History as Dessert Course

The making of a successful musical comedy seems to require the following: A catchy title, a good mix of ballads, chorus numbers that lend themselves to snappy choreography, and some pop music, easily modifiable with hints of country, rock and a little blues thrown in for flavor. The story should be short and reduced to a few essentials, with just one or two easily overcome obstacles, and, of course, some heartfelt moments with hints at tragedy to give the piece heft. Honestly, Abe follows these instructions, and the result, I am happy to report, is utterly inoffensive. We follow young Abe Lincoln through several episodes of his formative teenage years, spent mostly reading, splitting logs (well, so we are told on many occasions, though not to worry: no logs are split here), in school learning spelling rules (a bit late at 17, but hairs shall not be split here either), and finally on his way to Indiana, where his father and stepmother move in search of better farming. All this and the death of his beloved sister in childbirth are told with lovingly choreographed song and dance numbers.

I cannot fault a young, enthusiastic cast of able singer/actor/dancers, the fluid direction (Joshua A. Kashinsky) nor the competent, sometimes even inspired choreography by Amy Klewitz. A handsome, suitably simple unit set by Joseph C. Heitman is nicely lit by Duane Pagano. So why, with so much good will and talent at hand, is the result so irritatingly saccharine, a most superficial portrait of a person who we would not take another look at if he were not named Abe Lincoln? Robert L. Hecker, who here signs for book, lyrics and music, has made it his business to pile cliché upon cliché; every song has a “dream”, “rainbow,” "hope" and “tomorrow” in it, words that should be banned from the (musical) stage for the next ten years.

There is a certain irony in the presentation of such an empty-headed piece of feel-good, anodyne theatre at a time when Lincoln’s party has perverted so much of what it stood for when he was at the helm. But never mind, Honestly, Abe springs right out of the naïve, innocent heart that makes America such an optimistic, positive country. Abe Lincoln is a trademark; the name will sell tickets, whether it is a grantor of anything worth considering or not. After all, who, in these harsh political times, cannot use some uplift.

Long Island Longings

“This play is weird,” announces Bernard, a playwright (Brian Hutchison), in the first few minutes of David Greenspan’s Go Back to Where You Are, and he’s right. Greenspan’s melancholy meditation on love, loss, and second chances finds the author himself playing Passalus, a demon in torment, who is sent by God (Tim Hopper) to earth on a mission that doesn’t go as they’d planned. Whether that idea is drawn from Ben Jonson’s The Devil Is an Ass is unclear, but Greenspan’s complex, rueful new work owes obvious debts to Chekhov and Pirandello. Gathering for dinner at the beach house owned by Claire, a renowned actress (as Arkadina is in The Seagull), are Claire’s brother, Bernard; her son, Wally (Michael Izquierdo); her old friend and soon-to-be director after a 15-year absence, Tom (Stephen Bogardus), and his lover, Malcolm (also Hopper); and an old family friend, Charlotte (Mariann Mayberry), a talented actress with a bundle of insecurities who never made it big the way Claire did. Also invited is a septuagenarian named Mrs. Simmons.

As in Chekhov’s Three Sisters, the action begins on a birthday—that of Carolyn, Claire’s daughter—and the anniversary of a death—it is a year to the day since Mark, Wally’s lover, died of prostate cancer. It is also 20 years to the day since Claire’s own husband, Robert, died. But the nods to Chekhov are occasionally of a more light-hearted cast, as when Izquierdo’s sensitive Wally, recalling his sterile creative life as a TV writer in Los Angeles, blurts out, “Oh please don’t let me shoot my brains out at the end of Act 4.” (At the same time, the abundant theater humor can become too insiderish.)

The narration hops around from Bernard to Passalus, and other characters briefly speak their thoughts about the play, often interjected into the midst of dialogue with one another. The unsettled Charlotte notices repeatedly that “there’s no chronology.” Scenes occur out of order, and astute listening is required to pick up and assemble the dramatic mosaic.

But Greenspan leavens what sounds effortful (but really isn’t, thanks to the sensitive direction of Leigh Silverman) with a number of comic Pirandellian moments, as in an exchange between Claire and Tom:

Claire: I must be getting Alzheimer’s. I didn’t tell Charlotte that you and Malcolm were coming and didn’t tell you and Malcolm that Bernard was coming. What’s going on with me?

Tom: Maybe it’s a problem with the writing.

As the story progresses, one realizes that Lisa Banes’s Claire is a charming but duplicitous monster sacré, and that her offspring really do need to escape from her, as does Bernard, whose work she belittles. (Tom, however, says he likes Bernard’s plays, though he doesn’t always “get” them—a sly nod to Greenspan’s own work.)

Go Back encompasses a day, a week, and millennia—the feelings it deals with are universal and timeless. Passalus relates his own history of being an actor in ancient Greece, in love with a chorus boy, Daeas—and most of the characters are struggling not only with the agony of having lost a lover, but with the messiness of those relationships. “He could be a monster, Patrick,” confesses Hutchison’s emotionally bewildered Bernard about his late partner. “We weren’t well suited. Maybe we were… He was angry. AIDS made him angrier. We would have split up, but then he got sick.” Or Wally speaking in his mind to Mark: “Your drinking—that didn’t help.”

Although Passalus’s mission is to help the unseen Carolyn break free of Claire, and the human guise he assumes is that of the elderly Mrs. Simmons, he cannot help but violate the promise that he has made to God to avoid interfering in anyone else’s life.

Rachel Hauck’s simple set—a sand fence, a plank deck, and a few summer chairs—and Matt Frey’s delicate lighting help keep the focus on the words and the actors while evoking both the place and the wistful mood. For all its leaps in time and interruptions of thought, the bits coalesce into a fascinating whole.

At the end of this humane, hopeful work, Greenspan departs from Chekhovian despair with redemption and forgiveness for those who deserve second chances. It’s a weird play, yes, but it’s also deeply touching.

Staging the Revolution

"Revolution is love." This comment, made by a poet in La Muse Venale's playLa Revolución, written and directed by M. Stefan Strozier, appears to be the work's metaphorical premise. Rather than being an exploration of this theme, however, the play, depicting major events of the 1910 Mexican Revolution, remains deeply embedded in the realm of historical reenactment. The play's creator claims that much of the dialogue is culled from what the real-life figures on stage actually spoke or wrote into the historical record. Beyond being an impressive collection of historical text and songs, the piece delivers little else.

The biggest problem with the play is its lack of focus. There are many figures depicted who seem to be vying for the position of central character, and it is never clear with which character we are meant to sympathize most. Because there is no single story arc to latch on to, it can be difficult to follow the narrative. Scenes appear to jump around significantly in time and place but there are no clear indicators as to where or when any particular sequence occurs. In fact, without the use of blackouts (which are used excessively throughout) the progression of time and the change of location might be virtually indistinguishable.

In addition, it is hard to isolate which character is which, although there is only minor doubling of roles. The characters seem to lack definition. The actors are portraying famous historical figures and it would appear that the playwright is relying on audience members' outside knowledge of these people and their contributions to history in order to flesh out their identities. No character seems fully human on stage; rather, they all operate as stand-ins for some aspect of a revolutionary ideal. This concept is compelling, but it prevents any real identification with the figures presented. There is nothing to draw the audience in on an emotional level. The individuals on stage often declaim to the audience but rarely make significant interpersonal connections with their fellow actors on stage. This creates a disjointed quality to the performance.

The fragmentation is accentuated by having many important events occur offstage as well as by the inclusion of moments in which the performers break the fourth wall purposefully. Towards the play's end, in order to speed through remaining historical narration, there are long, descriptive passages telling what is occurring as opposed to showing it. Some of these speeches are in English and some in Spanish, which, if you are unfamiliar with either language, can be alienating. The text is also spoken over extensive wartime sound effects, making it even more difficult to hear and understand. In general, the mixing of languages seems arbitrary; only the word “revolución” is consistently spoken in Spanish throughout. Most of the actors use accents, but the accents are inconsistent and often make what they are saying hard to understand.

The one element that plays nicely in La Revolución is the use of music and historically accurate songs. The musical numbers are, for the most part, well-performed, and add interest to an at-times dull stage scene. It is hard not to wish that the songs were better integrated into the piece, however. They are often sung by a singer who does not participate in the dramatic action of the scene and can appear to occur randomly as opposed to being logical outgrowths of the scenes in which they are embedded. This creates a kind of alienation effect, but it is hard to know if this was the director's intent or an accidental happenstance.

All in all, this play comes across as an important first step toward creating a theater work based on this material. The piece, at this juncture, is still quite rough, but, with some polishing, it could develop into an important historical piece. Like all revolutions, it seems, it just may take time to derive the desired outcome.

A Labyrinth of One's Own

Make no mistake, Epona’s Labyrinth is ruled by neither Pan nor David Bowie. It is instead presided over by a group of physically agile actors, innovative set and costume designs, and well-integrated technology. The plot is complex, but the overall aesthetic qualities of the play are what drive the production forward. I do not pretend to understand every nuance of the narrative, but I do know that this did not (and indeed does not) bother me. The unity of the production as a whole is beautiful to behold, and I greatly appreciate the attention to detail obvious in each moment of the action. HERE’s wonderful space is well utilized by The South Wing and Nibroll art collective, as technology and highly trained actors transform it into a variety of different environments. The basic plot is that Husband (Andrew Shulman) goes to the hospital to search for his wife after she is suddenly taken away in a green ambulance. He immediately begins to have strange experiences, and he is soon deeply imbedded in the strange hospital’s inner workings, which follow the pattern of many a classic myth. The various locations are all established by means of the actors’ bodies and the ingeniously versatile set pieces conceived by designer Shige Moriya. Mitsushi Yanaihara’s surreal costume designs add to the mystery, and the combination of the technical elements achieves an excellent balance with the acting.

As someone who has had a good deal of Suzuki actor training, and who has recently become familiar with Butoh, it is obvious to me that these actors, and Director Kameron Steele, are very familiar with both Suzuki and Butoh. This is evident in the actors’ physical control of their bodies, as well as in the character of the movement itself. Suzuki technique teaches you a great deal about the connection between breathing and motion by teaching you to move from your core. This training, also evident in Butoh, allows actors to achieve fluid motion at a slow pace, and also to execute quick, strong, extreme motions accurately and safely, which is obvious in this production. The set changes often show this slow, controlled movement, while the first scene in the hospital is a perfect example of the crisp, energetic, and highly choreographed chaos possible with physically trained actors.

Mikuni Yanaihara’s choreography is an excellent tool throughout the production, though I must say that the large group scenes are superior to the one-on-one fight moments. Girl (Ximena Garnica), Teen (Kate Villanova), and Head Nurse (Sophia Remolde) are the standout performers in terms of this movement, though Epona (Gillian Chadsey) has a stage presence full of power and authority, even though her choreography is not as involved. All the while Shulman alternates between providing a bodily contrast with the stylization around him, and joining in on it. This precise direction is mirrored in the ways in which props and set changes are handled: a plate slides in under a lifted screen, Garnica is carried in hanging gracefully from a set piece, and each set piece moves easily in the capable hands of the actors.

Another major strength of this production is the integration of technology. The projections, videos, and sounds are characters in the play. From symbolic graphics that seem to subliminally highlight the themes of the scene, to video replays of what we have just seen, the audiovisual elements insert themselves into the scenes in a surprisingly natural way. By “natural” I mean to say that there is no question that these elements belong here, in this world. This also allows the actors to interact with these technical aspects. There is one scene in particular where Villanova’s Teen interacts with the entire stage as she plays a “video game” in which she attacks a certain symbol with a broom.

Now I should also mention that there is a certain amount of adult content in this show, so it is not for children. But if you and your adult friends would like to go see something very creative, aesthetically exciting, and artistically solid, then go ahead and enter the labyrinth. Just remember (as Epona reminds us): from the middle of the labyrinth, every path looks like the exit to freedom.

Poetry in Motion

“When did they sow this grass – yesterday? / today? –” So begins Oleh Lysheha’s poem Raven, as well as Yara Arts Group’s play of the same name. The poem rises and falls through the experiences, and indeed the imagination, of its speaker. On stage, this is realized through a protagonist/narrator who guides the audience through his life-changing experience of encountering a dying raven outside his window and the journey it leads him on or of which it is a part. The poem resonates with a dark beauty, using language to evoke vivid images. When these images are realized on the stage, however, something of the power of the text is lost. The tale becomes too literal, losing its metaphorical beauty. The difficulty for this piece is caused by the fact that it is trying to take the poetic and stage it in a literal fashion. Some of the magic of the original poem, included in the program, is diminished in this staging of it. The text still rings through as meaningful and poignant, highlighted by Aurelia Shrenker and Eva Salina Primack’s songs and Alla Zagaykevych's electronic music, but the physical actions on stage often leave much to be desired. These physical actions can seem random or as though they are trying too hard, making their meanings obscure.

Much of the movement-based performance comes across as rough and as though it does not necessarily belong in the piece. In addition, the upstage projections, captured either by a small makeshift screen center stage or a larger white curtain against the back wall of the playing space, seem superfluous and even at times distracting. The narration states where the characters are meant to be; there is no need to depict the settings in so much detail. This seems a direct counterpoint to the minimalist use of props, in which three buckets, a broom, and a desk stand in for myriad items in the world of the play. There is a disconnect between the realistic atmosphere suggested by the projections and the world of the imagination evoked by the text and the props.

The play is not traditional narrative drama, nor is it meant to be, but the work does tell some sort of a story. The piece continually feels as though it is going to reach some sort of a climax, but when it seems to, during an extended sequence in a forest, the moment seems disappointing. The strongest parts of Raven are its simplest; when people on stage just talk to the audience or to one another. Heightening the “action” of the play does nothing to make it more piercing.

Both the music and the use of the Ukrainian voice to highlight important words and phrases are elements which are used well. The latter is included sparingly, but something about the speaker’s tone, particularly when paired with this particular musical soundtrack, acts to enhance the melancholy tone of the overall piece. The performances are all fine, though one wishes that there was more of a sense of exploration with these words. Why is this man narrating this seemingly insignificant moment of his life? What is his feeling toward the painter he sees and with whom he attempts to connect? What is Ivan searching for in the dead of the forest? I believe seeds for answers to these questions are available in the original poem but have yet to be translated fully on to the stage.

Despite these issues, there is great symbolic value to what is seen on stage. It is a compelling experiment as to how theater can attempt to encompass the poetic. Perhaps finding a verse of the body and of the stage setting is not the only solution. When Raven highlights the poetry of words it is at its finest. In these moments, it is touching. When the narrator speaks of the actual raven’s suffering, for example, it can nearly move a spectator to tears. It is for these moments that the piece is worth seeing–or, perhaps more precisely, worth listening to.

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.

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.

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.

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.