Shaping Up

Watching Neil LaBute’s The Shape of Things is an interesting experience if you are currently in a graduate program for the arts. I chose to see this play because it is one that I have seen several times in production, and each time I feel differently about the play as a whole. As MFA art student Evelyn manipulates the seemingly innocent Adam, the audience member is left to wonder about the relationship between art and emotional investment. Sometimes I feel like LaBute has no respect for any of the characters in his plays, especially the women (I am not the first person to think this). Other times I feel like he is just testing us, trying to find the limit of human compassion. In Jump for Joy Productions’ debut show, it is obvious that things are shaping up. Though there are some technical issues with the production, the actors gain momentum as the play progresses, ending up with a decent production. Workshop Theater Company’s Jewel Box Theater is decorated with a simple poster of a painting. We are in a museum. This simplicity of design is perfectly suited to the intimate space, and director Renee Rodriguez allows her actors to use the space well, at first. Unfortunately, as the production continues, the set changes and costume changes become too involved for the tiny space, overwhelming it with half-light or blackout periods that are too long. One lone stagehand moves everything, occasionally assisted by an actor. I much prefer the moments where the poster, held to the wall by a single tack, is changed. New picture, new space - it is that simple. The disconnect between the expensive costumes (I saw the J. Crew label on Adam’s jacket) and the understaffed, clunky set changes strikes me as the major weakness in this production.

Yet, at its heart, The Shape of Things is about the people. I have to say that the acting improved considerably throughout the show. I appreciated Adam (Michael Wetherbee) for his awkwardness, and I think he did a nice job transforming throughout the piece. Evelyn (Samantha Payne Garland) handled the final moments of the play better than the actresses in other productions I’ve seen, though I still have not seen anyone play this character believably. Garland still seems to lack the purely cold affect that lurks in the lines. Likewise, Jenny (Mallory Campbell) is initially played as a pure stereotype of a neurotic, pearl-wearing college student.

I agree that the somewhat two dimensional natures of these characters are partially due to LaBute’s lines, but there are ways of overcoming that. This is proven first by the portrayal of Phillip (Nathan Atkinson). Atkinson’s charm is perfect for Phillip, the college student who wears his sunglasses on his head, even at night. Phillip is a stereotype, to be sure, but Atkinson is able to convince us that it is easy to both love and hate Phillip simultaneously. Atkinson and Wetherbee have a wonderful dynamic in Scene 7, where they do homework on the campus lawn. The energy, listening, and interactions in this scene make it the most engaging moment in the production.

Though I think that the men have more consistently strong performances, this is not to say that the women are left in the dust. Campbell’s Jenny has a very strong moment during a speech she gives in Scene 8. Her honest attempt to communicate with Evelyn is emotionally charged without being over the top. In fact, this is a general theme in the production: each emotional outburst seems motivated and has a natural arc. Characters take the time to get angry and cool down, creating a textured unity in the piece as a whole.

I am still unsure as to whether or not I “like” The Shape of Things , and I feel that it is only fair to warn potential viewers about the dark depths of human nature that it explores. I can say that I appreciate a production that considers both sides of this complicated puzzle of emotionality. If the cast starts every performance with the energy they had at the end of the performance tonight, things will keep shaping up for them.

States of Mind

One of the great challenges, as well as triumphs, of live theater is the ability to communicate what a character is thinking without overtly saying so. A performer must be so in tune with his or her character that they are able to use every physical nuance and vocal intonation to make an audience experience the interior. How, then, can a performer communicate what is going on inside the mind of a character suffering from mental illness? That’s the challenge playwright Sharr White sets up for himself in the MCC Theater’s production of The Other Place. And despite stalwart Joe Mantello’s sensitive direction, this is also the problem in this wobbly and, ultimately, gimmicky play.

There is a saving grace to this production, however. Place is blessed to have its lead protagonist embodied by the phenomenal Laurie Metcalf, who gives one of the greatest performances of the year.

Metcalf is Juliana Smithton, a renowned, no-nonsense scientist. In her fifties, she has taken her pharmaceutical research and hit the road, speaking at conferences about a new protein therapy that fights mental decay. During one such presentation in St. Thomas, the improbable sight of a young woman in a yellow bikini distracts Juliana to the point of a breakdown.

Once back in the states, Juliana tells us that due to a family history, she believes she is suffering from brain cancer. She’s also facing other turmoil in her private life: her daughter, Laurel, ran away with Juliana’s assistant a decade earlier and has only begun to reemerge. And Juliana has filed for divorce from her husband, Ian (Dennis Boutsikaris, who was also Metcalf’s husband in last season’s glorious but short-lived Brighton Beach Memoirs revival), an oncologist who is cheating on Juliana with her neurologist, Dr. Teller (both Laurel and Dr. Teller, in addition to other roles, are portrayed by Aya Cash in a series of well-defined and distinctive performances).

However, the more we learn about Juliana, the less we feel we actually know about her. Is she right to think her husband is having an affair? Is her self-diagnosis of brain cancer at all accurate? What is to be made of the young woman in the bathing suit, or Juliana’s horribly awkward conversations with the estranged Laurel?

Taken linearly, there isn’t much to the central mystery in Place: what’s eating Juliana Smithton? That’s probably why White tells his story in such jagged terms, flashing back and forth from past to present, from St. Thomas to Juliana’s home and doctors’ office to her second house in Cape Cod (the “other place’ of the title). White offers many revolutions but few revelations, and the explanations he does hint at finally feel a little pat and disappointing. Plenty of style can never compensate for lack of substance, and Mantello cannot save Place, at a slight 80 minutes, from feeling both exhausting and alienating.

There is glory to be had, though, in the style of Eugene Lee’s smart set, a background wall of interlocking empty picture frames that also begin to resemble a DNA double helix, and Justin Townsend’s lighting, which smartly accents Juliana’s suffering, even when the source is undetermined. And Boutsikaris is able to construct a baffled but supportive husband, even when his motivations remain enigmatic.

Despite the written play's flaws, the marvelous Metcalf is what makes Place a can’t-miss event. The actress is able to overcome its organizational deficiencies and pull from a deep place of inner fury, fear and sorrow as she commands the stage. She’s equally moving when bellowing with rage at Dr. Teller and when sitting still, silently longing for the right words to say to Laurel. And she doesn’t fight to be likable, either, which only wins us over even more. As White’s compromised puzzle of a play comes together, the one image that becomes clearest of all is of this transcendent actress making hurt look so good.

Leave the Nazis Alone

Contessa’s brother Dexel suddenly reappears after an absence of twenty-one years. “I’m SO Sorry,” he says with pained sincerity – for raping and impregnating her at their last adolescent encounter. A noise is heard from the bathroom, where Contessa’s wife, Jackie, has been locked up, prompting Dexel’s next line: “Does Jackie have a big pussy?” The Amoralists' newest work, now playing at PS 122, provides a curious journey. It jolts back and forth from melodrama to farce, from high-brow political nuance to low racist jokes. Bring Us the Head of Your Daughter keeps you repeatedly asking yourself the same question – Is this for real? Whether they are or not, The Amoralists have put together a fine, stimulating evening of theater.

It begins with a sentimental mulatto, Contessa, (Mara Lileas) crying in an entirely naturalistic apartment set to the tune of an old Afro-American blues song. “My hair is wooly,” wails Nina Simone, weep weep weep goes Contessa. Both are cut off by a message on the answering machine, a stranger threatening to kill the “lesbian whores.” Alarm bells go off – self-important issue play, yikes! Shortly after, however, Jackie enters, and the tone of the play is sharply reconstructed. She’s drunk, and keeps yelling things about their daughter, the cannibal. Anna Stromberg is hysterical as Jackie, both in the funny sense and the loud sense, and the story line seems to follow her lead toward the outrageous.

But it isn’t until the next “dramatic” interlude between Contessa and (half) brother Dexel, described above, that a mock drama begins to take form. Perhaps it is the continuous references to Streetcar - Contessa’s strong southern accent and her riff on whether “Polak” is a racial epithet, Jackie’s over-the-top alcoholism, the presence of rape and bizarre sibling relationships – that make the play seem like a comment on American drama more than anything else. Adding to that are writer/director Derek Ahonen’s bold strokes, juxtaposing cartoon-like clowniness with quiet attempts at naturalism.

The result is mixed. While eliciting stellar performances from his cast (Jordan Tisdale especially is a delight from the moment he enters the stage), Ahonen stumbles directorially at some key moments, straining to reach emotions this frenetic piece cannot sustain. But Ahonen and the cast do succeed in holding our attention for nearly two intermission-less hours. They also leave us brimming with thoughts, questions and memories of many funny moments. Here’s one good image: A plastered, weirdo-clown-faced Lesbian Jew mumbling “Leave the Nazis alone. They’ve suffered enough.”

Bring Us the Head is a play of substance (abuse?), that, while over-shooting at times, is not afraid to engage deeply with the moral, political and theatrical landscape of our time.

Sixth Night – Getting Shakespeare Half Right

Twelfth Night, one of Shakespeare’s most beloved comedies, gets a middling reading by The Seeing Place Theatre. The cast, under the direction of Brandon Walker (who also plays Malvolio), has internalized the story of this play well through long improvisational study of the script. As a result, the actors are comfortable with most of their scenes and present the text intelligently in a conversational tone and with an easy manner. However, as promising as this seemed in the first moments of the presentation, the lack of conceptual clarity and purpose, and of a directorial vision, paired with a glacial pace (the play took three hours, with a ten-minute intermission), soon defeated the good beginning.

Twelfth Night is one of the identity-confusing, sibling-lost-at-sea, misdirected affection plays of Shakespeare’s that seem to have been the Renaissance equivalent of the soap-opera. Here these tropes are conjugated in two main plots: 1. Count Orsino (David Sedgwick) loves Olivia (Anna Marie Sell) who loves Cesario, who is really Viola (Lindsay Teed) in disguise. Viola loves Orsino but serves him disguised as a man so she has to conceal her affection; 2. Olivia’s steward Malvolio loves her, and she is also pursued by Andrew Aguecheek (Nathan Ramos), a minor nobleman recruited as a suitor by Sir Toby Belch (Jorge Hoyos), Olivia’s relative who loves and eventually marries Maria (Erin Cronican), Olivia’s maid. The free agent in this brew is Feste (David Arthur Bacharach), Olivia’s clown, who provides comic by-play, songs, and the occasional stirring of the pot for our and his own amusement. Oh, and did I mention that Viola and her identical twin-brother Sebastian were shipwrecked and think each other drowned?

A further subplot concerns the dislike and disapproval of Sir Toby Belch by Olivia’s Stewart Malvolio, and the cruel practical joke Belch, Aguecheek, Maria and Feste play on Malvolio.

As is often the case with shoestring Shakespeare, the setting and historical timeframe is left vague in this production, in a kind of near-contemporary eclecticism. This is too bad, because a more stringent adherence to a historical time might have forced more specific choices of design and behavior. The play unfolds on a cluttered stage, in lighting that in many scenes is murky, leaving actors in unintended shadows.

The actors' behavior is sometimes as murky as the lighting. For instance, Olivia, deep in mourning, is presented on a deck chair showing much leg and cleavage (through under black lacy undergarments) and pulls the money she gives to Cesario out of her bra. Malvolio struts about with his hand in his pocket, more cock-of-the-walk than stern butler. Aguecheek seems to be in an entirely different play and sounds as if he has memorized a foreign language phonetically, and the drunk Toby Belch moves in and out of drunkenness at will. Feste, a role difficult to make truly humorous in a modern setting, has a pleasant voice, and the final song particularly (he also accompanies himself ably on an electric keyboard) is affecting. But the song (and music) choices do nothing to locate the play either historically or culturally.

The most satisfying scenes are those involving the main players: Orsino, Viola (who delivers the confusions and pain of her longings well), and Olivia, who, once past her sluttish phase, gives her character dignity and strength. Here the mostly psychological approach works because the scenes do not rely on outdated comedic conventions and stock characters, as is the case in the secondary plot.

Brandon Walker, as Malvolio, shows talent as an actor, but as a director he may have been handicapped by the split focus, and by choosing a rehearsal method that works against a strong conceptualization. Shakespeare, I find, often seems accessible enough but turns out to be difficult both in his structural complexities and in the challenge of bringing his work into a present-day form that is compelling. This production would be helped greatly by a more energetic delivery and by a rethinking of the power and class structure of the play.

Frankenstein Comes to Church

Many of Off Off Broadway’s most successful companies present their work in a heightened theatrical acting style, which seems to be poking fun at the entire dramatic enterprise from the Greeks to Law and Order. It has become a rarity to see a play in which high dramatic acting is performed in earnest. As if calling on the spirits of the ancient actors who first got on a stage to perform, or on the practitioners in far corners of the globe who still perform their ancient methods today, Rabbit Hole Ensemble valiantly goes there. In so doing the company sheds some light on why that kind of acting is shied away from by virtually every living western theater director. One of the best moments in Doctor Frankenstein's Magical Creature is entering the space. A large room inside the Old First Reformed Church on Carroll Street in Park Slope is sparsely, elegantly set up. One long, curved row of chairs is book-ended by an actor on each side. In front of them sits a cloth with several objects sitting on it: a drum, a pistol, and more. When the lights go down on the audience the only light in the room is that coming in from the decorated church windows high above the stage. One of the two actors who were sitting with us picks up a light fixture and flashes it on the narrator’s face. These simple, hand held lights are the only ones we will encounter all evening.

In that spooky bottom lighting, as if we’re all seated around a bonfire, Emily Hartford begins telling the story of Frankenstein, through the voice of the (female in this production) creature, not the (female) doctor. The story-telling is enhanced by effective work from the ensemble, which surrounds the audience with sound, physically acts out the narration, and handles the seamless motion of the simple and pretty lighting design (by director Edward Elefterion). The haunting story, however, quickly becomes something akin to a Greek tragedy, in which we watch the creature (Jocelyn O'Neil) grow from a sad but hopeful, peaceful being into a vengeful murderer.

The production works with Rabbit Hole’s signature minimalist aesthetic, focusing the piece on the physical abilities of the actors. Director Elefterion handles the ensemble well, but his insistence on relating the acting style to a more grandiose form of drama, such as Japenese Noh, is the play’s downfall. While some of the actors seem uncomfortable sustaining this heightened style, perhaps the main reason it turns flat less than halfway through the (under an hour) evening is the seriousness with which the production seems to take itself. It is a gravity which does not translate into an emotional experience for the audience. Instead it comes across as self-conscious and slight, and leaves the spectators disconnected.

The script has strong moments, especially early on as writer Stanton Wood connects us with the emotional landscape of the creature. However, the play tries to be something akin to a classical tragedy with very little of the tool classical plays utilize most, dialogue. Adding to this is the way in which this rather intellectual piece occasionally slips into tiring cliché, as when the creature despairs: “I just want to be accepted.”

It’s refreshing to see a company be straightforward about the drama it is creating. But the dramatic has already been abducted by bad television, leaving theater artists with a burning need to re-invent it. Successfully plowing ahead with “drama” as if it hasn’t changed in 3000 years, even if you are adding some contemporary touches, would require an act of genius. Even the Greeks are performed small these days.

Familial Variations

If you’re looking for a romantic or traditional portrayal of a relationship, look elsewhere: KIN is about as unromantic as they come. Not only is it honest and without sentimentality, the main romance is all but absent from the equation. As it turns out, this is the genius of the piece: a relationship study that studies the relationships surrounding the couple instead of the couple itself. And it certainly helps that the writing is excellent and the cast superb. KIN is an honest exploration of the joys and burdens of being connected to people, a near pitch-perfect evening. KIN follows Anna, an Ivy League poetry scholar, and Sean, an Irish physical trainer, from before their first date to their wedding day, focusing not on the couple but their family and friends, the ties formed by their romance. Almost all scenes are between two people, and each gives us a portrait of the characters’ relationship. Some are longstanding, between brother and sister, best friends from boarding school, a man and his mistress. Others are formed only through Anna and Sean’s partnership, like that of Sean and Anna’s best friend, or Anna and Sean’s mother. Some are easy, some tense, many comical, and often revealing of the troubled nature of bonds between people.

Almost the entire cast should be praised for their nuanced work, supported greatly by Bathsheba Doran’s script and Sam Gold’s direction. Stand outs include Cotter Smith, who plays Adam, Anna’s father. Adam is an army man: stoic, reserved, speaking quickly in clipped sentences, as though still on duty. He seems unused to socializing with civilians, uncomfortable, which makes his desire and inability to connect with his daughter all the more painful to watch. Laura Heisler (Helena) and Suzanne Bertish (Linda) also give standout performances: Heisler is hilarious as a modern-day bohemian, waddling around the stage on 3 inch wedge sandals, yet forcing us to take her seriously at key moments. Bertish takes material that could be deemed melodramatic and keeps it truthful, drawing us in with dry wit that barely conceals real grief and trauma. I am least impressed with Kate Bush, who plays Anna: she makes the character cold and disinterested, impossible to empathize with and unconvincing in vulnerable moments.

Gold does a beautiful job emphasizing the central theme of KIN through staging. Actors change the set between scenes, and, more interestingly, are onstage from time to time, watching scenes seemingly unconnected to them. The first time this happens, Sean's mother and Uncle watch an interaction between Anna's father and his long-time lover. All of a sudden, four characters who have never met, who would have no connection to one another if not for Anna and Sean, are sharing the stage, one group taking interest in the others' lives. Gold is using theatrical tools only here, creating an experience that cannot be reproduced on film: the experience of seeing bodies in space together, bleeding into one anothers' worlds. We see that the characters both are and are not present in the scene; they are and are not watching. The actors become spectral in a way that is all the more eerie due to our knowledge of their actual, physical presence.

The penultimate scene in KIN brings this staging technique to an exquisite conclusion. Everyone assembles in Ireland for Sean and Anna's outdoor wedding, despite an overwhelmingly intense storm. As Helena attempts to officiate, screaming over the rain, fog fills the stage until we can't see a thing. As it begins to clear, a structure is rolled on downstage, a three dimensional frame that acts as various rooms throughout the performance, and Sean and Anna enter. Costumes and some vocal reverb tell us we're in a memory, what seems to be one of Sean and Anna's first dates. We listen as they learn about each other, their families, their ghosts. It is the first time the two are in a scene alone together, but we soon realize even now this isn't the case: as the fog clears further, we see the wedding party, still on stage. In the moment, without knowing it, Sean and Anna are beginning to bring all of these people together, and the family gets to watch it happen.

Anna says, "It's awful, isn't it?" Sean: What is? Anna: Getting to know someone.

It's a beautiful way to end the play: a perfect confluence of text, image and thematic material. But the play does not end. Instead, we are pulled back to the wedding day, to Anna and Sean laughing at their flooded ceremony, a confession from Sean that he's afraid to die, and a reassurance from Anna that they won't for a long time. To go from something so profound to something so obvious and cliche, and end there, is disappointing, to put it mildly. Fear of death permeates the play. It does not need to be stated. At this moment, and a couple of others, I wish Ms. Doran had had the guts to cut. Fingers crossed for future incarnations.

Still, no question, KIN is an astute portrait of the troubled ties that enfold and ensnare us, and it is beautifully rendered by the entire company.

Long Live the Queen!

It’s time to celebrate Purim! And should you be in search of an appropriate play to see in honor of the holiday, head down to UNDER St. Marks and check out Jewqueen, Little Lord’s current production. The piece is a raucous, irreverently reverent manifestation of the Biblical story of the Book of Esther. The play is a worthwhile delight at this festive time of the year. Rather than having a traditional presentation of the tale, with one actress to play Esther and others to play Mordecai, the King, etc., Little Lord chooses to have their whole company both narrate the tale and perform multiple roles. Michael Levinton, the show's director, sporting a sassy white party dress, red and black checkerboard robe, and green paper crown, acts as the principle narrator and the ancient King, bringing the company together to perform the story and keeping the action moving along. The remaining six performers all take turns in the other principal roles, as well as in the position of narrator. They both enact and present the story, even at times analyzing some of the more complex elements of the tale.

The entire company is hilarious and charming in their multiple roles, making everyone in the audience want to join in with the fun. And join in they can–there are places for audience participation: reading aloud a short section of text, using noisemakers, and in general cheering, booing, and clapping when appropriate. This relaxed actor-audience divide intensifies the sense that this is a celebration, not just a performance. This production is being put on for the enjoyment of all in the playhouse, not just the performers. The performers all appear to be having a joyous time up on stage and the feeling is infectious in the audience.

This sense of a party in place of a performance is set from the moment the audience is allowed into the theater space. The performers are all singing and dancing along to some classic karaoke hits and wearing crazy party dresses in bright colors with lots of fluff. This tone is maintained throughout, even in the moments where the story becomes heavy. For instance, when narrating the attempted poisoning of the King and the subsequent execution of the would-be assassins, one of the performers narrates the tale while holding up illustrations on poster board. This technique, one of many like it, prevents this evening’s fare from becoming too dark or too didactic.

At times, the humor is a bit much and there are moments where the silliness could perhaps be toned down. Some of the gags are a tad obvious or go on for a bit too long. It seems, however, that the company is aware of these potential pitfalls and hopes to embrace them rather than attempting to gloss over them or sweep them under the rug.

The most impressive thing about the piece is that, within all of its silliness, its use of drag, and endless humor, there is a genuine quality that rings through. It is easy to believe that the performers care about this story and truly wish to share it with their audiences. They approach the material in a loving way, making it seem like a gift that they are sharing with their spectators. The wrapping is all of the kitschy charm; the real present is the story itself.

There is a charming unprofessional professionalism to the way Jewqueen plays on stage. In pretending to be amateurish, this company has created a sophisticatedly campy take on a meaningful, important Old Testament tale. For anyone in need of a little music, a lot of laughs, and an ancient tale that stands the test of time, this is the show to see.

Waist Not, Want Not

I have gone to school around the corner from the former Triangle Shirtwaist Factory for almost a year now, completely unaware of its proximity. After seeing Birds on Fire I walked over from Theater for the New City to what is now the Brown Science building on New York University’s campus, observing it with new eyes. Almost 100 years ago, on March 25, 1911 to be exact, a terrible fire claimed the lives of 146 people. The locked doors, lack of fire escapes, and crowded conditions ended up being the rallying cries for labor reform, causing the fire to be regarded as both a terrible tragedy and an important turning point in New York.

All of this history provides the haunted backdrop for writer and director Barbara Kahn’s Birds on Fire , which creatively imagines the lost stories of four unidentified victims of the fire. The idea is incredibly innovative, and despite some flaws in the structure, the actors’ performances and Allison Tartalia’s songs convincingly draw you into this historical fiction.

I walked into the space with several very clear images of the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire, having seen a great many pictures of the tragedy in school. In terms of period, Alice J. Garland’s costumes are just the right balance of individuality and historical style. Each character is dressed uniquely, yet there is a high degree of unity when they all appear together.

Mark Marcante’s set is also well suited to the play’s various locations, yet its spatial versatility is not utilized to its fullest potential. The most aesthetically beautiful tableaus are the well choreographed factory scenes, which Robert Gonzalez, Jr. successfully conceived with nothing but six chairs and the precise movements of the actors. Too often the set is cluttered by poorly rendered props, which scenes like this prove are completely unnecessary.

My general critique of the production is its tendency to send itself in several directions simultaneously, when its greatest strengths are in the moments of extreme focus. We are initially introduced to the Guide, who alternates between showing us the story of the four future fire victims and a heavily stylized (and rather propagandistic) account of the oversights that led to the fire itself. The characters of the Factory Owner, Superintendent of Buildings, Architect, and Alderman are all played by large puppets, which provides a stark contrast to the easily relatable factory workers. I understand this choice, yet I was alienated by the didactic tone of these segments.

This one-sided commentary and lack of character development unfortunately describes Robert Gonzalex, Jr.’s Guide as well. Throughout the play he cannot quite master the ease of storytelling so vital to a character created as an audience go-between. The Guide seems extraneous and clichéd in comparison to the other (human) characters populating the play.

The characters of Nell, Maddie, Rose, and Renzo are far more compelling in their human complexity. We are interested in their relationships, their lives, and their potential futures. The history of Triangle Shirtwaist Factory is still being taught, and if one had not learned about it, there are numerous ways to access its historical information. What excited me about the concept of this play was not its educational value, but rather the creative possibilities of rewriting four lives lost to history. I want to hear more about recent immigrants Renzo (Tommy Kearney), and Rose (Amanda Yachechak), whose emotional monologues about their pasts contain a great deal of historical information mingled with human interest.

Kearney and Yachechak have beautiful singing voices, great chemistry, and much emotional honesty. The strength of these performances meets its match in Birds on Fire ’s other couple: Nell (Anna Podolak) and Maddie (Gusta Johnson). Their natural chemistry, and the solid scene work behind and around it, nicely encapsulates the nuanced relationship of a couple who has been together for a number of years.

Throughout the play, the human connections prove to be the most striking, like the smiles exchanged between a factory seamstress (Sarah Shankman) and a presser (Brian F. Waite), who are unaware of their imminent fate. They remind us of the missed opportunities, the potential happiness, and the unpredictability of life. It is these moments that make the strongest political case against those who were responsible for the fire.

Birds on Fire ends up being heavy handed in certain moments, but the finesse of the romantic plots is enough to make this show worth seeing. Like Romeo and Juliet, the star-crossed lovers can never be together. But we can take solace in the knowledge that these four unknown victims have been reincarnated and given a chance to experience some love and happiness on the stage of Theater for the New City.

An Epic Battle

Can the Iliad speak in compelling ways to a contemporary American audience? Can it feel relevant in our modern society? Is telling a story still the basis of theatrical presentation? These questions seem to be at the heart of the project of Kings: The Siege of Troy, based on a translation of Homer's Iliad by Christopher Logue. The project here is commendable; this is a story that, when told, can still feel resonant with our own times. This production, however, does not go much beyond just telling the story, diminishing the potential overall impact of the work. Kings: The Siege of Troy presents Books I & II of Homer's Iliad. In order to convey this story, two actors play all of the necessary characters while also providing narration. J. Eric Cook and Dana Watkins jump back and forth between roles, shaping all of the events leading up to and including the Greeks' attack on Troy.

Both performers are more than admirable. They give impressive tour-de-force performances, fluidly gliding from one persona to the next. Every character has a unique personality and even a specific inflection in his or her voice. Despite these strong character choices, it is often quite difficult to recall which characters are meant to be on stage at any given moment. The transitions are so quick that it is easy to lose track of where we are in the narrative, even if the viewer is already familiar with the story. Those unfamiliar with the major plot points of the tale might find themselves mystified by the on stage events.

The strongest moments of the piece are those which are fully staged. The minimal use of physicality is both well-executed and expertly orchestrated by Jim Milton. The lighting, by Heather Sparling, also does wonders to enhance the scene. The specific mood of each situation and locale is indicated by the production choices. The weakest moments are those in which the actors speak their own narration, stating "he said" or "she turned," etc. In these moments, the story feels like it is only being told and not shown, moving a bit too far from the realm of the theatrical into the realm of the descriptive.

Both actors spend the entirety of the play on stage. This feat alone is an action worthy of praise: it is an intense and demanding piece. The stage pictures are well-composed and balanced nicely; the two actors bring great presence to the large stage space that they must fill with just their bodies and voices. The costumes do little to enhance the stage pictures, however. The two men wear black slacks and blue button-down shirts, which give the sense of more of a business setting than either a warzone or the turmoil of the homefront. The attire reads neither as a neutral template on which each character is painted nor as a clear, specific production choice meant to bring out an aspect of the play's meaning.

This translation of the Iliad is worth more attention. It is both poetic and poignant. As a play, however, the piece perhaps needs more visual storytelling techniques and fewer narrative devices. The play's climactic final moments are powerful and build tension masterfully. Unfortunately, there is perhaps too much lead-up to those events to allow these final moments their fullest emotional punch.

Still, Homer is always worth another listen. As the Greeks mobilize to besiege Troy, the contemporary resonances of this story ring out, making the show a worthwhile dramatic experience. Kings provides an intriguing new way to confront this time-honored material. The production takes theater back to its storytelling roots, with mixed, but often compelling, results.

Upper East-Side Dybbuk

In Yiddish, “besharet” means soul-mate. The soul-mate in question in Besharet, by Chana Porter, is the restless ghost of a girl who died many years before the actions of Besharet take their course. Drawing from Yiddish mythology – the Golem and Dybbuk legends in particular, and invoking anti-Semitic prejudice, the Holocaust and the 5000-years of suffering of the Jewish people, this play attempts to fuse all these elements in a work of magic realism, the Jewish edition. Samuel (William Tatlock Green) and Renee (Tia Stivala), his law partner, hire a new assistant, Eli (Macleod Andrews), who charms his new employers and inserts himself into Samuel's life. Eli fascinates and spooks Samuel with his knowledge of past events. Eventually Samuel convinces himself that Eli is “inhabited” by the ghost of his first love. At the same time, Eli inspires (and possibly impregnates) Ruth (Olivia Rorick), Samuel’s sickly wife. When Samuel disappears for several weeks, Eli manages the law office together with Renee, who is very pregnant.

By Act Two Ruth has recovered her health and female vitality. Dancing around the apartment, she holds forth to Renee about the nature of Jewish suffering and to Samuel about his uselessness as an emasculated (he had a vasectomy) man who cannot give her the child she craves. In a final tableau we find Ruth, Samuel, Eli (now in a woman’s dress in acceptance of his female soul) and Renee at the lake-side cottage where the love of Samuel’s youth had died and where she was given a water burial by Samuel and his father, who feared anti-Semitic persecution if the girl was discovered dead in their cottage.

Besharet kept my interest through the end of Act One, where the intrusion of Eli comes to its dramatic high point and Samuel’s anguish and guilt about his past reaches the point where he can no longer go on with his current life. In Act Two Ms. Porter attempts to show us the effect of the possessed Eli on the other characters, in scenes that are unconnected to the world of her characters as introduced. Some are outright dream scenes that are supposed to reveal the unmoored states of her characters. In others, Ruth, who at this point seems to be the author’s spokesperson, holds forth in long monologues about Judaism, its history of suffering, the power of women and their liberation from their emasculated male appendages (certainly no besharets there). It is not clear to me if Ruth has also become possessed as well, or at least discovered magical powers – she talks at length of her ability to create a child without a man.

The actors battle this unwieldy material bravely, with intensity and undeniable skill. One regrets that their efforts are not in the service of a better vehicle. The unit set designed by Eric Berninghausen is evocative, opening with an office setting that has the reeds of the lake-side cottage in the background; the many scene changes, however, executed by the actors, encumber the flow of the evening.

Besharet suffers from the author’s anxious attempt to fill it with all she holds dear and important. Since she lacks, despite a certain knack for story telling and dialogue, the skill to forge her ideas into dramatic scenes, she lets her characters tell us about them in long speeches. What is at its core a simple skeletons-in-the-closet with mysterious-stranger-as-catalyst domestic drama becomes overloaded with invocations that are rendered clichés here - 5000 years of Jewish suffering, blood libel, the holocaust, female power and the grace of forgiveness. True as they may be somewhere, they are used here to give a melodramatic story unearned gravitas.

Teddy Bear Terror

In the summer of 2006, Clifford Chase’s debut novel, Winkie, was published. Chase, who had previously gained acclaim for his 1999 memoir, The Hurry-Up Song, about losing his brother to AIDS, wove a weird and wonderful tale about a sentient 81-year-old teddy bear who is put on trial for being a mad bomber. In the post 9/11 age, Winkie shrewdly depicted the ridiculousness of the knee-jerk reactions prevalent in the War on Terror, when innocent people were rounded up and mistreated simply because of their race or religion. Winkie, a true minority of one, is charged with a laundry list of 9,678 offenses, including witchcraft and sodomy.

The teddy bear at the center of this storm is himself a wise innocent surrounded by cartoon character representations of cruel jailers, showboating prosecutors, corrupt judges, and grandstanding “patriots.” The joke, of course, is that Winkie is the most human of all.

Now playing in the intimate Theater C at 59E59, Winkie as adapted by playwright Matt Pelfrey, successfully captures the ludicrousness of this stuffed animal spectacle. However, unfortunately, the stage version of the story pales in comparison to the mythical and magical original source material.

The Drama Desk-winning Godlight Theatre Company is well-known for bringing theatrical life to both modern and classical literature. Last year’s In the Heat of the Night received heaps of critical praise, including a rave review from offoffonline.

But the Godlight's Winkie makes a few crucial missteps in bringing the tale of teddy bear terrorism to the stage, including a completely different ending from the one in the book. As helmed by Godlight Artistic Director Joe Tantalo, the 90-minute show has an over-the-top energy that sometimes suits, but also sometimes clashes with the skewering satire. The characters and situations are already cartoonish and need little stylistic embellishment to register as such.

The framing of the story as a 48 Hours or 60 Minutes exposé of the trial after the fact is an ingenious way to structure the play. However, a major problem lies in the casting of the show. Hiring an Englishman (Elliot Hill) who does not tamp down his accent to play an American talking head is a mistake — as is naming the character after MSNBC’s real-life legal analyst Dan Abrams. Winkie does not need verisimilitude — it instead lives by its unrealness and sense of the nonsensical.

In addition, changing the character of Françoise Fouad to a New Zealander to accommodate the actress playing her robs the originally Egyptian Françoise of all political, social, and moral relevance (especially considering current events in Northern Africa). Although her performance is one of the standouts in the show, the miscast Geraldine Johns as the Muslim nurse who befriends the hospitalized teddy bear is all wrong for the part. An actor should adapt to the role — not the other way around.

As the stuttering court-appointed lawyer assigned to defend Winkie, Adam Kee comes closest to capturing the spirit of the novel with his spot-on portrayal of the not-so-ironically named Charles Unwin, as does Michael Shimkin as the also cleverly christened Judge Feeble Newman. And Nick Paglino in the dual role of Clifford Chase/Winkie is properly cuddly with his boyish good looks and unshaven scruff.

The largest problem lies with the bear itself. The prop used in the show looks fresh from the shelves — neither ratty nor patched up as a well-used octogenarian toy should be. And where are his open-and-shut, blinking eyes that give not only the bear himself but also the title of the book and play its name?

As a fan of the novel Winkie, perhaps I am being too hard on the play Winkie. There are some genuine laughs and the timeliness of the show in this politically-charged and paranoid era couldn’t be better. But I had hoped for more from a piece based on a source that so masterfully melds social critique with surrealism. Clifford Chase's Winkie plays more like an extended version of The Jerry Springer Show than a scathing retort to the xenophobic times we live in.

Shakespearean Echoes

Even the most ardent fans of Shakespeare may not have heard of Double Falsehood, which is getting a rare production by Classic Stage Company. It was only last year that the Arden Shakespeare decided to include the play among Shakespeare’s works, with an edition describing its shaky provenance. An 18th-century reworking of a collaboration reputedly by William Shakespeare and John Fletcher, Double Falsehood is presumed by some scholars to be based on Cardenio—the holy grail of lost Shakespeare plays and the first collaboration of the playwrights, whose Henry VIII and Two Noble Kinsmen have survived intact. (Fletcher, no slouch as a playwright, was half of Beaumont and Fletcher, and became the house dramatist for Shakespeare’s company, The King’s Men, after Shakespeare retired.)

Some quick history. Oliver Cromwell and his Puritans closed theaters in 1642, and they weren’t reopened until after the English Civil War, in 1660, with the restoration of the monarchy. Many scripts from earlier in the 17th century ended up in the hands of playhouse owners or producers such as Lewis Theobald (pronounced TIB-alt). In 1727 Theobald’s repurposed version of the drama was staged. Though the play, which was based on an episode from Don Quixote, has been knocking around for more than three centuries, the Arden Shakespeare’s endorsement has given it unexpected attention. A production at the Royal Shakespeare Company in England is planned this year.

Passing through so many hands, the play retains surprising echoes of other Shakespeare works. Two brothers, the decent Roderick and the rakish Henriquez, are sons of a duke (As You Like It), who pretends to have died (Measure for Measure). Henriquez rapes the lovely Violante, then abandons her to pursue Leonora (Hayley Treider), whose father intends her to marry a suitor—Henriquez—against her will (Romeo and Juliet). Leonora’s true love, Clayton Apgar’s dashing Julio, exiles himself to a forest, where, dressed almost naked and smeared with dirt, he goes temporarily mad (King Lear).

The plot elements are common among Shakespeare, Fletcher, and their contemporaries, but the unfamiliarity of this text lends it freshness, and it moves swiftly (a Fletcher strength). The simplicity of Oana Botez-Ban’s design—a series of hanging Oriental rugs, with three on the floor, shifted back and forth—helps focus attention on the story, although in one case the budgeting of actors—Philip Goodwin as the magisterial Duke and distinguished Camillo—may confuse even attentive listeners. Director Brian Kulick has staged the play with a minimum of fuss and even eliminated CSC’s side seating.

The cast clearly relishes the opportunity to create characters from this neglected classical drama. Slate Holmgren as the slimy Henriquez manages to find layers in a stock villain. Even after Henriquez has “reformed,” there’s a lingering suspicion that he’s manipulating people, as he’s forced (the way Lucio is in Measure) to marry the woman he wronged.

Apgar, too, is a fine, heroic Julio. Playing the good guy isn’t usually as interesting as playing the bad one, but Apgar embodies charm and sincerity, strength and honor. And Jon DeVries as Don Bernardo, blessed with a rumbling voice and extraordinary command of verse, makes the most of Leonora’s alternately doting and scheming father, torn between love and greed. He’s a joy to watch whenever he’s on stage.

Only Hayley Treider’s Leonora, and to a lesser extent MacKenzie Meehan’s Violante, occasionally move with more gesturing than women of that period would, and Treider has a habit early on of falling into shrillness. (Botez-Ban has dressed the cast in clothes that mix peasants’ rags with evening dress but reflect no particular era, although they are of more recent vintage.)

Still, even with a Shakespeare name tag, the play never burns brightly. There are no speeches on the order of “To be or not to be” or “Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow” or “The quality of mercy is not strain’d.” Ardent fans who feel they’ll never have another chance to see a production of this historical curiosity are probably right.

Although Double Falsehood is close in temperament to Cymbeline or The Winter’s Tale, two late romances, it can’t touch them. Still, it has charms, good performances, and value beyond scholarship. One hopes that Kulick will start looking at all the playwrights of the period who have been overshadowed by Shakespeare. He’s found a topaz; there are diamonds still out there.

How He (almost) Killed His Lover

It is not so easy, in our all-embracing media culture, for the ardent theater maker to find an untouched taboo. Incest? Cannibalism? Defacation on stage? Nudity? All have been done, some already by Shakespeare. So it must be with some satisfaction for a playwright to find a subculture of human behavior that has, up to now, not been explored on stage. Terra Nova Collective’s Feeder: A Love Story by James Carter, directed competently by José Zayas, explores “Feederism,” a fetish for fat people. Noel, a nerdy web-designer (Pierre-Marc Dienett), connects via a chat room with Jesse-Marie Scott, a large woman (Jennifer Conley-Darling). Her size and her willingness to let him take control of her body excite him; she, for her part, is thrilled with the enthusiastic attention she receives. He becomes her feeder, committed to her continued expansion; she his feedee, willing to accept his “goal” of increasing her weight to 1000 lbs. When she passes 700 lbs. and is no longer able to stand, let alone move about or leave the apartment, her condition frightens her into contacting a former employer, a TV showhost, who rescues her and brings her to an upstate clinic where she begins to reverse the process she and her now-husband Noel (they married along the way) had initiated.

Feeder: A Love Story, told from the moment when Noel finds Jesse gone, alternates his and her narrations, much of them in flashbacks. Both speak into “webcams” that become parts of video-blogs of their meeting, their life together, the progress toward his goal, and her decision to quit the process. In the last scene they meet in a pizzeria, where the finality of their separation becomes clear and acceptable to both of them.

Feeder tells its story in simple terms, often with humor, and with little attempt to judge the characters' behavior. Yes, she leaves him in the end, and the very real possibility that continuing on to 1000 lbs. might have led to her death is alluded to. But his encouragement on the way to their goal, and the affection they have for each other, are portrayed straight by the capable Mr. Dienett and the very charming Ms. Conley-Darling, without moralistic editorializing. Ultimately, their story is that of any couple fascinated by each other to a point, and who then go separate ways. The particular details of their attraction and eventual separation could almost be exchanged for any other shared interest which one partner eventually outgrows – no pun intended.

What makes Feeder: A Love Story interesting to me is the way in which the electronic media are used to tell the story. The set, a large square with a projection screen on one side, is surrounded by 10 monitors, in which the audience can see, captured by cameras, what they see on stage, with only slightly changed viewing angles. The “blogs” both characters are “feeding," the chat rooms, the community of like-minded fetishists who buy the films that Noel produces about his and Jesse’s project -- these are always present. This makes the audience and its voyeurism part of the much larger virtual world. We are participating in something that, to a large degree, owes its existence to the web. The excitement of their relationship is that it is not only a private experience but also one instantly shared. In fact, Noel does not fully comprehend Jesse’s need to get out into the world again, because thanks to the Internet, they ARE out in the world.

Ultimately, a small, private story is enlarged by its presentation, by appealing to our interactions with social sites, blogs, and web-cams. It could be told without all these trimmings, and would be a minor voyeuristic excursion into a taboo world. Told as it is, it assumes the semblance of importance beyond its simplistic core. Ambivalent as I often am about the use of all this technology, which relies upon a type of viewing to which we are now very accustomed, here it is an apt visual metaphor. Screens become the grantors of reality [guarantors of authenticity?], the avatars of the larger world, as a small story is “fed” into the world wide web and takes on a social presence beyond the lives of the characters.

Chalking It Up

When Bertolt Brecht fled Germany for Hollywood in the early 1940s, he was commissioned to write a play for the actress Luise Rainer. The play was The Caucasian Chalk Circle. Rainer, though a devoted admirer of Brecht’s, eventually passed on the work. “I am Brecht!,” he reportedly sneered at the two-time Oscar-winner, “and you are nothing!” Despite this early hiccup, The Caucasian Chalk Circle represents one of Brecht’s richest and most popular works. The Pipeline Theatre Company takes up the Brechtian torch in its current revival of the piece at Theater for the New City, rendering a superb production that hits all the right notes in style and stride. With spry pacing, compelling brio, and a host of laughs, director Anya Saffir leads a savvy, resourceful ensemble. In the wrong hands, Brecht can easily slip into ho-hum heavy-handedness and didacticism, a danger that never threatens this production. Without skimping on the material, Saffir surges Brecht’s two hour and forty five minute tale ahead with remarkable command.

Replete with techniques and devices, from its projected captions to its bare set, that embody the tenets of Epic Theatre (a theatrical movement that Brecht developed and made famous), Saffir embraces the Brechtian model but is not intimidated by its shadow. She allows her cast to realize their roles with heightened vigor and ingenuity, resulting in a canvas of engrossing heroes, charlatans, villains and divas. Rather than resembling mere mouthpieces for Brecht’s themes, which still come across just fine, Saffir’s ensemble injects an impulsive zest into its array of characters that makes the work all the more flavorful and, yes, flat out funny. The Caucasian Chalk Circle offers more moments for humor than is typically found in a Brecht play, and the company takes great advantage of this asset.

Set during civil war, the play concerns two disparate storylines. The first centers on the heroine Grusha, maid to the powerful Governor and his wife. When war breaks out, the Governor is deposed and beheaded while his wife flees in terror, leaving their baby son behind. Finding the child, Grusha risks her life to protect it from the merciless hands of the uprising. The first half of the play traces her journey as she seeks safety for the young boy she’s grown to love. The other storyline involves Azdak, a borderline bum who, in the fluky chaos of war, is thrust into a position as an influential judge, where his wisdom and virtue reveal themselves in many verdicts that side with the poor over the corrupt elite.

The storylines converge when the civil war ends and the Governor’s opportunistic wife returns from exile to demand her child back from Grusha. They go before the judge, Azdak, who must choose the child’s mother. To do so, he places the child within a chalk drawn circle and, not unlike the tactic used by the Biblical Solomon, asks the two women to grab the child’s arms and yank him out of the circle in a potentially calamitous tug-of-war bout.

The ensemble, working together in near perfect step, is among the finest you will encounter. It seems unnecessary, and un-Brechtian, to single out actors from such a capable collective, but there are some standouts. Maura Hooper’s Grusha and Gil Zabarsky’s Azdak exhibit a steady calm and endearing earnestness as the play’s moral agents. Jacquelyn Landgraf is hysterical as the Governor’s Wife, and Chloe Wepper, Alex Mills, John Early and Brian Maxsween are all exquisite in a series of minor but highly memorable roles. Still, it is Michael R. Piazza’s performance as the Singer/Storyteller that holds the piece together. He sings and narrates us through the performance, serving as both an entity within the play and a conduit to the audience. A play like this, with so many characters, short scenes, and split storylines, needs an anchor. Never quaint or indulgent, Piazza grounds the action wonderfully.

Many of the actors also double as musicians, playing an assortment of instruments ranging from drums and piano to trumpet and banjo. Composed by Cormac Bluestone, the music in the piece is more than just an afterthought; it is at the core of the play and is performed expertly. Katja Andreiev’s many costumes achieve a lot with little, and Eric Southern’s set and lighting designs are stark, minimal and, in keeping with the Brechtian tradition, unafraid to reveal the guts of theatrical artifice.

“Terrible is the temptation of Goodness” is one of the more striking lines in the piece. Illustrated in the struggles of Grusha and Azdak, the line reflects the play’s central thematic question: Can virtue thrive in a society so conditioned to do wrong? With levity and pathos, the Pipeline Theatre Company takes us on an absorbing ride toward the answer. For those on the prowl for a hidden gem, this production of The Caucasian Chalk Circle is a promising place to start.

Silly Boys

Peter and the Starcatcher is a fast paced, witty theatrical romp about Peter Pan's journey to becoming the high-flying champion of adolescence that we now know him to be.  Based on the recently written novel of nearly the same name by Dave Barry and Ridley Pearson, the story is as whimsical as the original tale, with an additional dose of topical camp. The play begins on the Neverland, a ship bound from England to the island Rundoon.  Lord Aster is on a mission for the Queen (God save her) to transport a trunk of starstuff, magical dust from the stars, to Rundoon to be destroyed.  But several villains have their eye on the trunk as well, including ‘The Stache’ (the man who will one day be Hook), the most dreaded pirate in all the seas.  Also onboard The Neverland are three mistreated orphan boys, and Molly, the precocious thirteen-year-old daughter of Lord Astor.  Molly befriends the boys and, when her father is kidnapped and the starstuff endangered, enlists them on a mission to help her destroy the starstuff before it gets into the wrong hands.  They all end up on a tropical island, inhabited by angry natives (the Mollusks) and a bloodthirsty crocodile.

Though the plot may sound silly, the pleasure of this tale comes from its telling.  It is told by a talented and totally in-sync ensemble of twelve, who jump from character to narrator to piece of furniture at the snap of a finger.  The play is presentational and text-heavy - normally ingredients for a trying 2 hours, but it's quite the opposite.  It works because of the pace of the piece: actors race through the text, sometimes leaving the audience gasping to catch up, but even if one fails to grasp the meaning of a phrase or sentence, we remain entertained by its rhythm, cadence, and delightful delivery. 

Rick Elise's script joyfully celebrates words, cramming alliteration, rhymes, and other bits of wordplay into nearly every line.  Black Stache (a hilariously show stealing performance by Christian Borle) gets some of the best lines.  One gem comes early on in the play, soon after we meet the brute: "But know this, Len – mine is a far, far heavier burden.  For I am the end of my line.  No heir apparent with no hair apparent; no bonafide heroes to hunt.  And without them, what am i?  Half a villain; a pirate in part; ruthless, but toothless – The Final Stache.”

The set is malleable yet detailed – an open space with walls that represent the innards of a ship in act one and a tropical island in act two.  Lighting shifts help to transport us from scene to scene, and location to location, but the ensemble does just as much, if not more, on this count.  As they rearrange themselves in different configurations, so the space is rearranged to become a school room, a tiny cabin, or a quiet hallway.  With the help of props like rope or human-sized palm leaves, the ensemble transforms from pirates to doors to a dense forest to schoolchildren and back to pirates in mere moments, dashing from position to position to help tell the story.  It is a triumph in ensemble work and some excellent, inventive direction by Roger Rees and Alex Timbers. 

Though they may show off their word prowess and ensemble-work chops, these fellows are not afraid to make fun of themselves. In Act 2, Peter and the soon-to-be lost boys try to charm their way out of being killed by the Mollusks by telling a story, which they act out together, until Molly unveils herself and stops them, saying, “You abused the concept of the theater collective; it was too much for me.”

The cast of Peter and the Starcatcher is almost entirely male, with the exception of the exceptional Celia Keenan-Bolgier, who plays Molly.  Both Bolgier and the character she plays hold their own among a sea of testosterone: Molly is a strong-willed, feisty girl, braver and smarter than the pitiful lost boys she bosses around.  She's funny, too, but often overshadowed by the bombastic gags that center around ideas of maleness: men in drag, men with flamboyant, homosexual tendencies, etc.  It seems to be a favorite topic, at least of Timbers, who inserted this kind of humor into Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson every chance he got.  In a play that is so smart in so many ways, this humor has the feel of a boys' club blockbuster, which is disappointing.  

Still, I came away from Peter and the Starcatcher quite entertained, and even moved, near its end.  Elise, Timbers and Rees maintain the heart of the Peter Pan stories: the pains of growing up, the desire to remain young and innocent, to escape, to forget.  Therein lies the beauty of all Peter Pan tales, and Peter and the Starcatcher certainly holds its own in celebrating the spirit of childhood and dramatizing its end.  It's an excellent addition to the canon, and a  hell of a joy ride.

The Dark Side of the Luna

Us vs. Them begins with a scene featuring a Big Gulp and a bi-lingual argument set against a backdrop of piped in Christmas music. This sets the tone for Dark Luna’s inaugural production, which is equal parts dark comedy and family drama. Though the concept of family dysfunction revolving around forced holiday togetherness is not completely original, it is the earnest acting of the eight member cast, and the cohesive design concept, that keeps Us vs. Them from seeming cliché. Written by Wesley Broulik, who also plays Howard, Us vs. Them has an engaging plot with well rendered characters and just the right amount of mystery. Yet, the play still manages to showcase the actors over the writing. In a series of scenes we are introduced to sisters Nicole (Siouxsie Suarez) and Katy (Maria Itzel Siegrist), firefighter Kris (Christopher Halladay) and his daughter Dannie (Dannie Flanagan), and Nicole’s girlfriend “T” (Michelle Steaton), T’s father Eddie (Eric Michael Gillet), T’s sister Barbara (Brooke Page) and Barbara’s husband Howard (Welsey Broulik). The links between these individuals and their stories are often re-contextualized as the play moves along.

I was continually drawn in by the relationships among the characters rather than the words themselves, which is clearly something that director (and actor) Michelle Seaton has fostered. Each actor not only connects and listens to his or her scene partners, but also maintains the same level of engagement in the creative scene changes. As the lights go down on the minimalist set, actors moving their props and set pieces stay in character, noticing and reacting to each other and the changes being made to the space.

Ed Hill's set is decidedly simple and effective, consisting of a couch, a chair, and several cardboard boxes, while the walls are covered with a web of string, adorned with photographs of the various characters. Since the set itself creates an aesthetic of connectivity, these transitions serve to increase the audience’s sense of company and collectivity. In other words, when set against a stage decorated with a literal web, the in-character scene changes reaffirm the Us vs. Them mentality that exists in theater. Even in between scenes, the actors are onstage and in the web, while we are outside of it.

The moments in which actors are really looking and listening to each other are thrilling to watch. They happen here, though they rarely happen in monologues. The language seems to force the actors to push a little too hard, partially because of the amount of anger demanded in their monologues. Characters anger quickly and stay angry for large parts of scenes, causing the individual speeches to lack the dramatic arcs better rendered in the dialogue. For example, Nicole (Sioxsie Suarez) is less believable in her rant to her lover “T” (Michelle Seaton) about T’s drinking than she is seconds later in an impassioned dialogue about the nature of their relationship. Despite the occasional “thigh slap” or “sighing out” (two common acting tics) that accompanied some of these monologues, each and every cast member was able to engage me at certain moments. A standout scene occurs later in the play between Barbara (Brooke Page) and Dannie (Dannie Flanagan), who both give beautifully nuanced and genuine performances.

In a play about the various forms of love and family, Dark Luna ends up showing us the importance of these themes both within the play and in the environment of a theater company. Both require hard work, love, and support. Though this play might not be profound in its written words, the production as a whole has a lot to offer. Us vs. Them is a journey to the dark side of the moon, with Dark Luna’s passionate actors and artistic/production team as guides, which is worth the sometimes bumpy ride.

Rough Waters

It’s nice when a classic work of fiction can make for a successful night of theater. Think The Grapes of Wrath or Elevator Repair Service’s Gatz, their recent re-working of The Great Gatsby at the Public Theater. B.H. Barry and Vernon Morris attempt to do just that with a new adaptation of Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island. Barry, the renowned fight choreographer, directs this production at the Irondale Center. And while it channels some of the more detailed, darker elements of the swashbuckling tale, the overall result feels a tad disengaging.

Part of the problem could be that the creative team is too eager to get to the fighting. For those unfamiliar with the tale, there is plenty more going on. Young Jim Hawkins (Noah E. Galvin) sets out on a treasure hunt after discovering a map on the dead body of a drunk seafarer staying at his mother’s boardinghouse. He cobbles together a de facto crew including Squire Trelawney (Kenneth Tigar) and Dr. Livesay (Rocco Sisto).

But if their quest was smooth sailing, there wouldn’t be much of a show, would there? That’s why the treacherous Long John Silver (Tony nominee Tom Hewitt), secretly trying to rally a mutiny, appears. There’s something about Silver – and it isn’t the rum – that Hawkins finds intoxicating, even as he catches on to Silver’s nasty ploy and gets threatened, then eventually kidnapped.

It’s not hard to see why. Hewitt is sensational as Silver, and gives real shape to a role that’s alternately played as benign comic relief or stereotypical villain. He makes Silver downright charming, and commits so fully to the role that we view him as a survivalist who adheres to his own code of honor and necessity. Additionally, Tom Beckett offers memorable turns as both Ben Gunn and Blind Pew. Tigar, too, provides plenty of gray strokes to keep the Squire interesting.

Galvin is the performer who buoys all of Island. His is more than a mere child’s performance – the actor is remarkably present, and he above all others is the one who makes the audience understand why Hawkins keeps asking for more trouble with Silver when he should cut and run.

There’s plenty of talent afoot off-stage, too. Stewart Wagner uses subtle but strong lighting cues to enhance Tony Straiges’s set design. Sound designer Will Pickens’ sound design and Luke Brown’s costumes seem authentic as well.

It is Barry who underserves his cast and crew with misguided choices. For example, Barry is blessed to have the performer Ken Schatz sing sea chanteys to demarcate the chapters of Stevenson’s story. As beautiful and haunting as his voice is, the effect serves to prolong a clunkily-paced production (with many children in the audience, a running time nearly two-and-three-quarters of an hour-long is a mistake. I noticed several children seated across from me sleeping with their heads resting on a parent’s lap or shoulder).

It seems that Barry looks at the text as a conduit to reach his fight sequences, when it should be the other way around. These moments should pepper an already-rich text. Instead, they dilute the rest of the action.

He has made one novel choice, however. Barry has choreographed his actors to paddle themselves around the stage on wheeled platforms to mimic ships at sea. This is resourceful and whimsical. One wishes that the rest of the play could have captured this energy.

Sadly, it must be said that when this journey has come to its end, there is precious little booty to be found.

Haunting

Mimic, written, performed and composed by Raymond Scannell and directed by Tom Creed, mixes haunting drama, poetry and storytelling. The best thing about this play is the writing. Eerily creepy, moody and poetic in style, the play begins at a pivotal moment at the tragic end of the story and then goes back to explain the journey. The play for the most part is not uplifting, as we are dealing with a character’s journey into possible lunacy. But that doesn’t mean you won’t be impressed. Mimic tells the tale of Julian Leary, the only adopted son of the Leary family, growing up in Ireland in the1980s during a time of great duress. We learn that Julian feels isolated due to his adoption, but has a unique talent for mimicking iconic figures and playing piano almost constantly and always loudly. Because of his antics, his father decides to confine that behavior to a dark cold basement where the piano is moved and an old mirror keeps him company. Filled with loneliness and despair, he further develops his skill for mimicry to the occasional delight of his mother and his adoring sister. We see snapshots of his life - his decline into drugs, successes and failures, his intense love for his sister - all the while paralleling a very desolate time in Ireland.

There is no denying that Scannell is gifted both as an actor and as a poetic writer. He uses rhythms and an innovative style in telling his story. He doesn’t ever say, “and then this happened…” ; instead he speaks in the present tense, painting pictures with words that keep you on your toes, since events may take a second to register. Throughout the play, Scannell peppers imitations of Columbo, Jimmy Stewart, his mother and other characters. His depiction of Conn, a character addicted to plastic surgery, is especially creepy.

Scannell underscores the entire play with atmospheric piano chords and sounds. This at times accentuates his performance, but its constancy throughout makes the piece feel moody, which Scannell’s energy as the storyteller also matches. I felt the piano at times keeps him at an emotional distance and I found myself sometimes wishing that he would get up from it in order to embody his characters more freely.

Scannell's eyes are decorated with a black liner and drawn lower lashes. Their wide-eyed appearance, in combination with low lighting, gives a haunting effect reminiscent of Edgar Allen Poe. The set by director Tom Creed - a grand piano and a long horizontal mirror hanging directly behind the piano - proves perfect and symbolic. The line “his face caught between two parallel mirrors” makes for an interesting concept. Are we to assume the fourth wall (the audience) is that other mirror? Additionally, red siren lights hanging from the ceiling coupled with fluorescent tube lights on the floor accentuate different pivotal moments of the play.

A question arises in the play as to what type of mimic Julian might be: a batesian mimic (a harmless being mimicking a predator) or an aggressive mimic (a predator mimicking something harmless). My main question was: why did Julian become a mimic, or what caused him to become one? Sometimes great entertainers come out of highly dysfunctional families or depressed eras. We do know mimicry helped him escape Ireland in the dire 1980s for a career in the States, but where he ultimately lands is gloomy.

Lost in This Masquerade

Now celebrating its 12th season, New York Classical Theatre has staged peripatetic dramatic productions in Battery Park, Central Park, and, in its indoor debut, the World Financial Center, with last year’s Hamlet. Again partnering with Arts > World Financial Center (who curate a series of free performances, exhibitions, installations and festivals), NYCT’s delightful production of the rarely produced Restoration comedy The Rover makes ingenious use of the soaring downtown structure as audience members follow the show around the 3.5-acre site

Every 10-15 minutes the scene — and thus the scenery — shifts. Random passersby either ignore the proceedings and go on their way or become part of the audience. When this production of The Rover began, there were about 40 people watching. By the end, the number had swollen to at least 120, if not more.

Written by Aphra Behn, the first female playwright in the English language, The Rover is “a timely fit for Women’s History Month this March” (per the press release) for its feminist themes and presaging of women’s rights. Behn served as a spy under King Charles II, and The Rover cleverly plays with the ideas of perception, identity, and disguise.

Set in 17th century Naples during Carnival, the morally murky world of this comedy of manners is filled with dirty jokes and language battles between the masked and masquerading principals. Adopting the structure of William Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing and further upping the ante with an additional couple, The Rover pairs up a trio of jaunty lads with three similarly natured ladies. Trickery is the name of the game for all the lovers-to-be (with a special shout-out to costume designer Oana Botez-Ban for dressing everyone in varying shades of appropriately passionate red).

The main couple, Willmore and Hellena, bear a striking resemblance to the Bard’s Benedick and Beatrice, with their witty banter and constant one-upmanship. The cocksure M. Scott McLean is well-endowed with ample charm and good looks, fitting for the man-about-town Willmore. And April Sweeney as the saucy Hellena, destined for the nunnery yet anxious to sow her own wild oats in the guise of a sexually liberated gypsy, is a fitting foil for the rakish womanizer.

Purists beware: this version of The Rover is substantially cut to a lightening fast 80 minutes. A major subplot in the original text has been completely excised, but the main crux of the story remains the same: a day in the life of a libertine.

The constant motion of the show — including sword fights and live music — adds a ritualistic element to the proceedings, as the actors and audience members go up and down staircases, around pillars, across mezzanines, and through hallways. The action of the play takes place in front of, beside, behind, and around the spectators.

The involvement of the audience and the elimination of the fourth wall is a particularly intriguing aspect of the show. Spectators can even volunteer to be Carnival “revelers.” The brief interludes between scenes, as you walk from place to place, also allow for quick conversation about what has just happened or what is to come, unlike a traditional theater setting, where talking is strictly verboten.

The production ingeniously melts into its decidedly non-classical setting, especially in the Romeo and Juliet-esque balcony scene where we first meet the alluring courtesan Angellica Bianca (Vanessa Morosco) and the wacky and aerobic scene in the dome-ceilinged lobby of One World Financial Center that makes clever use of the staircase and escalators. The polychromatic marble so prevalent in the design of WFC helps differentiate each space into unique locations.

The final scene, staged in the vaulted Winter Garden, is a frantic farce of masks and unmasking, with the audience creating a circle around the action. Unfortunately, because of the enormity of the space, many of the actors’ voices got swallowed up, especially if they were facing away from you.

Likewise, the jovial song-and-dance pageantry that ends the show is somewhat stunted by its surroundings. Where it should be bold and brash, it is subdued and lacking in volume. Perhaps miking the able-voiced McLean as Willmore, who leads the celebration, would correct this problem.

But minor quibbles aside, The Rover is great fun and a one-of-a-kind theatrical experience. Under the tight direction of Karin Coonrod and the expert trimming of the text by artistic director Stephen Burdman, the entire troupe meets the challenge of staging the show in such an unusual space with vim and vigor. Roving around the World Financial Center as a fellow Carnival carouser in The Rover is a true joy.

Burning Pestle Neither Hot nor Bright

The Queens Players present (apparently for the second time around) a seldom-produced comedy by Francis Beaumont,The Knight of the Burning Pestle. Despite all the noisy clamor and much running about, a cast that does not lack talent fails to make the case for this revival. A theater company is about to begin its presentation of “The London Merchant” when a rich grocer and his wife noisily disrupt the proceedings and insist that they not only insert Rafe, their apprentice, as actor, but also provide a new plot for the evening. The company half-heartedly agrees, while trying to continue the performance of their play, a hackneyed domestic comedy which contains elements of Romeo and Juliet and A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Inserted into this story are the disruptions of the noisy grocer and his noisier wife, and the plot performed by their apprentice and his two helpers, a Don Quixote-like play about the Knight of the Burning Pestle and his adventures. The stories occasionally cross paths, with the company attempting to keep the apprentice off-stage as best they can, with little success.

Director Richard Mazda, working with a large cast of actors of varying comedic skills, attempts to bridge the several divides which separate us from this piece by encouraging his actors to perform in the most broadly farcical style they can muster. This creates a number of problems: The mugging acting style erases the distinction between the three story centers that collide here and deprives the play of its bones. The eclectic choices and contemporary touches, performed with great skill by some (notably the comedically talented Alexander Styne), and the wildly divergent performance styles set up separate worlds for individual characters without these “worlds” ever coming together as an ensemble performing a single play.

The humor Beaumont finds in the burning pestle, making its appearance here as a wooden phallus mostly attached to Rafe’s belt, and the double meaning of the burning pestle as a symbol of sexual prowess as well as of syphillis, might be great fun to explore with teenagers, but such “bawdiness” no longer provides the humorous punch it may have once possessed.

Mazda dresses his actors mostly in moderd duds with some hints at "period" (short capes, hats etc.). The grocer's and his wife's costumes are the most elaborately period-suggestive. Here, as in the acting approach, the director misses an opportunity to distinguish the three groups of characters that are at odds in this play. The empty space set (with pieces that are rolled on and off by the actors) works well, as does the eclectic mix of props (Alexander Styne rides in, in his first entrance, on a child's tricycle), though again, the eclecticism does not support the structures of the play but simply adds random schtick to individual characters.

The Knight of the Burning Pestle is a much drawn-out evening (at over two and a half hours, despite the economical, empty stage setting which allows for quick scene transitions), where the actors work furiously at their various comic bits to a mostly stone-faced audience. The impression is that of an under-conceptualized production that relies on the text as given by Beaumont, in a production that is painfully overacted and fails to make a case for its existence.