She offers similarly symbolic interpretations of the cannibalistic witch and the candy. It’s a smart deconstruction of a familiar tale that helps explain its enduring power – but perhaps not quite so much as does the enactment of the fairy tale itself. Equal parts hilarious and horrific, the staging of Hansel and Gretel is a welcome reminder that fairy tales, properly told, are downright eerie.

The concluding play of the production, Greg Kotis’ Salsa, is the most conventional short play of the evening’s offerings. Set at a diner, the play opens to two men seated alone, who bond over a love of spicy food – but partway through the scene, it becomes clear that something is amiss, and when the curtain behind the proscenium rises, sinister forces are revealed. Actors Kevin Hogan and Sean Patterson have a lot of fun with their roles as the gentlemen of the diner, as does Alvin Hippolyte, as the sinister force.

It’s refreshing to see an evening of one acts featuring work with such varied aesthetic sensibilities. Each act possesses sufficient distinction to stand alone as a solitary work. Taken as a whole, however, The Halloween Plays reveals that there is more than one way to spook an audience.

Judge Not?

Carrie Greanlea (Leigh Williams) is a caustic opera critic, brutal with a pen. She is married to Norman (Zac Hoogendyk), yet another opera critic. Unlike Norman, who questions his own competence, Carrie is unwaveringly and remorselessly critical of everything from Norman’s sperm count to the size of performers’ noses. The thing is, when it comes to arts criticism, she’s usually right. Carrie likely would have been quite disappointed with Critical Mass, the play of her own creator. The premise of Joanne Sydney Lessner’s slight work is that Carrie has, with a single review in Opera World, destroyed the career of Stefano Donato (Aaron Davis), an Italian tenor of questionable talent. Stefano, feigning destitution due to the toll that Carrie’s lacerating piece has exacted on his career, takes revenge by finding out where the critical duo lives. Suitcases in hand, Stefano proceeds to hijack their personal and professional lives, hinting at ominous Mafia repercussions should they decline to take him in. Like The Godfather’s Don Vito Corleone, Stefano makes them an offer they can’t refuse.

A major problem with the absurdly themed Critical Mass is that it’s not nearly farcical enough in its execution. Ms. Williams, a major character, is the weak link in the thematic chain; misdirected by Donald Brenner, she plays the shrewish, angry Carrie to the hilt, but her humorlessness torpedoes the part and, with it, the entire play. What we need from Ms. Leigh’s Carrie is a little I Love Lucy; what we get is a lot of Nancy Grace.

And Mr. Davis’ awful accent is almost unbearable. He overacts cravenly; fortunately, his character is somewhat likable. The standout performance here is that of Marc Geller as Cedric West, the editor of Opera World. Mr. Geller does his best with Lessner’s stereotyped writing – he’s gay and effeminate and channels Bette Davis. Chris Menard’s terrific scenic design truly gives the set the feel of a contemporary urban apartment.

It’s not entirely clear to me what Ms. Lessner (who reviews for Opera News) wants to say about critics of the arts. Should they pull punches to spare the feelings of artists about whom they write? Lessner vilifies Carrie for sticking to her guns, and pre-sets her as a miserable, bitter person. Yet, Lessner appears to praise the spineless Norman for letting his feelings (and other people) influence his critical opinions. And, at least through Stefano’s character, Ms. Lessner seems to advance the parental edict, “If you’ve got nothing good to say, don’t say anything.”

Sure, a negative review can dishearten, but so can a disappointing play; one should rightly expect more from the winner of Heiress Productions' year-and-a-half long playwriting competition. To Lessner’s apparent guideline above a critic might counter: “Why bother putting up a very mediocre play in the first place?” Though it’s crisply written, Critical Mass is chock full of stale characters and warmed-over jokes.

The cynical – the Carrie - part of me wonders whether Ms. Lessner, by preemptively hammering at critics, hopes to inoculate this play from the inevitable barbs. In the end, Critical Mass is an overlong one-trick pony. It’s got enough fuel for one act but its three punish the limits of reasonableness.

As Carrie at one point lectures Stefano: “Look, if you’re going to worship at the shrine of art, if you’re going to attempt to make a play for the pantheon of greatness, you have to be prepared to work hard and be prepared to be judged”. Having reiterated that, please don’t tell Ms. Lessner where I live.

More Than Just Skin Deep

Theater, at its best, can cut to the heart of the human experience with little more than a story to tell, the actors to perform it, and an audience who witnesses the journey. The Foolish Theatre Company’s world premiere of Skin Deep sets out to do just that with a touch of humor and a camp flair. Skin Deep, written by Rich Orloff, is about a middle-aged couple, George and Liz, from Ohio, who inherit The Godiva Inn, a clothing-optional resort in Key West, from George’s estranged brother, Roger. During the play, the couple find themselves questioning who they are, what they believe in, and the choices they have made along the way. The Inn’s staff includes Clark, the desk clerk who moonlights as a drag queen, and Jane, the janitor who moonlights as a dominatrix. The antagonist is Fred, who is the catalyst for change.

The play is deftly directed by Jeffrey C. Wolf and energetically performed by a cast of five. Both director and cast make ample use of the comedic script while leading toward a more serious turn of events and personal revelation. George, performed by William Tatlock Green, and Liz, performed by Dee Dee Friedman, capture the essence of mid-western values confronted with alternative life-styles and perceived difference.

These two issues are most flamboyantly personified in Clark, played by Robbie Sharpe. Sharpe’s performance elevates the character’s campy dialogue and dreams of being a diva to a character that one cares about. Misunderstanding and assumption are humorously played out in a running dialogue between Jane the janitor, performed by Mary Theresa Archbold, and the wife Liz. As Liz embraces the possibilities she sees in their new lives and begins to explore what it means to be female, Jane teaches her to change the oil on the couple’s car. Their conversations are laced with references that are misunderstood by George, leading to further personal conflict and tension for his character. Fred as the sleazy businessman, performed by Timothy Scott Harris, brings the conflict to a head.

Scenic designer Craig M. Napoliello evokes the Florida Keys with his use of white wicker furniture with floral print cushions set against a backdrop of green shutters and white drapes. Although the action of the play takes place only in the lobby of the Inn, the use of multiple locations for entrances and exits as well as actor focus provide a sense of the total inn and its environs. Costuming by Jonathan Knipscher provides not only a key to passing time but also insight to qualities about each character and the changing atmosphere of the Inn itself. Also of note are the very good choices for pre-show and between scene music designed by director Wolf.

The Foolish Theatre Company’s mission may be to entertain and amuse, but Skin Deep offers that and a little bit more. It is a confrontation between and challenge to definitions of normal told with humor, caring, and a small dash of glitter. The production is entertaining, but Skin Deep couples this with something a little deeper – our humanity and ability to change.

Afraid of (Un)Afraid

In the moments before The Neo-Futurists’ new work (Un)afraid began, I was feeling pretty anxious. My anxiety was due to two words I dread to see connected to a theater piece I’m attending: audience participation. While I love the idea of involving and implicating audience members in productions, the possibility of actually being involved myself gives me hives. But, nevertheless, I went, and I’m glad I did. (Un)afraid has no plot to speak of. Rather, it feels more like a conversation: a wacky, fast-paced conversation with many props, masks and flurries of activity. The fantastic performers, Jill Beckman, Cara Francis, Ricardo Gamboa, and Daniel McCoy, who together wrote the show, employ a slew of performance techniques and styles, moving seamlessly from performative camp to intimate chatter. The discourse of the piece centers around fear, what we fear, why we fear, and what our shared fears say of our world today. The perspective is sharp and witty, at times grim and troubled, but not without bits of hope, glimmers of possibility.

When we arrive at the theater, we are given the option of sitting on the floor or in chairs in the back. Without fully understanding the consequences of our choice, my friend and I choose to sit on the floor. We realize too late that this choice makes us fair game. At various points we are pulled onstage to pose, dance, run, and speak with the actors. They also join us in the audience, at one point donning clown masks and offering flasks of whiskey (which I gratefully imbibe).

Between these moments of audience interaction are invidiual performances by each of the actors in turn. (Un)afraid is different each night: the exact pieces performed are determined by a “spirit,” with whom the performers chat through use of an ouiji board. On the night I attend, they call upon ghost-story writer M.R. James (more on him here: <a href= http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/M._R._James wikipedia.com ). At four points in the show, they ask the spirit to choose a performer to perform the piece they have prepared for that point in the show. The chosen actor then tells a story, performs a monologue, or faces one of his or her own major fears head on. On my night, Cara Francis took a shot of cockroach-infused liquor, and Daniel McCoy attempted to eat a food he hates – a tomato. (Cara succeeded, but Daniel failed, vomitting into a trashcan two bites in.) All of the pieces are connected to greater personal issues: for Cara, a memory of unwanted penetration, and for Daniel, others’ disgust at his life as a gay man.

I love these pieces. They are intelligent, immediate and as truthful as an actor can get. There is something heroic about them: the actors take on something they fear and try to conquer it. They’re hopeful, productive, genuine. They feel like gifts.

In general, I am not sure what I think of the forced audience participation that happens throughout (Un)afraid. However, at several points, instead of pulling us on stage, the performers extend an open invitation, and we must choose whether to act or remain in our seats. These moments are fascinating.

One such moment occurs near the end of the play. Before it, Jill Beckman delivers a monologue about her fear of decision-making, which includes a (partially) colored pie chart that outlines what she would most like to be doing at any given moment (87% of the time, she’d prefer to be in bed, sleeping). The monologue has the feeling of a confessional: Jill is honest and vulnerable. It’s one of those exciting occasions where an artist taps into some experience that is specific to this moment in time: in this case, the overwhelming desire to do nothing in the face of the innumerable, frenzied choices and challenges that await us each day.

After her monologue about inaction is complete, Jill asks us to choose whether or not to act. She turns on a television, which is playing a montage of pain: dead bodies, bits of war and the like. Laying a remote down centerstage, she exits. Though Jill never tells us explicitly that someone needs to pick up the remote and turn the TV off to end the scene, it is implied. The air is tense: I wonder who will stand, and when? Should I do it? Am I sure it’s what we’re supposed to do? What if I’m wrong?

I am struck by the power of this implicit invitation, how unsure I am of what will happen, how I am forced to decide whether to act or wait for someone else.

I hesitate. I remain still.

The woman sitting next to me stands, picks up the remote, and turns the television off.

(Un)afraid is entertaining, challenging, strange and smart. I say go, brave the front seats, and accept the whiskey.

Ghost Stories and Stout

The Folding Chair Theatre Company presents a thoughtful, engaging production of The Weir by Connor McPherson at the Access Theatre. Ably directed in a simple loft space by Marcus Geduld, this poetic piece unfolds at the leisurely pace of bar talk among seasoned drinkers. Four men and a woman gather in a bar. The woman, Valerie (Lisa Blankenship), arrives last with Finbar (Richard Ryan Cowden), who is showing her the sights of this small village where she has moved. The bar, run by Brendan (Ian Gould), a gathering place for tourists during summer, is hanging on during the rest of the year thanks to a few regulars who gather there. As Valerie arrives, the regulars engage in a round of telling ghost stories that are woven from popular lore and personal experiences. Finally Valerie offers here own, painfully personal story, which moves the men to accept her as one of their own, offering friendship and comfort, along with copious amounts of beer and whiskey.

McPherson’s play is much like a shaggy dog story – entertaining if you get into the spirit, without amounting to too much in the end. But the telling, broken up as much by the drinking rituals as by interruptions where the characters reveal their pasts, their aspirations and their personalities, makes it easy to get drawn into its small world. The audience becomes eavesdroppers to this vanishing world where folklore still lives.

The Folding Chair Theatre, true to its name, presents the play in a simple setting: a few props, the characters appropriately dressed, candles placed around the large stage in an open loft space suggesting the flickering of swamp lights, the set otherwise lit with a few light bulbs and lamps placed on the set, create the apt atmosphere. The one sound effect is a howling wind whenever the door is opened. (No designers are credited in the program). The play opens with Brendan turning on lamps, cleaning tables, dusting frames of photos on the wall, his turning the lamps off closes it. These simple actions make us feel part of the place, invite us in, and indeed the audience, at the end of the play, is asked to step up to the bar for a pint or a short one.

Geduld’s staging is thoughtful and makes the best use of the space, while giving the actors room to let their characters evolve. The actors, using Irish accents that to my ear sound close enough if not perfect, are all excellent, well suited each to their roles.

A small play, without pretensions beyond its open-ended pointing to the possibilities of mysteries that may be part of our existence, The Weir could be dismissed as lightweight, but in this rendition it offers a lovely evening in the theater that leaves one with a smile and a longing for a boilermaker or at least a pint of Guinness.

Exciting Elements Prove Uncohesive

It was with high hopes that I attended the Pathological Theatre’s production of Bong Bong Bong Against the Walls, Ting Ting Ting in Our Heads at La Mama this past Friday.  The company’s artistic director (and writer/director of this production), Dario D’Ambrosi, has amassed a distinguished career as theatre artist both in Italy and New York.  The play interested me specifically because it was developed in collaboration with mentally-ill performers in D’Ambrosi’s company, and involved puppetry, a particular combination of elements I had never seen before.  I was certain the result would be new, inspired, and unique.   I was dissapointed.  Bong Bong Bong attempts to be insightful, but is instead painful to the point of farce.  The story, loosely told, follows Loga, (Ashley C. Williams) a school-age girl who breaks down in the middle of solving a math problem in class, and is either sent to, or dreams that she is sent to, a mental institution.  Here, she is controlled by a villainous psychologist (George Drance) and then comforted by a magical fairy (Theresa Linnihan) who guides Loga toward a kind of acceptance of her state of mind.  

The top of Bong Bong Bong is promising.  The first thing we see are the puppets: they are pale and gaunt with alien faces and doll-like eyes.  Designed in part by the institutionalized members of the Pathological Theatre, they possess a glimmer of what I was hoping to see: a perception of the world very different than my own. However, the puppets are dissapointingly under-used.  The actors seem to have little understanding of how to manipulate and work with them, and the relationship between actor and puppet is unclear and uninteresting. Further, the actors set them down 15 minutes into the performance, returning to them only to pull sheaths of fabric out of their stomachs at a “pivotal” moment.  One cares very little about their role and presence, and ends up thinking of them more as set pieces than anything else.  

The play is a musical, and the music is of the contemporary Broadway-style – jarringly out of place among all of the other, non-traditional elements in the piece.  The lyrics sound as though they are unwillingly jammed into the melodies, like a child attempting to write new lyrics to an old song on the spot.  With kids, it’s cute.  Here, it’s just painful.  

Overall, the piece is poorly directed.  There are scenes that last much longer than necessary, the pacing is strange, and actors often move about the stage randomly, seemingly at their own discretion.  It feels like the early stages of an experimental process, before things become tightened, specified and rehearsed.  

Redeeming moments do occur, thanks to two stand-out performers, Ashley Williams and Theresa Linnihan.  Williams is a dynamic actor, with an engaging stage presence and lovely voice.  At one moment, near the top of the play, Loga is asked to solve a math problem at the blackboard (x-y +2 =).  Her attempt unearths a swirl of colorful images and poetry: as she talks through her ‘logic’ and works herself into a frenzy, she draws trees and circles on the blackboard, concluding that x – y + 2 = “a big beautiful lake.”  Here and throughout the play, Williams strikes an impressive balance between intensity and empathy: she fully embodies Loga’s psychoses without alienating herself from the audience.  

Theresa Linihan gives a subtle, intelligent performance as Loga’s mother and also doubles as a delightfully idiosyncratic fairy at the asylum.  Both Linihan and Williams bring depth and meaning to their lines.  They give us a taste of the beauty the script could offer, had it been better supported.

Other performances are less impressive.  The two actors who play Loga’s fellow schoolchildren and inmates writhe and shriek across the stage, caricatures of mental patients that distract from the action in the scene.  Here, the lack of direction is most evident: I feel I am watching an early rehearsal, not a finished product.

Then again, performances that are messy and raw are not automatically terrible.  There is a beauty that can come of chaos, a kind of honesty and vulnerability that can potentially be more powerful than the most polished production.  I’ve seen it work best in one-man shows, where the material is as raw and personal as the performance.  However, the actors in this production are too distanced from the material for this to be true of Bong Bong Bong.  All are New York-based actors, and are not, as far as I know, members of D’Ambrosi’s company of insitutionalized performers.  It is as though D’Ambrosi has staged his company’s material with professional actors, and staged it in a way that he would have done had he been working with his company.  It is an ill fit, and it ultimately fails.  

The Grand Guignol Comes to Queens

There is plenty of ghoulish theatrical fare to go around this time of year. Even the most zealous horror buffs would be hard pressed to see the full array of Halloween-inspired productions popping up across the city. No other holiday elicits the kitsch, camp and blood-curdling screams like All Hallows Eve. The Secret Theatre throws its hat into the cauldron with Theatre du Grand-Guignol: Tales of Horror and Fear, five short plays adapted from the notoriously gory Grand Guignol Theatre of Paris. Ranging from the macabre to the farcical to the grotesque, the evening has its potholes but is never ponderous, serving up an ample platter of blood, guts and yuks. The Grand Guignol is a late 19th century Parisian theater known for its naturalistic representations of the lurid and grisly. Literally meaning “big puppet show”, the theater shocked audiences with its stark (if at times overblown) portrayal of violence, psychosis and eroticism. Anything was fair game. Dismemberments, beheadings, and scalpings were just some of the more common torments one could witness at the Grand Guignol. Playing on themes of insanity, revenge, lust, drugs, death and the fear of outsiders, the theater continued to operate, despite rabid censorship, until World War II.

Ably directed by Ariel Francoeur, Theatre du Grand-Guignol seeks to maintain a similar thematic and tonal structure as its original source. All of the themes mentioned above are reflected in the five tales. And, in the Grand Guignol tradition, the production flips from a dramatic piece to a comedic piece, from dark to light, to allow a respite from the savage by mixing it with the frivolous.

Two of the pieces on the bill, “The Final Kiss” and “Coals of Fire," are prototypical Grand Guignol. Both involve people seeking vengeance through extreme means. In “The Final Kiss”, heavily bandaged Henri (Christopher Jack Rondeau) has had his face melted with sulfuric acid. The culprit? His girlfriend, Jeanine (Jeni Ahlfeld), who returns offering Henri her apology. As you have perhaps guessed, Henri is in no mood to forgive. “Coals of Fire” is a two-character play about a wife (Elizabeth Heidere) confronting her husband’s mistress (Jeni Ahlfeld). The mistress pleads with the wife to divorce her husband so they can marry and consecrate their true love. The wife, blind and elderly, seems harmless enough, but we soon learn she is not interested in love for love’s sake.

“Tics, or Doing the Deed” is undoubtedly the most successful of the plays. Little more than a straight up sex romp, the premise is appropriately silly. A regal dinner party spins out of control as husbands and wives bed other husbands and wives only to have their lewd exploits revealed by nagging postcoital tics. To give away the individual tics would divulge the play’s payoff, which is worthwhile and well played by the ensemble. Sean Demers as Monsieur de Merlot, Amie Lytle as Madame de Merlot, Jenny Levine as Madame de Martin, and Kirsten Anderson as Venus are particularly game at milking the comedy out of this sardonic little slapstick.

The final two plays are “The Ultimate Torture” and “The Old House.” Originally written by Andre de Lorde, the most prominent of the Grand Guignol writers, “The Ultimate Torture” follows a band of survivors holed up and hidden away from an army of zombie-like creatures on the prowl. As the evil undead encroach on their lone refuge, the group is forced to make a series of desperate decisions concerning sacrifice and mercy. “The Old House," easily the most ludicrous of the five, presents two teens wandering into a haunted house only to be kidnapped by devil worshippers. As the worshippers prepare to sacrifice one of the virgin youths, The Devil (Greg Petroff) and Jesus (Timothy Lalumia) show up to banter whimsically over who should receive the virgin’s soul. It is unclear in the program how this piece is derived from the Grand Guignol and, given the content, it seems as though it was created in-house and slapped on to fill the evening. The goofy twists wear thin and the sketch-like quality of the piece cheapens an otherwise respectable slate.

By their very nature and age, works of the Grand Guignol have become parody. Culturally, with dime-a-dozen films like Saw and Hostel, and even TV shows like CSI and Dexter, our shock tolerance is much greater than it was a hundred years ago. This is why Theatre du Grand-Guignol is most effective when it is seeking laughs instead of gasps. When the material is played earnestly, rather than embracing its inherent melodrama, it comes off as heavy handed and absurdly tepid. Much in these plays is egregiously ridiculous. Contemporary productions of the Grand Guignol should consider heightening their approach to the work in order to meet the loftiness of its clichés, rather than beat it into realism and lose what’s fun and lively at its core.

'Tis the Season to Be Frightened

Tucked into an unmarked, abandoned-looking storefront on 27th Street, the Vortex Theatre Company’s NYC Halloween Haunted House is a far cry from the corn mazes and hay rides typical of Halloween fright fests. But urban legends can be just as frightening as pastoral ghost stories, and NYC Halloween Haunted House proves you don’t need to take the LIRR in order to get your Halloween thrills. Back for its second year, NYC Halloween Haunted House aims to terrify each participant, individually. Like Theater for One, the project that pairs one audience member and one actor together for the duration of a monologue, NYC Halloween Haunted House is a solo experience. Unlike Theater for One, however, Haunted House gleefully forgoes any pretense of democratic exchange. Participants are left alone and unguarded, at the whim of the haunted house and its cadre of creepy performers. Make no mistake: the cards are stacked in favor of the house.

Created by Josh Randall and Kristjan Thor, NYC Halloween Haunted House is a stellar example of artists making smart choices with the resources at hand: they place sensory deprivation high on their list of scare tactics. Consequently, the special effects at play don’t constitute spectacles in and of themselves. Instead, Randall and Thor cleverly use their special effects to heighten participants’ sense of isolation. The sound system plays ominous white noise. A fog machine obscures participants’ vision. So does the lighting design, which mostly ranges from dim to pitch black.

House rules state that there is to be no talking by participants during the Haunted House experience, which lasts about twenty minutes (screaming, however, is encouraged). Participants can’t even alert performers to their mental state by gaping in terror or grinning in delight: everyone is required to wear a surgical mask for the duration of the experience. Last year, at the height of the H1N1 epidemic, the masks signified pathogen panic and the threat of a mysterious disease. This year, thankfully, those significations have dimmed, but the masks are still plenty creepy. For one thing, they tend to make wearers uncomfortably conscious of their own breathing. In the context of the haunted house, of course, they also free the wearer from the burden of communication, allowing participants to more fully internalize the tantalizingly unnerving experience. (The white masks may also aid cast members in spotting participants in the dark.)

To reveal much more about the NYC Halloween Haunted House would spoil the fun of it. Suffice it to say that the cast members do an admirable job of balancing their dual roles as wardens and shepherds. They give participants the chills, but also clear instructions about what to do next. Managing the whole event and its steady stream of participants is an enormous challenge, but the Haunted House is up for it, efficiently moving participants from a group holding cell through their individual journeys around the house. For the truly frightened, the Haunted House takes a cue from BDSM play: calling out a safe word will bring the experience to a halt. And there is something in the house to frighten everyone.

What are you afraid of? The dark? Weird noises? Rape and murder? The NYC Halloween Haunted House has something for you…

Holy Wars

With The Human Scale, foreign correspondent Lawrence Wright has transformed his 12,000-word story entitled “Captives: What really happened during the Israeli attacks” about the Gaza Strip from the November 9, 2009 issue of The New Yorker into a one-man play. Informative, provocative, yet dramatically inert, audiences should expect more lecture than theater with this nonetheless dazzling multimedia presentation. With a gorgeous video design by Aaron Harrow as his backdrop, Wright leads the audience through the history and ongoing impasse between the Israelis and Palestinians. Using the 2006 capture of Israeli soldier Gilad Shalit, who is still in Hamas custody, as its backbone, The Human Scale, offers an unsparing look at a contentious issue where both sides take the moral high ground and feel they are doing the right thing.

Much like Wright’s Pulitzer Prize-winning book The Looming Tower: Al-Qaeda and the Road to 9/11, which was turned into the play My Trip to Al-Qaeda (and recently an HBO Documentary directed by Alex Gibney) and even Al Gore’s Academy Award-winning documentary An Inconvenient Truth, The Human Scale is an amalgam of video, images, interviews, and other sources. Some graphic footage of bloodied bodies produced gasps from the audience. A Palestinian children’s show in which a cartoon-like character is stabbed to death by a Jew was a particularly disturbing example of how both sides dehumanize and demonize the other.

But as directed by The Public Theater’s Artistic Director Oskar Eustis, there is little drama in the way Wright tells the story. His fairness and impartiality somehow drain the life out of what he is presenting. He becomes instead a sort of talking head or narrator, like a 60 Minutes anchor desperately trying to keep his bias and emotions at bay.

What I found most problematic about the piece was the lack of Wright’s own response to what is going on around him. The only personal glimpse the audience gets is when he reenacts fainting from dehydration caused by food poisoning while interviewing members of Hamas. In addition, Wright’s way of showing leather-bound tomes and official-looking binders does not lend as much authority to his lecture as he might want. As the names, places, and dates add up, audience members may find themselves in a fog of information that is as confusing as the disinformation Wright is attempting to admonish. The addition of dramaturgical materials such as a Gaza Strip timeline and map in the program are certainly helpful to those who do not know a whole lot about this ongoing conflict, but these are simply not enough to wrap one’s head around such a complex issue without substantial prior knowledge.

Co-produced by The Public Theater and 3LD Art & Technology Center, this show may bring to mind the controversial play My Name Is Rachel Corrie about the American activist crushed to death by an Israeli bulldozer in the Gaza Strip, but it reminded me more of Masked by Israeli playwright Ilan Hatsor, about three Palestinian brothers who struggle with ideological and personal conflicts about the Israeli-Palestinian issue. The Human Scale shares with that drama a lack of overt moral judgment or political polemics, although The Human Scale seems to conclude that both Hamas and the Israeli government committed war crimes in the Gaza war, which is also the main conclusion of the controversial Goldstone Report which Wright cites in the show.

In a recent interview in the weblog The Gothamist, Wright said he hoped that they could take the play to Israel, Gaza, and Palestine for audiences on both sides of the issue. Another article in The Jewish Week suggested that portions of the play could be rewritten during the show’s run depending on current political developments, making The Human Scale a timely addition to the annals of newspaper theater. It is certainly a provocative piece that will get audiences talking. But the 90-minute show is really more like a glorified PowerPoint presentation than theater in the truest sense.

Greed Is GREAT-- On Stage, That Is

Michael Lew’s new play Microcrisis is a brilliant dark comedy about our current state of economic disaster. Developed in Ma-Yi Theatre’s Writer’s Lab, Microcrisis is being presented through HEREstay, HERE’s curated programming. Director Ralph Pena has assembled a stellar ensemble that includes Jackie Chung, David Gelles, William Jackson Harper, Lauren Hines, Alfredo Narciso, and Socorro Santiago. Microcrisis offers a wealth of fast paced comedy, social commentary and is ultimately a priceless theatrical experience. Bennett, played by Narciso, is a shady investment banker who puts the likes of Gordon Gecko to shame. He arrives in Kumasi, Ghana and takes over Citizen Lend, a non-profit bank that loans on “microcredit,” which is the practice of giving small loans to small businesses. The Citizen Lend office is run by Lydia (Hines), a bright-eyed Bennington intern who is more than happy to follow Citizen Lend’s protocol and give out loans at 2% interest. Of course, if you are a banker whose only goal is to make money, 2% interest is criminal. Bennett wheels and deals, linking Citizen Lend to Ivy Microloan, a small start up led from the bedroom of Harvard grad and boy genius Randy (Gelles).

In Microcrisis everyone is interested in getting more, and it is this need that Bennett manipulates. Even Clare, an insecure securities rater played by Jackie Chung, is no match for Bennett’s schemes. In Lew’s world, we all have a price and Bennett just has to name it. Won’t sell out for twenty million? How about twenty-one million? With the possibility of making so much money so quickly, details are irrelevant. Nobody wants information, everyone just wants cash. Even Lydia, for all of her good intentions can’t resist the lure of being wined and dined in Monaco. Why be good when you can be rich?

If we are to take Lew’s portrayal as somehow hitting close to home we realize that Bennett does what he does because he can, because we let him. We are easy prey for a fast talker who does not take no for an answer. The only person in the play who is not interested in having it all is Acquah, a Ghanaian businessman, played by William Jackson Haper. Acquah only wants his initial microloan, no more, no less. When Lydia tells him to take more money he says “What do I need with 10,000 cedis?”

Pena and his design team have an exquisite attention to detail. In one scene Bennett is playing racquetball with Frankfurt, his former boss and current Chairman of the New York Federal Reserve, also played by Harper. The court is in a former basement bank vault and the echo created by Rettig’s sound design delightfully enhances and animates the space.

Microcrisis is funny, scathing, and ultimately tragic. One of Acquah’s refrains throughout the play is “this is a joke,” and by the end of Microcrisis , you realize there is nothing funny about the awful truth of our current crisis.

Take the A (Cappella) Train

A musical about the New York subway? Didn’t Lincoln Center do that in 2009 with Happiness, from the creative team (including director/choreographer Susan Stroman) that collaborated on the smash hit Contact? But where Happiness concerned a disparate batch of New Yorkers in an underground limbo who are actually dead, In Transit from Primary Stages has a lot more life in it. Although it’s not always a smooth ride, this new musical has a lot of appeal in its 90 minutes. And did I mention that the whole thing is sung a cappella? Gleeks, buy your tickets now! Seven performers play over 38 roles from aspiring actress and struggling financier to enterprising coffee cart owner and sassy token booth employee. When the individual members of the septet are not singing lead, they are providing backup or creating a cavalcade of sound effects. This is a musical with no instruments but the voices on stage. The cast list in the Playbill and accompanying insert names the performers by both vocal range (Bass, Alto, etc.) and various characters played. Throughout the performance, reggae, hip-hop, rock, and pop are interspersed with dashes of doo-wop and barbershop.

The four composer-lyricists — Kristen Anderson-Lopez, James-Allen Ford, Russ Kaplan, and Sara Wordsworth — have worked on the show for almost a decade, with productions at the 2003 New York International Fringe Festival (where it was called Along the Way) and the 2008 Eugene O’Neill Theater Center. This incarnation, tightly directed and staged by Joe Calarco (Shakespeare’s R&J), who also helmed the terrific Burnt Part Boys at Playwrights Horizons earlier this year, is set on a expertly designed subway platform courtesy of Anna Louizos. The characters of In Transit are trying to get from place to place like all New Yorkers who use the subway as their main form of transportation. Paths cross and lives intersect, with both daily minutiae and extraordinary meltdowns witnessed by an ever-changing parade of nameless, faceless straphangers. The rhythms and sounds of life for urban commuters are always on view on the subway.

Besides the outstanding direction and design, the best thing about In Transit is the flair and forte the seven principals bring to the material. Creating an a cappella musical requires not only acting and singing skills, but also precise timing. It is high praise to say that the cast makes this Herculean task seem effortless. Chesney Snow, one of New York’s premier beatboxers who has actually performed on New York’s subway platforms, deserves a special shout-out for providing the propulsive percussive foundation as Boxman. In addition, Celisse Henderson displays impressive vocal chops and keen comedic timing, especially as the aforementioned, scene-stealing MTA clerk with an attitude. And Steve French, who sings Bass, also gets props for bringing the Bowser (from Sha Na Na) persona into the 21st century with his multiple roles.

As staged in the intimate 196-seat Theater A at 59E59, there is a lot of humor in the show that will appeal to residents of the Big Apple. But because of their esoteric quality, many of the jokes will fall flat on out-of-town theatergoers who may not yet possess an insider’s view of Gotham. And while the characters are presented as New York archetypes, their stories end of being more commonplace than inspiring, more trite than universal. The very talented Denise Summerford as Jane, hopeful thespian, and equally skilled Tommar Wilson as Trent, semi-closeted gay urban professional, seem more than capable of handling roles with more depth. The timing in the middle and the end of the show could use some tightening too. Although the first 20 minutes zip by in a whirl, In Transit is paced more like a local than an express.

These are, however, minor quibbles with a show that can be truthfully called utterly charming. Because of its big city-centric themes and humor, In Transit might not transfer well to regional theater or even Broadway. But it’s a thoroughly enjoyable trip about the noise of New York for lovers of musical theater. And did I mention that the whole thing is sung a cappella?

A Play of Miracles

Every once in a while, there is a work of theater that is remarkable in some way: thrilling, touching, unforgettable. More infrequently than even that, on the rarest of rare moments, there is a production that is not only somehow remarkable but also pure art, a representation of what theater can (and perhaps should) be. I Fiorretti in Musica – Opera in Danza presented by Pioneers go East Company is one such work. In its sheer simplicity, it is utter genius. The play tells the story of Saint Francis, divided into four chapters: “Assuming a Life of Simplicity,” “Preaching to the Birds,” “Taming the Wolf,” and “Thieves and Beggars.” Yet any attempt at summarizing would not even remotely approximate what this production actually is. The story being told – one of self-sacrifice, forgiveness, and faith – would be compelling in its own right. This play, however, rather than being a traditional theatrical narrative, is an exploration of the various elements that can combine in the theater. The piece incorporates music, dance, painting, poetry, puppetry, and junk sculpture, emphasizing just how integrative of an art form theater can be.

The storytelling elements are isolated from one another; no character who sings also performs in the central action. Rather, the various components seem strategically layered one upon another. This technique adds a unique richness to the piece while also highlighting how limited traditional storytelling may, in fact, be. All of the pieces of the theatrical puzzle compliment each other beautifully, from the way light reflects off of costumes to how the music pairs with the dance movements.

There are truly memorable, striking moments in this play. In the first chapter, the ensemble surrounding Francesco pelt shoes at him, cruelly and maliciously. Yet Francesco engages them in a game, forgiving them instantly and offering to them the chance to follow him. This moment is touching and profoundly human. Each of these episodes is punctuated with paintings projected onto the backdrop and poetic text describing what is happening in the scene. These elements add to the richness of the overall work. Although any individual component would tell a certain aspect of the tale, by bringing them all together, the story is rendered in a multifaceted manner that no single element could present.

Life appears to spring forth in this performance. The random trash and scraps of paper that are assembled to create a slew of birds seem to come alive through the careful choreography of the puppeteers' motions. The set is evocative, showing ways in which mundane detritus can become the most magical of playlands. The use of everyday household objects to create the world of the story goes beyond the merely clever. At times, it is so well-conceived that it borders on the astonishing.

This is a special work of theater. It takes a heartfelt tale and presents it in new and innovative ways. There are moments within this performance that will linger long after the house lights come on. Perhaps, these moments will stick with the viewer for a long time to come. For this reason, I Fioretti in Musica is a production not to be missed.

Language, Logs & Love

The first production of Soho’ Rep’s 2010-11 season, Orange, Hat & Grace, written by Gregory Moss and directed by Sarah Benson, was originally developed during the organization’s own Writer/Director lab. This world premiere is an excellent rendering of an original new play, and will make for an engaging evening for fans of experimental plays and those who are looking for an alternative to conventional realism. Set in a rural cabin in the woods, Orange, Hat & Grace describes the courtship of Orange by Hat, a younger man, and charts the progression of their relationship. Orange is haunted by Grace, the daughter she abandoned as an infant years earlier.

However, the life of the play does not lie in its plot or characters, but in the language that they speak and the world they construct from it on a moment by moment basis. The characters share and teach each other words as they build the relationships that bind them together. Hat’s favorite word, “hep,” acquires meaning as he “woos” Orange, who gradually becomes accustomed to it as she does to him. Orange teaches Hat the words for various types of trees and their leaves, and tries to teach him to stop using curse words. Eventually, Hat teaches new words to Grace, an activity that in itself generates conflict between him and Orange. The script’s wordplay and rhythms are mesmerizing, and the best way to enjoy the play is to focus on each new line as it emerges, as the characters do.

The only part of Moss’ script that doesn’t really work is the ending, which forces the question of the nature of Grace’s reality (“real” person, ghost, figment of imagination?) into stark focus. This question isn’t relevant in a world that associates itself into existence on a moment by moment basis, and feels like an attempt to impose closure on a work that would have been better left to evolve in a more unexpected direction.

Stephanie Roth Haberle is captivating as Orange, and her nuanced performance as this complex, contradictory character anchors the production. Mathew Maher is similarly excellent as Hat, presenting him as aggressive and vulnerable in turn. The lead characters’ intense need for each other is evident from their first meeting, and the high stakes the actors bring lend their verbal exchanges great energy, and often humor. Grace’s motivations are never clear, but Reyna de Courcy does a credible job portraying the damaged, spectral figure.

The set design, by Rachel Hauck, reads like an elaborate and minutely rendered joke that only becomes funnier as the show progresses. As the characters constantly announce their locations and actions and describe their surroundings, the script’s actual need for a high-budget set is nonexistant. “Whatchu doing? Orange asks in one early scene. “Break off a piece a wood,” Hat responds, as he does so. Or,“Chop chop chop. Wonder what I look like chopping wood,” Hat says later, swinging a highly realistic ax into an almost excessively detailed, large log. Yet, the audience is presented with Orange’s entire one-room cabin, featuring suitably weathered wooden furniture and even a cast-iron stove.

The props, designed by Michelle Davis, are in a vein similar to that of the set, and successful for the same reasons. The costumes, by David Hyman, are simple, yet effectively place the characters in a dreamlike version of pioneer days, complete with buttoned-up long undewear. Matt Frey’s lighting design includes bare bulbs that assist in conveying scene changes as well as atmosphere. Sarah Benson’s staging makes excellent use of the range of playing spaces and possibilities opened by the script and set.

Adventurous theatergoers will enjoy Orange, Hat & Grace, and the unusual opportunity of seeing such a polished production of such an offbeat and entertaining script.

End(less) Game

An explosive and lyrical exploration of familial angst and decadence, One Little Goat Theatre Company's production of Ritter, Dene, Voss by Thomas Bernhard is many things: intriguing, troubling, often funny, and ultimately unsatisfying. Playwright Thomas Bernhard (1931-1989) was a controversial post-war Austrian writer known for his bleak and misanthropic outlook. He has been compared with both Samuel Beckett and Ionesco because of his absurd, grim portrayal of the human condition. Reportedly, Bernhard was so disgusted with his compatriots that he stipulated in his will that none of his plays may be performed in Austria while they remain in copyright. Fortunately, that doesn't prevent Toronto-based One Little Goat Theatre Company from producing the New York premiere of Ritter, Dene, Voss.

Written without punctuation and filled with repetitions and word-play, Ritter, Dene, Voss is a poetic examination of the dysfunctional relationships of three wealthy siblings. The play, named for the actors who originated the three roles, concerns the homecoming of mad philosopher Ludwig (Jordan Pettle) from an asylum to the home of his older and younger sisters (Maev Beaty and Shannon Perreault), both actresses.

Surrounded by faceless and nude portraits of their parents and uncles, the older and the younger sisters argue over their brother's arrival, which the elder engineered and the younger resists. When Ludwig comes down for dinner, the sisters' quotidian existence explodes. Old wounds smart as the siblings talk past each other, the sisters competing for their brother's favor, and their ever-more-unhinged brother tries to force them to send him back to his asylum.

These are the kinds of family struggles which can have no satisfactory end, leading to wounds that never heal. Perhaps this is why the play ends so suddenly, offering no sense of closure.

Ritter, Dene, Voss is elegantly directed by Adam Seelig, who balances the restraint of the older and younger sisters with the frenetic behavior of their brother and creates some beautiful tableaux. Unfortunately, the few moments when the actors slip out of character to address each other, the audience, and the stage manager seem unjustified and out of place.

Beaty and Perreault are completely believable in their roles, and Pettle's Ludwig is at once compellingly charismatic and skin-crawlingly unhinged. His late entry introduces a much-needed, cutting sense of humor to the proceedings as he abuses actors, artists, and contemporary aesthetics at every turn.

Lighting designer Rosie Cruz creates some beautiful silhouettes, while the simple set and costume designs by Jackie Chau are attractive and serviceable.

Strange that a production that is well-designed, well-performed, and well-directed should be so unsatisfying. Not every story can have a pat conclusion, but one would hope for a sense of aesthetic completion. Instead, one leaves Ritter, Dene, Voss wondering why the house lights came up so soon. Nevertheless, One Little Goat Theatre Company's production is a good opportunity to see Thomas Bernhard's work. Those who admire poetic dramas and explorations of the dark side of human relations will find much to enjoy.

Chekhov in Bits and Pieces

It’s easy to see why the Pearl Theatre Company programmed The Sneeze, an umbrella title covering eight one-acts derived from the works of Anton Chekhov. The evening offers a variety of comic and dramatic roles for several of the company’s stalwarts. Everyone has a chance to shine, and yet the whole is less than fulfilling. The shifting tones make for an unsettling experience, and at times in J.R. Sullivan’s production, the comedy plays like a blunt force object. Four plays are one-acts that Chekhov wrote for the theater, and two of those are monologues. The other four are adaptations of short stories, at which the Russian author was prolific. (Jo Winiarski’s carnival-like proscenium of a decrepit old playhouse with plank floors that turn up like skis at the footlights emphasizes the theatrical aspect and camouflages the more prosaic sources of the other pieces). Characters range across classes: peasants and landowners, rich and poor, military hierarchies and civilian masters and servants, actors and professors.

The title piece, one of the four adaptations, is one of the funniest and most successful. Introduced briefly by “storytellers,” the piece has no dialogue. A military officer named Chervyakov (Chris Mixon) and his wife (Lee Stark) are sitting behind a Gen. Brizzhalov (Bradford Cover) and his wife (Rachel Botchan). Chervyakov sneezes, and as he does so he deposits something disgusting on the top of Brizzhalov’s head. As Chervyakov tries to clean up Brizzhalov unobtrusively and not appear a fool or boor, he invokes much comedy involving dirty handkerchiefs and fans. Acted superbly, it’s like a silent movie, and in many respects the broad style of silent film comedy carries over to the dialogue-driven pieces.

For instance, in The Proposal, which closes the evening, a hypochondriacal Lomov (Mixon again) arrives at a neighboring landowner’s home to seek marriage with Natalya Stepanova, the daughter. Left alone with her, he is about to ask for her hand when the conversation turns to a piece of property. He claims it’s his; she claims irately that her family owns it. The discussion degenerates into shouting, and Lomov begins to have palpitations and trembling. The whole is played with abundant slapstick, and although Mixon’s Lomov is often amusing—particularly as he leaps across stage with an apparently numb leg—the shouting becomes tiresome and one wishes for more subtlety.

It may be, of course, that the Russian sense of comedy doesn’t travel westward very well, or that Chekhov’s sense of what’s funny is shaky. Michael Frayn’s introduction to the plays suggests that possibility, since the playwright reworked his monologue, The Evils of Tobacco, over many years, leaching out the comedy until it was a portrait of a miserably henpecked man. Frayn’s adaptation returns to earlier versions and attempts to restore the humor to the long monologue—delivered with painful panache by the redoubtable Mixon.

A similar problem afflicts Swan Song, also one of the original plays. In it, an aged actor (the marvelous Robert Hock) comes into a dark stage after having napped through a theater party. His appearance echoes that of the servant Firs at the end of The Cherry Orchard. An old prompter appears, and the actor begins to lament the way the theater stood between him and happiness. It’s a lugubrious and dark piece, and although both actors are excellent, it feels too long (especially after Chekhov introduces scenes from Shakespeare (Othello and Lear).

Certainly there are more pleasures to be found in the compact adaptation The Inspector General, in which Bradford Cover in the title role lies on a cart taking him to a village for a surprise inspection. The coachman, unaware of the identity of his passenger, begins telling tales about the IG—he’s a drunkard and has had lots of women. Cover’s reactions to the slander are brilliant, and the piece benefits from being snappy and shorter.

But several of the works are more labored, such as the opener, Drama, based on a story that Chekhov told. Mixon again plays a playwright (Chekhov himself, though named otherwise in the script) and Botchan is an admirer who gains entrance to his home and insists on reading her play to him. Mixon’s increasing agonies and thoughts (of stabbing her, for instance) constitute the humor, but the dividends of his comic exasperation decrease sharply as the play goes on and on.

For anyone who is a fan of Chekhov, the evening provides an overview of the author’s work, widely varying in tone and consistency. Some may find that a virtue, and some may find it uncomfortable, but the Pearl at least deserves credit for undertaking the lesser-known efforts of a playwright whom one is likely to find more satisfying in full-length works.

A Sight for Sore Eyes

“…These art lovers, these poor, unsuspecting–rather, rich, unsuspecting–patrons have bought, sight unseen, a painting you have not yet painted?” This revelation about the nature of the commercial art world occurs at a moment of high tension in Sight Unseen, written by Donald Margulies and directed by Dorothy Lyman. This play confronts this issue of the value of modern art in addition to many other significant topics. The play is a deeply moving and relevant work of theater. The narrative begins with Jonathan arriving at the home of his college lover, Patricia, and her husband, Nick, in England. Jonathan has become a successful American artist while Patricia and her husband are struggling archaeologists. Even before this first encounter in the chilly English countryside, Jonathan has haunted this modest home: a painting that he had painted for Patty back during their college days accents their mantle. Their long-defunct relationship haunts her current marriage.

All of the performances are strong. Jonathan Todd Ross, who plays Jonathan, does a superb job of balancing his character's extreme likeability with a level of smarminess that keeps the character at an uncomfortable arms’ length from fellow characters and audience members alike. The slighted husband, played by Brent Vimtrup, is an interesting figure, a compelling mixture of emotional turmoil and comic relief. Laurie Schaefer plays up Patricia’s wounded soul while Bryn Boice makes Grete a confrontational and worthy foe for Jonathan in his artistic playing field.

The set is realistic, down to the most minute detail. It portrays the English country kitchen in the home where Patricia and Nick live, evoking its spirit while depicting its outward appearance. The same set is also always present in the background, even when scenes do not take place in this home. From one perspective, the play would benefit from being able to change setting. On another, the constant presence of this locale reminds us that no matter how much this play attempts to reconnect with the past and reconstruct the future, these characters will permanently be defined by something that has happened in this site.

The story jumps in and out of time, rather than being told in chronological, linear fashion. The true beauty of this play is in its text. The dialogue is a kind of natural speech while still being deep, powerful poetry. The lines are at turns charming, engaging, provocative, and intellectually stimulating.

The most interesting aspect of the play is the fact that it is driven by such a compelling narrative and yet it is a tale that is already about to reach its logical conclusion in the play’s first scene. Because of this, it seems that the work actually intends to explore something else entirely from the plot points it presents. The theme that recurs time and time again, besides the issue of the value of art, is an attempt to come to terms with what it means to be a Jew in America. Jonathan is torn between his desire to assimilate and involve himself with a non-Jewish woman and his determination to be true to the Jewish identity that his mother wished he would assume. His existence and his art are marked by Jewish symbols, ones with which even Jonathan is not sure he is able to come to terms.

Margulies's play is a meaningful work of drama. It tells a compelling tale of the intricacies of the pleasures and pains created by interpersonal relationships. It is also a stimulating exploration of the place of art in the contemporary American landscape as well as an insightful study of the Jewish experience. This play is worth giving a listen to, even sight unseen.

The Gospel According to Busch

Charles Busch’s latest work of rarefied lunacy takes comic aim at Hollywood’s depiction of nuns. The set of St. Veronica’s, cheaply yet inventively designed by B.T. Whitehill, looks like a shoestring high school effort, with sponges standing in for bricks on the pillars of the front gates, and stained-glass windows depicting steaks being grilled and a garden watered. But it’s meant to be a run-down parish—think of The Bells of St. Mary’s. No matter: the action of this canny satire belies its shabby look. It is sublime nonsense whose pleasures outweigh those of many bigger-budget productions. Busch, an expert on Hollywood melodrama (he’s provided authoritative commentary for Warner Brothers DVDs of The Bad Seed and Dead Ringer), slips in references to The Sound of Music, The Trouble with Angels, Agnes of God and even The Da Vinci Code, but there’s also a snappy homage to His Girl Friday in a flashback that lets Busch appear in the regular drag he's famous for. If the more beatific moments of the actor’s performance as Mother Superior of a bizarre convent don’t remind you of Loretta Young, you may connect his occasionally throatier growl to Rosalind Russell (the star of both Trouble and His Girl Friday).

Busch has surrounded himself with equally comic cohorts. Mother Superior’s second in command is Sister Acacius, equipped by Julie Halston with a thick New Yawk accent and simmering Sturm und Drang. Whether she’s on a tirade about the propensity of young postulant Agnes (Amy Rutberg) to see the face of a saint in stained underwear and perform miracles; listening to the sexual exploits of an old friend (the strapping and lively Jonathan Walker, who doubles as a slouching, nefarious monk); or taking exception to an unprintable phrase that she’s misheard from Mother Superior, Halston is a riot.

Mother Superior must contend not only with Agnes and Acacius, but with a visiting nun from the mother house in Berlin. Voiced by Alison Fraser with a thick Germanic accent seemingly filtered through a dying kazoo, the suspicious Sister Walburga, who wears black gloves, radiates menace. Later on Fraser has the opportunity to do an outrageous Irish accent as a slatternly cleaning woman (dressed by Fabio Toblini in a sweater and skirt, with outrageously pendulous breasts; it appears to be the designer’s homage to Agnes Moorehead in Hush… Hush, Sweet Charlotte, although it makes Moorehead’s costume look elegant). The actress is vocally brilliant at both.

The convoluted plot defies explication. Suffice it to say, it involves saving the convent by getting money from a notoriously stingy atheist, Mrs. Morris Levinson; fending off the plot of an evil albino monk with a secret that could shake the foundations of Christianity; and discovering the real parents of not one, but two, orphans. And, of course, there must be an interlude or two for Mother Superior to pick up a guitar and sing a song. At times the plot seems just a bit overburdened, but under Carl Andress's direction, the cast brings a high level of energy and commitment to the proceedings, and the parody never becomes tiresome.

Busch’s script gives everyone a plateful of comic opportunities: Walker and Levinson have a scene reading a letter from Sister Acacius in which each gets to do an impression of her. Levinson also plays a young convent student, a boy who endures teasing and bullying from students who call him a faggot, and Mother Superior offers him some indulgent solace.

Though Busch has great affection for the subject matter, he also saves a few juicy comic digs at Catholicism for himself. “A new clinic just opened around the corner, devoted to women’s health and reproductive choices,” Mother Superior informs an old flame. “We’ll see what we can do about that!”

The Reluctant Evangelist

Partial Comfort’s production of A Bright New Boise , running at the Wild Project through October 2nd, achieves the exact goals the company has set out to accomplish. According to their mission statement, Partial Comfort wants to produce work that is immediate and accessible, work that sticks with the viewer “long after the curtain has fallen and the houselights have been raised.” Much to my chagrin, this play has taken root in my gut like a hearty bowl of oatmeal. Boise is a devastating portrait of contemporary American life and the beliefs and fears that sustain and divide us. It is funny, familiar, tragic and exquisitely produced and performed. The play centers on Will, an evangelical Christian whose church has met scandal surrounding the death of one of its young members. Will moves to Boise and takes a job at the local Hobby Lobby in an attempt to connect to his estranged teenage son, Alex. In the Hobby Lobby break room, Will meets and interacts with his various co-workers: his boss, Pauline, (hilariously played by Danielle Slavick), Alex’s older brother, Leroy, an art student whose work consists of t-shirts with slogans like “You will eat your children,” (John Patrick Doherty) and Anna, who, like Will, hides in the store after closing so that she can read in the break room (Sarah Nina Hayon). Will does his best to avoid discussing his past and his faith, but this proves impossible, and tensions escalate quickly.

The characters in A Bright New Boise are all desperately attempting to find meaning in a world of corporate chains and low hopes. The tragedy lies in their inability to reconcile their belief systems with those of their peers.

The play's aesthetic is hyper-realism. Samuel Hunter’s script and Davis McCallum’s direction are nuanced and subtle. Jason Simms’ set is incredibly detailed and fully operational: the appliances work, the florescent lights glow unflatteringly on the steel and plastic furniture. The actors’ performances are equally specific. Their unconscious ticks and gestures pervade the scenes, at times communicating more than the text.

No one is more adept at this than Andrew Garman, who plays the mild-mannered Will. Garman’s portrayal of Will is subtle and quietly tragic: everything, from the way he sits in a chair to the way he sets up his bagged lunch on the break room table communicates his discomfort, vulnerability, and most strongly, deep, deep pain. Will’s pain is so palpable it is difficult to watch him, but we cannot look away.

Will’s attempts to connect with his son are particularly painful. Alex is an awkward but intelligent teen, prone to panic attacks and attention-seeking lies (accurately and poignantly portrayed by Matt Farabee). In one scene, Will nervously mentions to Alex that he listened to a band Alex likes. Alex asks Will what he thought. Will responds, “It was really pretty.

ALEX: Pretty? WILL: Yeah, and – ALEX: (under breath) Jesus Christ WILL: - overwhelming.”

In performance, these last two lines overlap, and Will’s “overwhelming,” which he forces out while rubbing his eye and shifting his feet, is missed by Alex, and only just heard by the audience. It is awkward, difficult, and damn heart wrenching.

McCallum seems intent on making Will difficult to hear and see. For example, Garner plays a couple of scenes with his back to the audience and his face in profile. In another scene, the lights are left dim, making it difficult to see Will’s face. These choices seem to echo Will’s discomfort in his surroundings, his desire to conceal his past and his inner turmoil. It somehow has the opposite effect: the more Will tries to keep his pain private, the more blatant it becomes.

The first act of Boise is markedly different from the second. The first act is an experience: without articulating it in the text, the production hits a nerve, makes apparent a kind of wound that is specific to this country and this moment in time. The audience understands it viscerally, emotionally. The second act attempts to put this wound into words: the characters discuss the beliefs that drive them and we see these same beliefs divide them. Watching the second act, I am more detached, less invested. I wish I had been able to watch both acts in one sitting: had there not been an intermission, I wonder if the play would have maintained the emotional intensity that was so strongly present in the first act.

Still, A Bright New Boise is an excellent production. Though anything but bright, it is undeniably accurate, and absolutely heartfelt: a searing and thorough portrait of the culture wars in America. It left a real impression on me, one I don’t imagine I’ll soon forget.

Touring Gangland with Julius Caesar

The Queens Players' Julius Caesar offers Shakespeare’s play in a well staged, physically vigorous production. Set in an unspecified urban gang environment, the production makes good use of the Secret Theatre’s space, and nearly pulls off this updated version of the play. Director Richard Mazda, working in one of the more interesting off-off-Broadway spaces I have encountered of late – a former industrial space with a large, flexible theater, a loading dock and a number of ancillary spaces used for this environmental production – tricks Shakespeare’s play out with the combat-booted, ripped-jeans-and-leather-jacket look that has become the expected attire for disaffected youths. An odd mix of machetes, daggers, shot guns and martial arts weapons has everyone in this production ready to go to work on each other. A cast of mostly young actors, with many of the roles played by women, is headed by the very competent Gil Ron as Julius Caesar, Alex Cape as Marcus Brutus and David J. Fink as Mark Antony.

Mazda choreographs and paces his actors well, and creates a credibly excited, physically urgent atmosphere. Making excellent use of a simple lighting setup (no designers are credited in any of the design areas) and adding some well chosen sound effects, this production is almost convincing. Why then did I feel like I was attending a high-school project, intent to make Shakespeare palatable to urban kids who might otherwise skip the class?

The culture clash between Shakespeare’s text of political assassination and fight for succession and the concerns of Street Gangs of Queens never quite works for the play. Even though the actors have mastered Shakespearean Language 101 well enough, they (with Caesar, Mark Antony and Sarah Bonner’s Portia the notable exceptions) rush through the intricate arguments and oratories of the text in a uniform shouting style that renders the text hard to follow. And the issues of the play – assassination as a tool of political idealism versus murder as a stepping stone to power, fear of tyranny versus fear of losing clout -- do not strike me as the concerns of teenage and twenty-something gangbangers. On the other hand, many opportunities are missed where believable imagery might have steeped Shakespeare’s characters much deeper into a contemporary world.

The use of Johnny Cash for pre-show and intermission music is an odd choice in that it suggests the world of the parents of these actors. The environmental staging is slightly irritating, not only for the awkward tour guide role of the soothsayer (“follow me…”) but also because it does not contribute in either lending atmosphere or meaning anything more than the main stage area implies.

Dressing Caesar in a floor-length white gown – vaguely Islamic looking – is a jarring choice, though it does make the blood look prettier than on the black costume of his first appearance. But it also makes him appear the innocent victim, the lamb brought to slaughter, which seems inconsistent with the rest of the gang concept.

Ultimately, in spite of its flaws, this attempt at giving contemporary relevance to a text by dressing it in new duds is still entertaining to watch, perhaps less for the text than for the worthwhile intent and boisterous enthusiasm of the young troupe.

Vanya on East Fourth Street

The Boomerang Theatre Company presents Anton Chekhov’s Uncle Vanyat in a straightforward production that aims to let the play speak for itself, with minimal interpretive interference: an important play, well cast, overcomes the shortcomings of a well-meant production. The arrival of Serebryakov (Ed Schultz), a retired art history professor, and his twenty-seven-year-old beautiful wife Yelena (Lauren Kelston) on a country estate managed by Vanya and his niece Sonya upends the balance of their life. Vanya falls hopelessly in love with Yelena, (Yelena: “When you speak to me of love I simply grow numb”). Astrov (Richard Brundage), the district’s doctor, feels that Yelena’s beauty lifts him out of the dull routines of his life and falls in love with her as well. Sonya has long loved Astrov who ignores her. When Vanya surprises Astrov and Yelena in an embrace – and, moments later, the professor proposes to sell the estate to invest the proceeds for a better return, Vanya reaches the end of his tether and attacks the professor.

Serebryakov and Yelena decide to move back into town. In the end the plain, unloved Sonya and the defeated Vanya resume their work, resigned to live with their failures at love and life.

The director, Philip Emeott, has assembled an excellent cast (including the smaller parts of the permanent houseguest Telegin (Bill Weeden), the nurse Marina (Sara Ann Parker) and Voynitskaya, Vanya’s mother (Dorores McDougal). His respect for the text leads to a naturalistic style suggested by the first production. Crickets, birds, sounds of horses trotting in the yard, costumes that approximate the Russia of the 1890s set the atmosphere. But then he encourages his actors to perform in a frantic, overly emotional style, with large gestures and a hurried pace better suited to farce.

The empty picture frames on the walls - a symbolist cliché that I have seen it in several Vanya productions – lack justification in the text; having actors break the fourth wall in several of the soliloquies jars the audience for no dramatic gain.

While the spare unit set works well, lighting and costumes are just serviceable with many missed opportunities. The music choices seem arbitrary – Beethoven’s Ghost trio, a twentieth century guitar piece, a piece of music that, I assume, the sound designer composed present a stylistic mix that is puzzling, while on the other hand, the guitar playing of Telegin is well-conceived and adds life and humor to the production.

However, this rendition Uncle Vanya, in its final moments, distills the meandering, almost plot- and action-less story into the poignant, existentialist contemplation of loneliness, pain, suffering, and the willingness to go on living in the face of a life that has lost all meaning and promise for happiness. And director Philip Emeott has the good sense to leave the actors and the text alone for long enough to allow this essential moment to unfold.