Lips Locked Uneasily

Sarah Ruhl’s new play, Stage Kiss, examines the rekindling of a romance between a scattered actress and a struggling actor as they discover they have been cast as lovers 10 years after their break-up and estrangement. Foolish, egotistical thespians and their hangers-on have long provided comic fodder for the stage: George Kelly’s The Torch-Bearers (1923); George S. Kaufman and Edna Ferber’s The Royal Family (1928); So Help Me God!—a 1929 play by Maureen Dallas Watkins that was unearthed by the Mint Theater in 2009; the madcap Room Service (1937); Noel Coward’s Present Laughter (1942); Moss Hart’s Light Up the Sky (1948); Michael Frayn’s 1982 farce Noises Off; and, of course, Mel Brooks’s The Producers (2001).

Sarah Ruhl’s attempt to follow in those footsteps is stutteringly amusing but mostly tiresome. To be sure, the piece suggests that she is after something closer to the heftier entries (more Royal Family than Room Service), but Ruhl has significantly not given her main characters real names. They are She, He, The Director and The Husband, and they come off as ciphers more than flesh-and-blood people. Other hurdles include the disruption of comic momentum by songs in Brechtian fashion (including “Some Enchanted Evening”) and an interlocking monologue.

The show that the actors are appearing in is, crucially, an old musical. “It was a flop on Broadway in 1932,” says The Director (a nebbishy Patrick Kerr), “but we think with the proper cast, a new score, and some judicious cuts it will be really very well received in New Haven.” That’s a terrific line, but the arch dialogue and melodramatic situations of the revised book that are presented make it inconceivable that any sane producer would back the show. And The Director in rehearsal is earnestly incompetent; he would never have earned a reputation that would put a major musical in his hands.

This all undermines the essential grounding the comedy needs. No matter now farcical events become, there must be a kernel of truth, a modicum of believability. Director Rebecca Taichman has not imposed a singular tone or sharpened Ruhl’s intentions, and the lack of credibility and cohesion may be one reason the performers seem to flounder. Dominic Fumusa and Jessica Hecht as He and She have little chemistry and sometimes seem at sea in their parts.

The splendid first scene, as She arrives late for her audition, promises far more than the remainder delivers. She hasn’t read her “sides,” she asks for an explanation of the plot, and her photo résumé seems to have been trampled in a buffalo stampede. The Director asks her to read with the unprepossessing Kevin (Michael Cyril Creighton), the leading man’s gay understudy. She gets the job. When She discovers that her ex-lover has the role, one might expect comic fireworks on the order of Private Lives, but the results are sporadic cherry bombs and a drifting, angst-ridden affair.  

It seems Ruhl’s intention to contrast stage passion with real passion, the heightened romance and physicality of love with the routineness of marriage and workaday life. (“Love me just shy of forever, or love me till six o’clock” goes a song about the gossamer nature of it all.) The significance of a kiss is parsed by He, who takes the position that an audience only tolerates kissing “because it signifies resolution which people like to see on stage but they don’t really like to see the act of kissing on stage, only the idea of kissing on stage. That’s why actors have to be good-looking because it’s about an idea, an idea of beauty completing itself.” (How ironic that critic John Simon was often assailed because he held actors’ looks against them for a similar reason: good looks are a way for an audience to summon quick sympathy for a character in a play’s short span.)

A variety of kisses appear in Stage Kiss, by far the funniest being those of Creighton’s roly-poly substitution for He. The talented actor particularly enlivens a scene on a divan when he opens his mouth wide as if to devour She just before he kisses her (“like a placoderm,” She complains) and frightens her. His nimble physical presence is a choice asset in a comedy that promises much, but delivers little.

Sarah Ruhl's Stage Kiss plays through March 23. Evening performances are at 7 p.m. Tuesday and Wednesday; 8 p.m. Thursday through Saturday; and 7:30 p.m. on Sunday. Matinees are Saturday and Sunday at 2:30 p.m. Ticket prices start at $75 and are available by going to www.playwrightshorizons.org or calling Ticket Central at (212) 279-4200.

Lady Macbeth in Love

The Everyday Inferno Theatre Company’s production of Something Wicked aims at a deeper exploration of Lady Macbeth, the protagonist’s wife in William Shakespeare’s tragedy. In the original play, Macbeth encounters three witches, the Weird Sisters, as he returns from battle. The witches reveal that he will become the King of Scotland. Therefore, Lady Macbeth persuades her husband to kill the king.

Macbeth’s acts are not only moved by his ambition, but also by Lady Macbeth’s insistence that he must fulfill the witches’ prophecies. When the protagonist hesitates, Lady Macbeth persuades him to do the deed. Lady Macbeth is one of Shakespeare’s greatest villains. She is cunning, ambitious, and will stop at nothing to reach her goals. Yet she is not simply a villainous caricature since her insanity and final suicide demonstrate the effects of a guilty conscience. Something Wicked, which was directed and adapted by Anaïs Koivisto, explores the character’s humanity, an aspect that is overlooked in Macbeth.

The action begins right after Lady Macbeth’s death. The Weird Sisters now become her guides through a purgatory-like space in which she will confront her deeds and their consequences. Therefore, Something Wicked is structured around key scenes from the original play. Lady Macbeth’s new outsider perspective will force her to rediscover the horror of her actions and reveal the real motor behind her decisions and profound love for her husband. It may seem that this revelation places Lady Macbeth in the conventional female role of dutiful wife, yet the performance dissipates this notion by having three different women playing the role. The multiple Lady Macbeths affirm the complex nature of the character and challenge the exclusive focus on her villainy. Kathryn Connors plays the dead Lady Macbeth with a subtle vulnerability as she observes the action like a ghost. Ali Stoner performs the Lady Macbeth who mercilessly pushes her husband to kill the king. Finally, Lila Newman plays both Lady Macbeth and Lady Macduff, who is killed along with her son under Macbeth’s orders, suggesting a connection between the murderous temptress and the motherly victim. Koivisto avoids trapping Lady Macbeth into only one role, thereby underscoring the multiple dimensions that define her humanity. In the play, Macbeth is also superbly performed by Zachary Libresco, Samuel Platizky and Jay William Thomas, who also act additional key characters from the play, but this effect is not as forceful as with Lady Macbeth.

The cast successfully fills the performance space with songs, movement and dance to the point where scenery would only hinder their work. The witches, played by Laura Epperson, Sam Bruce and Paul Gregg, are omnipresent and they serve as perfect guides to the ghostly Lady Macbeth. These spooky characters are a welcomed expansion on the original since they only appear twice in Macbeth, even though their prophecies are central to the story.

Nevertheless, the play itself suffers from moments that lessen the impact of Koivisto’s work. There is a new text that surrounds the scenes taken from Macbeth, yet it needs to be fleshed out more. There should be more dialogue between the witches and Lady Macbeth that could comment more on the scenes from the original play and emphasize the Weird Sisters' playful perversity and the villainess’s vulnerability. This interaction is crucial to build the context through which the audience re-encounters Shakespeare’s original work. Furthermore, there is a moment in which the actors suddenly transform into critics who theorize about Lady Macbeth’s real motivations in the original text. The scene, which was well performed by the actors, is an unwelcomed break that bogs down the action. Koivisto must trust her interesting work more and permit her Lady Macbeths to reveal their complexity for themselves. Regardless of its shortcomings, the play is a needed expansion to Shakespeare’s original. As the title suggests, there is indeed “something wicked” in Lady Macbeth, just as there is something loving in her too.

Something Wicked is running until March 9 at The Kraine Theater (85 East 4th St.) as part of the 8^th Annual FRIGID New York Festival. Tickets cost $16 and can be purchased at www.smarttix.com and www.frigidnewyork.info, or by calling 212-868-4444.  

A Winter's Tale Ends in Spring

The WorkShop Theater Company’s production of The Winter’s Tale is a very traditional staging of William Shakespeare’s play, which emphasizes the beauty of the words and the great characters that define the Elizabethan bard. In the play, Polixenes, the ruler of Bohemia, has been a guest for nine months at the court of Leontes, the king of Sicilia. He is about to leave, yet Leontes’s wife, Hermione, lovingly persuades Polixenes to postpone his departure. That is the moment when jealousy blinds the Sicilian king. He subsequently accuses his pregnant wife of being unfaithful and imprisons her. Notwithstanding Paulina’s (a noblewoman loyal to the queen) defense of his wife’s innocence, Hermione gives birth to a girl in prison. Only after their young son and Hermione die of grief and the newborn has been abandoned in the dangerous Bohemian woods under his own orders, does Leontes realize the error of his ways. This is only the first half of a play whose surprising turns include a confirmation of innocence by the Oracle at Delphi, a fatal bear attack, and a statue that suddenly comes to life.

In the staging, the action is divided between two countries, Sicilia and Bohemia. Sicilia is portrayed as a barren and cold space. The walls are covered by curtains of black plastic bags and the nobility is dressed in dark suits. Leontes himself wears a black military uniform, which brings to mind the fascist dictators of the mid-20th century. Ethan Cadoff does a great job of portraying the frigidity of the character, whose only humanity is exposed with his jealous outbursts. Laurie Schroeder’s performance as Hermione exudes a flirtatious candor that somewhat explains her husband’s reaction. The production does a great job in staging the tragic first half of the play, the winter part of the tale referenced in the title.

In the second half of the play, the action moves to Bohemia 16 years after the incidents in Sicilia. At this point, the play is taken over by the light, humor and festivities of spring, whose overt sexuality follows the spirit of the pagan fertility rituals. The plastic bags slide open to uncover the mountains and blue skies of Bohemia. Michael Minahan’s set design marks in a simple and effective way the change in space and tone from the first half. Autolycus, the comic rogue, further establishes the merriment that distinguishes Bohemia. Robert Meksin plays the character with delicious abandon, singing and picking the pockets of the bumpkin clown.

Ryan Lee’s direction successfully portrays the Sicilian barrenness that opposes Bohemia’s chaotic innocence.

Angela Harner’s costumes also distinguish each space. The Sicilian dark suits are discarded for the colorful Bohemian garbs that allude to 1960s trends. On one hand, Polixenes’s attire brings to mind the Eastern influence on Western fashion, while on the other hand Autolycus’s clothes represent the errant hippie. Although some of the Bohemian costumes are too ridiculous and lack a general cohesiveness, they create an interesting effect since the same actors who wore the repressive and uniform suits during the first half, now appear as Bohemian revelers wearing neon colored see-throughs, heavy makeup and shiny pants.    

The whole cast does a marvelous job of juggling the two opposites of Sicilia and Bohemia. While Annalisa Loeffler’s Paulina fervently defends Hermione’s virtue while constrained in a gray skirt suit in Sicilia, her Bohemian Dorcas dons a feathered boa and red sunglasses. Along the same lines, Jacob Callie Moore plays the Clown with comedic energy and hence is almost unrecognizable as the much more serious Sicilian Dion. This production of The Winter’s Tale turns the bleakness of a tragic winter into the vibrant sensuality of spring.

The Winter’s Tale runs through March 15 at the WorkShop Theater Company's Main Stage (312 West 36th St., 4th Fl.). General tickets are $18; $15 for students and seniors. For tickets, call 866-811-4111 or visit www.workshoptheater.org.

I Want to Speak with the Writer

Memory is a dangerous place to live. It is often untrustworthy and filled with the lies we wish were the truth. It is also the place we're most likely to encounter those we wish we could forget. For Bemadette, in Nilo Cruz's brilliant Sotto Voce, memory is both where she most wants to be and the location she would most like to forget. Watching her journey to her past and towards her future makes for a rewarding theatergoing experience — one that is powerful, emotional and worth remembering for many years to come.

Sotto Voce focuses on Bemadette, brilliantly portrayed by Franca Sofia Barchiesi, a reclusive writer whose only contact with the outside world is a young housekeeper, Lucila, played by Arielle Jacobs. Their world is rocked when a young man, Saquiel, brought to life by Andhy Mendez, comes seeking Bemadette’s advice for his fledgling writing career and, more importantly, with his most important story: the facts of what happened with a ship bound for Cuba in 1939. This ship carried hundreds of Jewish passengers attempting to escape Nazi Germany. One of those was Bemadette’s first love, a man who she both continually tries to bury in her memory and seeks to keep alive by never confronting the facts of his actual fate.

As a writer, Bemadette must enter the dangerous space of memory if she wants to finish her most important story: what actually happened to her love when he attempted to flee. Through her interactions with Saquiel, she is forced to retell moments of her past, but also to face her almost insurmountable agoraphobia. As someone who has not gone out in years, she will only rendezvous with the young Cuban student via the written and spoken word. He delights in these virtual visits, taking her both to sites in their adopted New York City and spots in her own mind.  Simultaneously, Saquiel befriends and then seduces Lucila, who fears that having escaped her homeland of Colombia will turn out similarly to Bemadette’s abandonment of her hometown of Berlin. What if she forgets where she is from and can never go back?

All of the performances are effective and affecting. The conceit — which displays the writer and her student interacting physically to mirror their vocal and written meetings — works perfectly to develop the necessary emotions. There is a particular mood to this production, one brilliantly orchestrated by Cruz, serving double duty as writer and director. The sense of melancholy is consistently tempered by moments of humor and deep humanity. The intimacy, immediacy and honesty of this production are perhaps its greatest elements. No performer deserves more credit for this than Barchiesi. She makes Cruz’s poetry sing while understanding the many variations and complicated levels of this compelling woman.

The topic here is one that is more than deserving of a play. Theater, at its best, asks its audience to confront and discuss content that might otherwise be ignored because it causes discomfort. This play is no wallflower when it comes to making hard observations and important commentaries. And yet, it never seems preachy or didactic. This is due in large part to the play’s style: these individuals seem to have at their disposal the perfect words for all of the things that they need to say. The events are given poetic poignancy by the way in which their speakers choose to elucidate them. I found myself both laughing and crying during the play and, perhaps most importantly, continuing to discuss the issues put forward long after the house lights had come up.

All in all, Sotto Voce is a play not to be missed. It sheds important light on an historical event while bringing to life very realistic and incredibly relatable characters. It is a heartfelt and meaningful piece of theater. It will give its spectators a memory they won’t soon want to forget. In fact, it may even inspire them to write their own histories into the poetry of memory as well.

Sotto Voce runs through March 9 at the Theater for the New City (155 First Ave). Performances are Wednesday through Saturday at 8 p.m. and Sunday at 3 p.m. General admission is $20; $15 for seniors and students. For tickets, call 212-254-1109 or visit www.theaterforthenewcity.net. 

Big Canvas, Small Bytes

Few playwrights have been so attuned to their times as British dramatist Caryl Churchill. She became an international name in 1979 with Cloud 9 and its examination of sexual politics, and since then she has reflected the winds of change in plays such as Far Away (2000; governmental oppression), Serious Money (1987; financial shenanigans), A Number (2002; cloning), and Seven Jewish Children — A Play for Gaza (2009; oppression of Palestinians), not to mention Top Girls (1982), in which she explored American vs. British feminism.

Her newest play, Love and Information, is a challenging experimental work, a random mosaic of scenes, vignettes, and snippets, the longest perhaps two or three minutes, the shortest only about 20 seconds long. Together the bits and bytes of dialogue give a sense of foreboding about the Digital Age. By the end of the intermissionless two hours the twin subjects of her title seem on uneven ground: one feels that information has the upper hand and is overwhelming the emotional well-being of all the characters.

 

Under the direction of James MacDonald, a cast of 15, including Maria Tucci, James Waterston, Jennifer Ikeda, and Randy Danson, give brief life to multiple personalities, none of whom appears more than once. (At least not noticeably so; Churchill’s script indicates a couple places where there might be overlap.) Racially diverse, they include people from all walks of life in various situations: teen girls at a sleepover swooning over the star of a boy band; two picnickers discussing scientific experiments on baby chicks; seatmates on an airplane; musicians; spinners at a gym; a couple in bed; boys camping under a starry sky; and a savant who can recall weather and incidents on random days from the past, among many others. The scenes are played out in a square white box with walls and ceilings decorated in grids of black and blue lines, and each ends with a blackout.

 

For many of the scenes, designer Miriam Buether provides a major set piece, from the gym equipment to a patio table with a large orange umbrella to beds, chairs and sofas of various descriptions. There are also smaller elements: a baby carriage, a cello case, children’s toys, and a Babar book. The result is a panorama of modern life. Gabriel Berry and Andrea Hood’s costumes encompass winter gear (though perhaps none so warm as are needed this winter!) to summer shorts and swimsuits. Christopher Shutt’s sound design sets up each of the scenes (they all comprise seven portions, perhaps suggesting days of the week, and an epilogue): the sounds of children at play, classical music, motorcycles, and cats meowing relate to the topic or situation of the next interaction.

 

The primary challenge is that Churchill’s play doesn’t have a conflict or an arc or any traditional dramatic structure. Its effect comes from the accretion of details, as characters talk about everything under the sun, e.g., mathematics, science, getting together with annoying friends, redacting government documents, and words that mean “table.” The nontraditional form may alienate some viewers, and it requires close attention to sift a “message,” as in this brief exchange between a couple:

 

“What sex evolved to do is get information from two sets of genes so you get offspring that’s not identical to you. Otherwise you just keep getting the same thing over and over again like hydra or starfish. So sex essentially is information.”

“You don’t think that while we’re doing it, do you?”

“It doesn’t hurt to know it. Information and also love.”

 

Later on, a gay man receives a bouquet of red roses from his lover and he begins to gush with emotion in the form of information: “it means stop and of course it means go because it’s the color of energy and red cars have the most accidents because people are excited by red or people who are already excited like to have red.” He notes that “in China red is lucky.” But his information overload simply obscures the point of the roses: someone loves him. The flood of data that one has to process in our current world, Churchill intimates, is driving us further and further apart, until, she suggests, we will be left with only information and have lost our humanity.

The regular performance schedule for Love and Information is Tuesday and Wednesday at 7.p.m.; Thursday and Friday at 8 p.m.; Saturday at 3 and 8 p.m.; and Sunday at 2 and 7 p.m.  There will be a special student matinee on March 19. Orchestra tickets are $85, and mezzanine tickets are $65. They may be purchased online at nytw.org or by phoning Ticketmaster at 800-982-2787, or in person at the Minetta Lane Theater box office, 18 Minetta Lane.   

Two for Change

Dr. Du Bois and Miss Ovington, produced jointly by the New Federal and Castillo Theatres, is an historical drama about two people, one African-American and the other Anglo-Saxon, seeking a way to work together to reform an unjust society. Playwright Clare Coss has imagined a Sunday morning in 1915 on which W.E.B. Du Bois and Mary White Ovington, members of the group that founded the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP), unexpectedly cross paths — and end up crossing swords — in the suite of offices where, on weekdays, they're accustomed to less emotional exchanges with each other. The production is directed by Gabrielle L. Kurlander and designed resourcefully on an Off-Off Broadway budget by Chris Cumberbatch (sets), Ali Turns (costumes), Antoinette Tynes (lighting), and Bill Toles (sound). It's an admirable contribution to New York City’s observance of Black History Month, though the principal attraction is Kathleen Chalfant as Miss Ovington.

The NAACP has been a forceful proponent of civil rights since its inception in 1909. For almost a quarter century, from 1910 to 1934, Du Bois (1868-1963), the most prominent African-American intellectual of the day, devoted the bulk of his professional effort to that organization, serving on its board and as director of publicity and research. As editor of the NAACP journal, The Crisis, he nurtured new voices among African-American artists and intellectuals. Born in the Berkshires not long after the Civil War, Du Bois earned B.A., M.A. and Ph.D degrees at Harvard, taught at a number of distinguished universities, including the University of Pennsylvania, and wrote numerous books (his most famous being the essay collection The Souls of Black Folk in which he wrote, "The problem of the Twentieth Century is the problem of the color-line").

Mary Ovington (1865-1951) was a Brooklyn-born Unitarian whose forebears were abolitionists. Educated at Radcliffe College, she committed herself to the cause of civil rights after hearing an address by Frederick Douglass. Like Du Bois, she was on the NAACP staff for many years, addressing discrimination in employment, education, housing, public services and voting rights. The producers’ program note describes her as “the first white woman to dedicate her life to anti-racist work in the twentieth century.” Ovington's writings include Half a Man: The Status of the Negro in New York and a history of the NAACP, The Walls Came Tumbling Down.

As depicted by Coss, Du Bois (played by Timothy Simonson) and Ovington display the scrupulous good manners of the Victorian era in which they grew up. Although they share a wholehearted commitment to fighting racism, their personal relationship is tense and volatile. Midway through the play, they acknowledge a mutual attraction that's physical as well as intellectual. That scene, despite some anachronism in the dialogue, is the most arresting part of the script. The characters' shared decision to sublimate a powerful urge for the sake of their common vocation is inherently poignant; Chalfant's performance enhances the moment with a complexity that's true to the text but far beyond what the dramatist has written.

Best known for multiple roles in Tony Kushner’s Angels in America on Broadway and as the dying academic in Wit by Margaret Edson, Chalfant is one of the foremost actresses working on the American stage. It's hard to imagine anyone better equipped to balance the genteel veneer of Coss's Miss Ovington with the substantial passions animating this character's brain and heart.

According to the production's playbill, Simonson has returned to acting after a period in finance. A formidable presence on stage, he resembles photographs of Du Bois in early adulthood. But it's the range and emotional color that Chalfant brings to her role that audiences are likely to recall most vividly about the 90 minutes they've spent at the Castillo Theatre.

Dr. Du Bois and Miss Ovington offers a number of engaging moments; yet it's not so much a play as a series of set pieces in which the characters spar on subjects related to bigotry, civil rights, and social change. Coss hasn't found a way to make the disparate scenes cohere or resolve themselves into a unified drama. Plays seldom spring full-grown from their authors' imaginations; they're more likely to develop in stages. With insights from the intelligent performances in the New Federal/Castillo presentation, the playwright may be ready to take the script to the next level.   

Dr. Du Bois and Miss Ovington runs through Feb. 16 at the Castillo Theatre (543 West 42^nd Street). Performances are at 7:30 p.m. on Thursday, Friday and Saturday and 2 p.m. on Saturday and Sunday. Tickets are $25 ($20 for students) and may be purchased from www.castillo.org or 866-811-4111.

Expressionism Lightly

In 1922, New York City was in a thrust of urbanization. Women manned the desks of the American workplace for the first time, and the click-clack of their typewriters beat the heart of an emergent labor force. This is the urban landscape of playwright Sophie Treadwell’s expressionistic play, Machinal, which Roundabout Theatre Company has brought back to Broadway's American Airlines Theatre for the first time since its 1928 debut. Based on events in the life of Ruth Snyder, Machinal follows the character of the Young Woman from her tedious stenographer job, to a loveless marriage with her boss, to the birth of an unwanted child, to an illicit love affair, and finally to the trial for her husband's murder.

First, an introduction to the play and its relation to expressionism. Just as a dollhouse mimics a human house, realistic theater mimics reality. Alternatively, expressionism distorts reality from a subjective viewpoint of experience. Though Treadwell may not have intended Machinal to play as straight expressionism, she was one of several American playwrights importing the genre in the 1920s, including Elmer Rice and Eugene O'Neill.  Machinal includes significant trademarks of expressionism, such as monologues expressing heightened intensity and a soundscape that blends human speech with mechanical sounds such as the typewriter. Experienced from the Young Woman’s perspective, Machinal nightmarishly depicts her internal struggle to separate her own desires from societal demands in the realms of labor, marriage and childbirth.

Focusing on the acting in the Roundabout production, it seems as if director Lyndsey Turner has dialed the expressionism way down. While clearly a directorial choice, this may have been at the expense of the production’s effectiveness. Though there were moments when the actors’ vocal rhythms invoked the same industrial throbbing evoked by Matt Tierney’s innovative sound design, their rhythms mostly remained natural and human. While vibrant characterizations such as Suzanne Bertish’s memorable Mother and Ashley Bell’s sassy Telephone Girl demonstrate the actresses' fine chops, they confused the production’s overall style and mood. As the Young Woman, Rebecca Hall’s delivery read as exceptionally realistic. Under Turner’s direction, unfortunately, Hall's character arc is indeterminable; though we see her suffer at several crisis points — a panic attack in the subway, followed by breakdowns in her mother’s apartment, on her honeymoon, and in the hospital after childbirth — each of these instances plays at an equal magnitude, conveyed by a good deal of high-pitched angst. These moments are the play’s sorest loss; in favor of realism, Turner’s direction misses Treadwell’s moments of intensely alienating and telegraphic rhythm.

The one actor refreshingly committed to an expressionistic stylization was Michael Cumpsty, whose caricature of the Husband is delightfully automated. Certain moments of choreography favored expressionism, too, such as one vignette in the hospital in which nurses, doctors, patients and visitors robotically repeat mundane gestures; without the rest of the play supporting it, however, this brief moment fell short of evoking anything more than an interesting transition.

Expressionism heavily influenced many elements of the production's design. The magnificent rotating stage designed by Es Devlin revealed scene after striking scene; its visible machination an obvious yet powerful nod to the play’s title and its expressionistic roots. Lighting designer Jane Cox's innovative technique incorporated hard, bright horizontal lines of light that scanned the set, sometimes lingering on a face, an embrace or an expression. Overall, the design team provided the visual and aural landscape of industrialization that the ensemble largely lacked in stylization.

If you’re looking for a production that really honors the vein of expressionism coursing through Machinal, the stylistically noncommittal performances in Roundabout Theatre Company’s latest production may disappoint you.  Though earnest and well-rehearsed, these deliveries clash with a production design meant to evoke a historical moment when New York City was developing vertically at breakneck speed. Machinal captures a human soul whose body is caught in the cogs of an emerging industrial landscape; while this production's design skillfully evokes the sights and sounds of this phenomenon, the performances fail to evoke a larger emotional experience.

Machinal runs until March 2 at the American Airlines Theatre (227 West 42nd St.). Evening performances are at 8 p.m. on Tuesday through Saturday; matinee performances are at 2 p.m. on Wednesday, Saturday and Sunday. Tickets range from $52-$127 and are available for purchase at 212-719-1300 or www.roundabouttheatre.org.

Down the Road and Back Again

If you were born or grew up in the mid- to late-1980s, chances are the names Blanche, Rose, Dorothy and Sophia will strike in you a very nostalgic cord. When the four Miami-based retirees known as The Golden Girls debuted in 1985, they immediately became a hit with their post-menopausal, cheesecake-slicing antics. From the ditzy, air-headed Scandinavian Rose to the wonderfully saucy and sex-driven Blanche, it wasn't hard to laugh along with these Girls. The show ran for only seven seasons (practically a lifetime by today's standards), but it made an indelible mark on American pop culture; Thank You For Being a Friend, which is currently running at the Laurie Beechman Theatre is definitely evident of the sitcom's impact. The musical parody features an all-male cast as the Golden Girls themselves with music and lyrics by director Nick Brennan.

Here, the names are slightly different: Blanche is now Blanchet; Rose is Roz; and Dorothy and Sophia are Dorothea and Sophie. Despite the slight changes, the rest of the show is still in keeping with the original television comedy — from the dialogue to the overall episodic tone. Indeed, at the show's start, we find Blanchette (with binoculars in hand and her booty out to the audience, of course) snooping on the new neighbors next door. The other ladies soon make their entrances into the kitchen, and we learn that their new neighbor is actually none other than Latino pop star Ricky Martin (played by Adrian Rifat).

As dinner theater entertainment goes, Thank You For Being a Friend makes for a super fun night out. Each of the cast members have their share of the stage. Chad Ryan as Blanchet is spot-on, and both Luke Jones and John de los Santos are hilarious as the mother-daughter duo. However, it is Brennan as the naive but sweet Roz and Adrian Rifat as the pop star has-been that completely steal the show. Brennan doing Betty White's "aw shucks" mannerisms and Rifat's entrance with Ricky's signature "prayer hands" were hilarious.

As a group, they complement one another very well and seem to have an intricate knowledge of the others' rhythms, which only further helped the comedy along. Also bringing on the funny were the songs, among which were revampings of old showtunes, as well as originals written by Brennan. Some examples include "All That Jizz," an obviously classy homage sung by Ricky; "Roz's Turn," in which Roz proclaims her right to Shady Oaks fame; "Sex Changing," in which Dorothea goes through some, er...changes; and the oh-so-catchy finale, "Miami."  

Of course, one cannot write about a musical set in the '80s without talking about the clothes. The costumes by Jessa-Raye Court are absolutely fab in all their shoulder-padded glory. At one point, the girls do away with the talent show doldrums with some good old-fashioned retail therapy ("Fab Fads") with...what else? A fashion show with cardboard outfits and sequins. As for the set design, much of which revolved — literally — around a couple of multi-purpose panels, behind which was where all the mind-boggling quick changes took place (seriously, the cast of Broadway's Cinderella would even be impressed). The stagehands even donned as golden-aged girls themselves with wigs and tacky pantsuits.

If you're in for some great food, drink and some raucous laughter, then you'll love Thank You For Being a Friend. It will not only make you pine for the good old days of over-sized blazers and the "Latin Invasion" of '99 (a moment of silence please), but it will make you remember that aside from the fashion blunders and questionable musical taste, not all of it was bad. So head down to the Laurie Beechman Theatre and walk down memory lane — it'll make your life less of a, well...drag!

Thank You For Being a Friend is playing at the Laurie Beechman Theatre (which is located inside West Bank Cafe at 407 West 42nd St.). Evening performances are Wednesdays at 7 p.m., and Fridays, Feb. 28, March 14 and 28 at 10 p.m. with added shows Saturday, March 8 at 7 p.m. and Thursday, March 27 at 7 p.m. Tickets are $20 (plus a $15 food/drink minimum) and available at 212-352-3101 or Spincyclenyc.com.

American Terrorist

With plot twists and a story line that would make Jerry Springer jealous; under Melissa Attebery's direction, Dick Brukenfeld’s Blind Angels is a smart, political drama that leaves viewers asking, “would you stand there and take it?”

Inspired by Daniel Pearl, a Wall Street Journal reporter who was kidnapped and killed by Pakistani terrorists in 2002, Brukenfeld gives the audience a story and perspective surrounding terrorism Americans have yet to see. Aaron (Scott Raker) is a news reporter who’s been told he’s about to embark on the biggest story in U.S. history. His college roommate, Sadri (Francesco Campari) and ex-fiancée Danny (Qurrat Ann Kadwani) are Muslims, as well as second cousins, coping with a death in the family. Danny’s mother has been murdered in what is believed to be an American government cover-up. Believing he’s about to pull an all-nighter, Aaron is prepared to stay the night with his friends to cover their story, but is greeted by a stranger, Yusuf (Alok Tewari), and held at gunpoint. He’s forced to give up his computer and any electronic devices, preventing any communication with the outside world. Aaron is now a hostage among his so-called friends.    

The production takes place in Sadri’s New York City apartment where set designer Brandon McNeel, lighting designer Alexander Bartenieff, props/set manager Lytza Colon, and master carpenter Mark Marcante, succeeded in creating an atmosphere that appears comfortable for a hostage situation. Colon must have been an interior designer in her former life; the set was merchandised to a tee.

During a flashback scene, Sadri, a mathematics expert, stresses to the American government how easy it is to obtain nuclear weapons; Senator Kaye Hammond (Cynthia Granville) then labels him as a security threat, slandering his name and credibility. In a more calculated form of revenge for Danny’s mother and to prove Hammond wrong, Sadri, Yusuf and Danny plan a terrorist attack that will wipe out their apartment building and everything within a block radius. 

Purchased from an unknown individual named Eric, the nuclear bomb is housed in the apartment with the ability to go off with the push of a cell phone button. If Aaron even attempts to escape — trying to open a door or window — it will detonate. Aaron plans to write an article that highlights the terrorists as individuals who are concerned about the treatment of Muslims in America, how easy it is to bring nuclear weapons into the country, and to warn their neighbors to evacuate the area. Yusuf and Sadri plan for a suicide bombing, wishing to be the only ones who perish.      

In the midst of a crisis, Brukenfeld gives the audience a look into the individual characters; Yusuf is a “lover of life” that documents weddings, but is so far deep into the plan, his wife and children are in danger if he decides to back out.  There’s a particular scene where Yusuf’s recording his goodbye video, changing the audience’s and Aaron’s view of him from fear to sympathy. The underlining love story between Danny and Aaron sheds light on Aaron’s inability to stick with a decision, but their rekindling is interrupted when Danny tells Aaron she’s pregnant with Sadri’s baby and they plan to get married. Drama!

Blind Angels is full of twists and turns, including a phone call from Eric to Yusuf demanding he kill Sadri; to Aaron and Danny feeling like Yusuf is a threat and poisoning him — the ending is completely unpredictable. The outrageousness of it all does make for light, comedic references, but definitely leaves the audience on the edge of their seats. A mix of race relations, scandal and politics — Steve Wilkos meets MSNBC, Brunkenfeld asks, if the government did something that affected you directly, “would you stand there and take it?”

Blind Angels is running at the Theater for the New City until March 2. Performances are Thursday through Saturday at 8 p.m. and Sunday at 3 p.m. General admission is $15; $10 for seniors and students. For tickets and additional information, visit www.theaterforthenewcity.net, or call 212-254-1109.

The Black Sheep of the Flock

In an unconventional dramatic monologue, Brian Watkins’s My Daughter Keeps Our Hammer is an intense, yet comedic view at two sisters faced with the decision to hold on to their past or move forward into their future.

Sarah (Katherine Folk-Sullivan) and Hannah (Layla Khoshnoudi) speak directly to the audience; their lines flow seamlessly as if singing a round, expressing why they feel an immense amount of disdain towards each other and the small prairie town of Colorado where they reside. Set designer Andrew Diaz and lighting designer John Eckert place the audience in the middle of their family’s prairie. The theater is completely dark. When the girls are ready to share sacred truths, the room goes black; Sarah and Hannah are only visible. Family secrets are told to a living diary that doesn’t judge, but listens intently, visualizing each narration.

After the death of their father, the siblings become estranged, taking on the responsibly of their mother — Sarah, the eldest, is the unofficial caretaker. Sarah doesn’t know what to do with herself; her loneliness so overwhelming she’s just looking for someone to talk to.  Hannah, on the other hand, desperately wants everyone to shut up. She works at a coffee house and drives an old car that can’t go past 40 miles, dreaming about her dad’s F-150 truck in the garage. However, they both share the same motive: flee the prairie. 

Then there’s Vicky, the only surviving sheep of their family’s flock, a gift from their father to their mother. Since their mom became sick, Vicky and the F-150 are the only things that hold sentimental value and make her happy. Her daughters don’t count. Because of this, she refuses to move the truck and Vicky has been moved inside the house — an unsuccessful attempt to house-train livestock. 

Sarah admits under the spotlight that something came over her and she’d spit and hit Vicky in a moment of frustration. Feeling haunted, she makes a quilt for her mother, only to find she’s ungrateful and full of criticism. Yet, according to Hannah, her mom is so impressed by the gift; she wants to give Sarah the F-150 for Christmas, adding to their grudge and separation. Hiring a coffee house regular and his ram, Hannah has a full-proof plan to get Vicky pregnant. The perfect way to commandeer the F-150.

To avoid giving away an ending that completely blindsides the audience, the sister’s shift their hatred of each other to Vicky — it is the one thing they share. Sarah says she embodies her father for a split second. In one of her confessions, Hannah acknowledges killing a baby chick when she was little and it “made her think twice about killin,” but in the darkness of the theater, she admits Sarah is unrecognizable. They aren’t the girls they thought they were.    

Full of allegory and symbolism, My Daughter Keeps Our Hammer is amazing. It’s dark, a little twisted, intense, but surprisingly witty. Under the direction of Danya Taymor, Watkins’s writing comes full-circle and enters reality; an existence that’s quite difficult to achieve in a monologue. Folk-Sullivan and Khoshnoudi are brilliant; who else could make murder seem like it’s the right thing to do? The fact that they aren’t really sisters is slightly disappointing but the play is definitely worth seeing.

My Daughter Keeps Our Hammer is playing at The Flea Theater (41 White Street) in Tribeca. Evening performances run until Feb. 15. Tickets are $15, $25 and $35. For tickets and showtimes, call 212-352-3101 or visit www.theflea.org.

Grandma's Kitchen

As one of three major productions this year, The H.A.D.L.E.Y. Players and New Heritage Theatre Group presented The Kitchen, written by Roger Parris and directed by Arthur French, at The Poet's Den on 309 East 108th Street. Featuring an all-black cast, the play is set during the 1950s in Harlem, where a boardinghouse landlord faces the predicament of allowing an ex-tenant a safe haven while he faces life or death. "Grandma" serves as a mother figure to everyone in the house — her kitchen their meeting place. Originally played by Louise Mike, Johnnie Mae steps in as Grandma after Mike sprained her ankle. Although she reads from a script, even using it as a prop, Mae did an excellent job conveying the message: blood is not always thicker than water.

During the opening scene, Taylor (Craig Anthony Bannister) is the topic of discussion among the tenants Ivan (Albert Eggleston), Muriel (Kimberlee Monroe) and Grandma’s cousin Philip (Ward Nixon) on a Saturday morning.  Taylor, an ex-tenant, is a known gambler. After giving all his winnings to the woman he loved, Taylor aims to get back on his feet after she flees the city with all his loot. During breakfast, Philip and Grandma have a pivotal fall-out, which confuses the audience — there’s really no basis but is the turning point of the play.

That evening, Taylor shows up at Grandma’s covered in blood, seeking refuge from the neighborhood hustler Raymond Peaks (Leopold Lowe). The scene is unseen, but Taylor describes the scuffle at the local bar; gambling, drugs, liquor and the badmouthing of his lover play their parts in Peaks stabbing him. It’s a bit unclear why Peaks is trying to murder Taylor; the story isn’t conveyed, but Grandma harbors him until he can plan an escape from the city. While at the boardinghouse, Taylor reflects to Muriel where he went wrong, acknowledging how he “always liked the fast life,” teaching her how to shoot craps. Muriel, just released from an asylum, conserves Taylor’s location, keeping him company during the day and playing Grandma’s numbers at night.

The show begins to pick up towards the second half where the more interesting scenes ironically happen outside of the kitchen between the male cast members. Over a bottle of whiskey, Peaks, Philip and Ivan are coming from the bar — Peaks hints at stabbing Taylor and tips the gents that he’s after him. The two men still have no idea Taylor’s hiding out in their own home; Ivan is unfazed but Philip is intrigued. Philip and Peaks appear to be in cahoots — Philip is leaving for South Africa and bringing Peaks back diamonds and possibly narcotics. 

In the next scene, Ivan relays the conversation he had with Peaks and Philip to Grandma and Muriel. Taylor is listening in the adjacent room. The girls continue to act aloof while the three of them celebrate Ivan’s birthday over a bottle of bourbon. Ivan tells Grandma she and Philip should reconcile to appreciate the meaning of family.

The next morning, Philip drops by and Grandma apologizes for losing her temper. He accepts but leaves with a piece of paper — a numbers slip with Taylor’s name and the date of a few days prior. The jig is up. He immediately informs Peaks that Taylor’s at the boardinghouse, on a park bench — a rather enjoyable scene with excellent lighting. They begin to conspire how Peaks can get into the house, posing a robbery to kill Taylor. Peaks asks why Philip would set up his cousin and he admits jealousy. 

In the last scene, Philip is able to rig the door for Peaks and leaves for South Africa immediately after, to avoid capture. Peaks holds Grandma, Muriel and Taylor at gunpoint and with an unexpected twist, Muriel stabs Peaks to death; causing her to slip into a mental state that lands her back into the asylum. 

The ending seems a bit rushed as they cut to three months later. Taylor leaves for Washington, D.C. to stay with his brother. Ivan brings Muriel to the house to visit Grandma; she hasn’t spoken since the incident, but after Grandma gives her a pair of dice left by Taylor, she instantly becomes herself again and the lights dim.

This show is very predictable in terms of racial issues and how they trigger thoughts of the time, but there isn’t much happening throughout the play besides the major scenes described. Centered around “the kitchen,” the only reference made is a spiel by Ivan and why it’s his favorite place. The story is good, but difficult to follow; the timing is a bit off and there are a few lines said with no transition, lead-up or explanation. However, the overall production is enjoyable, offering some comic relief and reputable acting. 

A Journey Home

What is an American? As children of immigrants, who are we really? And where are we from? Some ancestral homeland or from wherever we were raised? Questions such as these are at the heart of East Towards Home, written by Billy Yalowitz and directed by David Schechter, which recently ended its run at the Theater for the New City. At its best, this show is charming and relatable. At its worst, however, this show is nothing more than self-indulgent. This uneven play presents wonderful musical interludes, but the plot leaves much to be desired.

The story centers around a young man, played by David Kremenitzer, ostensibly our narrator/playwright Yalowitz at a younger age, trying to find his place in folk music and socialist revolution. In order to do so, we all travel back in time to meet him as a small boy, learning to play in his multi-racial neighborhood. We journey with him through the trials and tribulations of childhood, such as baseball tryouts, bullying, summer camp and annoying old neighbors. One such neighbor, Sylvie, portrayed by Eleanor Reissa, proves to be an essential cog in the story; she knew the young man's musical hero, Woody Guthrie, and participated directly in early to mid-twentieth century Communism in America.

When the show focuses on these satellite narrative threads, it is at its best. Sylvie’s story sheds light on a moment in our history often overlooked, bringing out the beauty of Yiddish speech and traditional dance. The highlight of the show comes in the fourth performer — Brian Gunter’s performing of folk music as Woody Guthrie. He is an extremely skilled musician, who brings to life both the sounds and meanings of this music style. The play consists of three interlocking narratives; these two and the play's driving narrative arc. Although this is meant to show the links between Guthrie, Sylvie, and our protagonist, it is often disorienting and left me wondering in which story we find ourselves at any given moment.

The tale of the young man, however, often falls flat. Despite wanting to sympathize with him, I found myself wondering why he felt so lost.  He seemed to have a great understanding of the world and to have been given some incredible opportunities. Yes, he was a victim of discrimination, anti-Semitism, and political oppression, which are no small matters, but he seemed to have the wherewithal to overcome it.  By including himself as an older man as a character, it was always clear he had found his way home. It also made it seem like this production was somewhat of a celebration of itself. He had overcome and lived to make a play of it.

All in all, the notion of a lost young person trying to find his place in the world does seem universal. The music is wonderful and the use of projections and direct audience address work nicely to engage the spectators in active thought about the issues presented.  Unfortunately, the takeaway is diminished by the story being too specific. Ultimately, this is not a play about us, the people bearing witness. It is an individual recitation, meant to show us who this particular person is, not what might be possible if we work together.

Voices from the Depths

Stories about illegal crossings reveal the bravery of those who confront innumerable dangers to escape terrible living conditions. Their goal is to ultimately achieve a better life for their families and themselves. Each immigrant has a deeply emotional story to tell about persecution, extreme poverty, sickness, the perils of the crossing, and the discovery that their destination is as filled with problems as their countries of origin. These are the stories that make up Rumore di acque (Noise in the Waters), a melologue, which is a short work created for voice and music, produced by Teatro delle Albe and written and directed by Marco Martinelli. The piece is a collection of all those migrant voices that can be heard along the Strait of Sicily, the 90-mile wide portion of the Mediterranean Sea that divides North Africa and Sicily. Some of their tales are being told for audiences at La MaMa Experimental Theatre Club by a solitary demon on a volcanic island in the Mediterranean Sea.

In the melologue, a bureaucrat working for the Ministro dell’ Inferno (Minister of Hell), a clear reference to the Italian Ministro dell’ Interno (Minister of the Interior), is appointed to a deserted volcanic islet located in the middle of the Sicilian strait. The island is suggested in the bare theatrical space by a spiral of stones on the floor. The narrator stands at the center of the spiral, symbolizing his location within the bowels of the watery and volcanic hell. This figure wears dark sunglasses and a blue military uniform adorned with medals, establishing a physical reference to the now defunct Muammar Qaddafi. The General, magnificently performed by Alessandro Renda, explains in a gravelly voice that his job is to count and record all the African immigrants who have perished on their voyage to Europe. Nevertheless, the narrator never expresses any emotion towards the subjects and only shows outrage for the fish, which make his job harder by eating the flesh of the dead at sea. He is only interested in the numbers, a clear indictment of how Italian and North African governments are indifferent to the plight of immigrants.

Among his deliberations about numbers, his anger with the fish, and a discussion about how inferior bureaucrats should address him, the general tells us the sad stories of four African refugees. The character and his delivery never really lead the audience into an emotional involvement with his stories. The listener rejects everything that the narrator stands for. In this way, Martinelli resists manipulating the audience’s emotions and forces us to think critically about what the character really represents and where we are located in his narrative. Although the general is a representative of power, the refugees are still heard through the painfully beautiful music and vocals of Enzo and Lorenzo Mancuso. While the general is at center stage, the Mancuso brothers play and sing from stage right. They occupy a dreamlike space outside the volcanic islet from where their vocals act out the desperation and pathos of those who have sacrificed themselves for a better life.

Rumore di acque presents stories of refugees from Libya and many communities throughout the Sahara that are as relevant to Europe and Africa as to the United States and Latin America. The writing, direction, performance and music blend harmoniously to make audiences see the plight of immigrants and the indifference of those in power.

Rumore di acque is performed in Italian with supertitles in English. It runs until Feb. 16 at La MaMa's First Floor Theatre (74A East 4th St.). Evening performances are 7:30 p.m. on Thursday through Saturday; matinee performances are 2:30 p.m. on Sunday. Tickets are $18 and $13 for students and seniors. For tickets, call 212-475-7710 or visit www.lamama.org.       

Politics with a Side of Queso

Gold, chandeliers and, yes, queso saturate the set (designed by Mimi Lien) for The Rude Mechanicals’ latest piece, Stop Hitting Yourself. Playing at Lincoln Center’s Claire Tow Theater, Stop Hitting Yourself wildly amalgamates participatory theater, performance art, early musicals and bourgeoisie comedy. In form, it defies genre and is entirely unafraid of going on a tangent. Still, Stop Hitting Yourself does manage to follow a plot line. Its strengths, however, lie not in the storyline, but in the talents of the ensemble.

A group of self-obsessed socialites gathers at the Queen’s Palace for the annual Charity Ball, where one charity case is selected as the Queen’s beneficiary. This year, one socialite (Lana Lesley) discovers a tree-hugging Wildman (Thomas Graves) in the forest, and tries to mold him into a member of the upper crust to win the Queen’s favor. 

If you’re reminded of Eliza Doolittle, you’re spot-on. Songs and monologues about society, wealth, privilege, individualism and charity make the production’s big ideas abundantly clear. As a representative of peace and nature, Graves’ Wildman clearly stands for a cleaner, greener way of life — one that clashes with the socialites’ outrageous opulence. Though there are tiny moments of surprise in the script, for the most part, each character reinforces a binary. The rich are so blinded and isolated by their wealth that they are difficult to like. On the other hand, the Wildman’s final renunciation of all material belongings took things to the opposite extreme. This of course, is all part of the fun and irony, but the social and political message hashed out in Stop Hitting Yourself repeats itself tirelessly. 

One strength in Graves’ final renunciation, however, is when he begins listing the prices of the physical objects around the set — not only their purchase cost, but the cost of shipping them to New York City for this premiere. This encourages some interesting thoughts about the labor, time and skill invested in every object on the stage. Self-referential moments of meta-theatre such as this one could have well replaced some of the heavier-handed social commentary.

Though the political conversation behind the piece felt, at times, a little too black-and-white, the production’s real strength lies in the charm and innovation of the ensemble. As the theater-making darlings of Austin, Texas, The Rude Mechanicals have been creating original, ensemble-based theater since 1995. They are no strangers to New York, however; among the shows they’ve toured here include their acclaimed Method Gun and a more recent re-imagining of The Performance Group’s legendary 1968 downtown performance, Dionysus in 69. In Stop Hitting Yourself, The Rude Mechanicals exceed the usual gimmicks in destroying the fourth wall. Bringing the house lights up to reveal us all in the theater together, their relationship with the audience is playful and present. One recurring “game” requires the audience to close their eyes. Though it’s obviously your choice to participate, the game provides some delightful and hilarious visual surprises. And yes, these surprises involve lots of queso.  

The dazzling ensemble of veracious actors definitely makes Stop Hitting Yourself a show worth seeing. Graves’ Wildman seduces with his trademark coolness and his headful of glorious hair while Lesley’s Socialite is brimming with an untapped wildness herself. As the Maid, Heather Hanna slyly panders to Paul Soileau’s Queen, whose tiara and pink lipstick are so grotesque that it's hard to look away. Joey Hood’s Unknown Prince is sleazy yet somehow persuasive; similarly, as the Magnate, E. Jason Liebrecht mesmerizes with his skillful and exaggerated cigar smoking. As the Trust Fund Sister, Hannah Kenah’s verbal delivery and physical comedy left the audience in laughter. While political and social commentaries are a dime a dozen, this ensemble is one in a million.

Stop Hitting Yourself plays at Lincoln Center’s Claire Tow Theater, which is located on the roof of the Vivian Beaumont Theater (150 West 65th St. between Broadway and Amsterdam Ave.) through February 23. Evening performances are at 7 p.m. on Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday; matinees are Saturday and Sunday at 2 p.m. Tickets are $20 and available at Telecharge.com or www.lct3.org.

Side Effects

In The Window, Marta Mondelli makes a compelling debut as both playwright and one-third of the piece’s ensemble. It’s a play that while rooted in the writer’s love for classic cinema is much less a locked-room mystery, and instead becomes more of a study of the time and its effects on women. With shows like Mad Men in the mainstream, we have all been inundated by iconic images of the mid- to late-1950s: a picturesque suburb; housewives in homes decked out with all the modern conveniences; and of course, all the advertising that came along with this new modern lifestyle. Basically, the very product of what was then a new industrial boom. However, while baking apple pies and being a homemaker like Donna Reed on acid may seem like a walk in the park compared to today’s modern-working woman, appearances can often be deceiving, as Mondelli further explores.

At the start of the play, we meet Eva (Cristina Lippolis), a young twenty-something who was recently jilted at the altar and has since spent what was to be her honeymoon working as a taste tester of sorts for a soda company.  As Tester Number 52, we watch Eva read her manual and look up various possible side effects of the experiment.  However, the side effects would ultimately end with not only physical repercussions, but psychological as well.  Throughout the duration of the play, Eva starts noticing suspicious activities outside her courtyard-facing window and begins to believe that a neighbor has been murdered. Skeptical of these supposed strange disturbances is Eva’s aunt Nora (playwright Mondelli), twice-married Park Avenue socialite who is staying in the apartment to keep her niece company.

What's intriguing about The Window was not only the feel of 1950s New York as soon as one enters the Cherry Lane Theatre's performance space (scenic designers Nicholas Biagetti and Pedro Marnoto cleverly put up a laundry line by the aisle seats, which hit you overhead just as find your seat), but also the thematic content itself. While there were certainly cinematic elements such as the use of the fourth wall as the titular window in question, the play felt more akin to some of the great literature that came out of that time — particularly, J.D. Salinger's Franny and Zooey, in which a young girl suffers a breakdown. While Eva is certainly down the road to a breakdown herself, she appears to be holding onto a certain idea of womanhood she has been taught to attain for herself in the form of marriage. Nora, on the other hand, clearly despising the small "window" of time a woman is expected to enjoy her life, often proclaims to leave her wealthy husband for a humble and much younger writer, Bill (Scott Freeman). Thematically, this is effortlessly tackled throughout the play, most notably in Mondelli's dialogue. For instance, when referring to the pair of canaries left behind by Eva's ex-husband-to-be Spencer, Nora says to her: "They're birds: they were never meant to be caged." At this point, one can only wonder if it's only the birds she's talking about.

When a time period serves as another character as it does here, one has to expect it reflected in the look and feel of the entire production. As previously mentioned, the set design appeared historically accurate; short of acquiring an actual vintage Frigidaire icebox (which instead was painted onto a sepia-colored backdrop), the bottles of soda and canned goods handled by Eva seemed right out of the period, which added an authenticity to the production. Also adding a '50s touch are exquisite costumes (Nora's shift dresses and stylish trench coat), but also provided some interesting symbolism (Eva's yellow dress mirroring the yellow of the "caged" canaries.)

As for the actors, Lippolis' Eva moves with the grace of a ‘50s-era starlet, She is more than believable for her character's reserved, polite girl-next-door demeanor. In fact, she is perfect: from the way she moves across the room to the way she sips her soda, to even her diction – everything about her seemed like she jumped out of a black-and-white film and into our own Technicolor world. To think for a second that she might be like every tech-savvy twenty-something out there seems just as unlikely as the murder committed out of her window. As her aunt’s young lover Bill, Freeman too seems a man out of time, exuding a presence that recalls that of a young Marlon Brando a la A Streetcar Named Desire. To say that he holds his own against his female counterparts would be an understatement; he gives more to the character than what he has been given, and it is unfortunate indeed that Bill isn't explored more as a character. However, it is Mondelli herself who steals the show with her feisty and fabulous Nora. She has a dazzling presence onstage, as bubbly as the champagne she laps up and at once witty and surprisingly observant.

If you love old movies just as much as Mondelli does, than you'll delight in the subtle references the play makes. However, for fans who not only enjoy period drama, but love to reflect on its history, The Window is definitely a treat.

Human Contact in Internet Age

In the age of Facebook, texting, and Skype, everyone has heard a variation of the following expression at least once: “I prefer to speak to someone face to face rather than through a device.” This statement directly points to the problems of establishing human connections through the use of technology and media. Nevertheless, it is also very common to hear that technology brings the world closer together so that two friends can remain in contact regardless of their years of separation. We Were Nothing!, which was written by Will Arbery (in collaboration with Shelley Fort, Elly Smokler, Emilie Soffe, and Lisa Szolovits) and directed by Lisa Szolovits, avoids a simplistic answer to these judgments. Is that impossibility to communicate or achieve intimacy due to our dependence on technology or to a much deeper human limitation? The play’s references to communication technologies go back to the mid-twentieth century and the use of the telegram, which indicated the end of each sentence with a resounding "stop," and so refuses to accept that this failure to connect is a problem only limited to the Internet age. 

Despite the fact that the separation of the two main characters is at the center of the show, it takes place in a private apartment, managed for the production by Deidre Works (the exact location is confidential until tickets are purchased). The apartment’s living room has a capacity for approximately 30 audience members. This successfully recreates a cozy and intimate space from which to explore the distance between Shelley (Emilie Soffe) and Kelly (Elly Smokler). The comfortable and informal costumes by Clara Fath make the characters belong to that living room, even when they are communicating through technology from distant places. Isabella Byrd's lighting adds to the warmth of the location and at times transforms the living room into a virtual space, such as a switching on of a light which makes an opening on a wall become a computer screen through which the characters are able to Skype. Although the area is small, the actresses’ energetic performance is never restricted by spatial limitations. They jump through a partition opening, reveal a space hidden by curtains, and, one time, leave the performance area for a few seconds. At this point, even if the audience cannot see them, members remain riveted to their vocal presence, a proof of great theater acting.

In the play, Shelley and Kelly are twenty-something women with distinct and truthful personalities, a result of a strong artistic collaboration topped by Arbery’s writing, Szolovits’s direction, and the actresses’ performances.

While Shelley is somewhat insecure, needy, and a bit more open to share her emotions; Kelly is supportive and rather emotionally inexpressive, even when she appears to be outgoing. Both women reveal breakups, discuss a father’s illness, or make fun of past acquaintances by speaking to each other on their cellphones, e-mailing, texting, and Skyping. Yet no matter how many times they “like” one of their photos or comments on Facebook or reveal their fear of growing up through Gchat, each is incapable of effectively responding to the other’s personal questions or observations.  This idea is carried throughout the play and the action leads to their climactic face-to-face meeting. At this point, the play may provide an answer or raise more questions about intimacy and closeness in our world.

Is the inability to connect with each other in the twenty-first century due to the dominating role of technology or because of our human condition? By staging this distance in such a close environment, We Were Nothing! reveals in an entertaining way that the answer to this question may be elusive, yet crucial to each person present in that living room. 

We Were Nothing! will play a four-week engagement from January 17 to February 9, on Fridays and Saturdays at 8:00 p.m. and Sundays at 5:00 p.m. The show will be performed inside a private residence near Union Square. The exact address and directions to the venue will be released only to ticket holders. Tickets are $20.00 and available online at www.artful.ly/store/events/2099.

Black Humor Bonanza

Joe Orton’s plays aren’t done as much as they ought to be, so the Red Bull Theater’s staging of Loot, one of his three masterworks, is welcome indeed. The British playwright might today be renowned for a much larger oeuvre if he hadn’t been murdered by his lover, Kenneth Halliwell, in 1967. John Lahr’s superb 1980 biography, Prick Up Your Ears, told the story of Orton’s life and death; in 1987 it was turned into a film, with a screenplay by Alan Bennett, that made stars of Gary Oldman as Orton and Alfred Molina as Halliwell.

Although Red Bull was started a decade ago to explore the vast repertory of Jacobean plays, in recent seasons the company has drifted away from its original focus, staging Jean Genet’s The Maids and August Strindberg’s The Dance of Death. The current mission, notes artistic director Jesse Berger in the program, is to present “great classic plays of heightened language.” That label encompasses Orton, whose epigrammatic dialogue can rival that of Oscar Wilde or Lewis Carroll in its nonsensical sense, as in this exchange between Fay, an attractive hired nurse, and Mr. McLeavy, whose wife has just died. McLeavy is extolling a planned floral tribute:

McLeavy: It will put Paradise to shame.
Fay: Have you ever seen Paradise?
McLeavy: Only in photographs.
Fay: Who took them?
McLeavy: Father Jellicoe. He’s a widely traveled man.

The loot of the title is from a bank robbery pulled off by McLeavy’s son, Hal (Nick Westrate), and his friend and possible lover Dennis (Ryan Garbayo), a mortician. They’ve made it look like Dennis’s funeral home was broken into by robbers at night and a tunnel dug to the bank next door to rob it. Now the police are investigating, and Hal and Dennis are trying to hide the money from Inspector Truscott, a notorious, brutal investigator who masquerades as a representative of the water board. The ruse allows Truscott to interrogate suspects and poke around homes without a warrant, because the water board doesn’t need a warrant. When Truscott arrives, refusing even to give his name, Mrs. McLeavy lies in an open coffin at home, awaiting last rites; Hal and Dennis are trying to abscond with the lucre; and Fay is planning to get McLeavy to propose to her. Pretty quickly the situation spirals into frantic farce, and the black humor just gets blacker.

Berger’s production has a lot going for it. Westrate and Garbayo are a fine, frenzied pair of criminals, and Rebecca Brooksher’s lethal, gold-digging Fay, though occasionally speaking hurriedly, makes a splendid femme fatale. It’s Jarlath Conroy, though, as the disconsolate, troubled Catholic widower, who makes his part a feast here. Whether he’s appalled to hear Fay’s report of his wife’s alleged religious lapses, or kowtowing to authority in any form, his McLeavy is a delight.

Orton always had a problem with both civil and religious authority. In the early 1960s, he and Halliwell went to prison for defacing library books. In Loot, he gets back at the police by creating Truscott, a great comic bully. Rocco Sisto as Truscott has the dominant role, but in an early preview seemed uncomfortable with his lines, and his timing was off; once he settles in, the production should be sharper. Orton had a classical sensibility and the ability to pile laugh upon laugh; a line like “the theft of a Pharaoh is something which hadn’t crossed my mind” requires precision delivery to garner all the laughs it deserves and yet set up the riotous payoff that follows.

If anything has dated, it’s Orton’s notion of bisexuality. Westrate and Garbayo are fine actors, and both inhabit middle-class characters convincingly, but neither manages to persuade one that there’s heat for each other that outweighs the women they talk about. Orton’s pre–gay liberation sensibility doesn’t provide them much help except to have Hal occasionally call Dennis “baby.” Hal plans to have a heterosexual brothel full of a variety of “birds,” and Dennis has fathered five children. Although Orton was operating under the constraints of strict British censorship, those facts muddy the sexual aspects of the story. Still, under Berger’s direction the farce plays swiftly, and the laughs are plentiful. They can only multiply as things smooth out.

Loot plays at the Lucille Lortel Theatre, 121 Christopher St., through Feb. 9. Evening performances are at 7 p.m. Tuesday and Wednesday and at 8 p.m. Thursday through Saturday; matinees are at 2 p.m. on Saturdays and 3 p.m. Sundays. For tickets, call 212-352-3101 or visit redbulltheater.com. Regular tickets are $60; premium tickets are $75.