The Gershwins' Porgy and Bess

I think we're well past spoilers on the plot of Porgy and Bess, but at the climactic point of the play, at which Porgy (Norm Lewis) has pulled a knife from his leg-brace and stabbed his crass rival Crown (Phillip Boykin) to death, the point at which he shouts, to his beloved Bess (Audra McDonald) that now she has a man, I started cracking up. I wouldn't read too much into this, or Diane Paulus's direction, as I was the only one in the theater to do so, but it left me puzzled as to why so many people have talked up, if not this production then at least the history of, Porgy and Bess.

But I don't care about the racial elements nor the wishy-washy religion (I almost lost it during "Oh, Doctor Jesus," too): not when I'm struggling with the ambivalence of the inhabitants of Catfish Row, South Carolina, ciphers of people who happen to sing very high and very low notes. I've never felt so disconnected from the emotions of a musical's characters. I longed for supertitles, groping as I was for some of the words sung in that super-high register or lost within the keening, dissonant chants of the community. I ached, too, for some sort of synopsis that might explain what I'd clearly missed, what with the irreverent presence of the devilish Sporting Life (David Alan Grier) and abrupt deaths of lovers Clara and Jake (Nikki Renee Daniels and Joshua Henry). 

Rather than critique -- honestly, there are people who prefer this type of artificial musical to the honesty of Once? -- it's safer to say, instead, that this medium of storytelling just isn't for me. Beyond Ronald K. Brown's lovely choreography, Porgy and Bess is just a lot of noise, with no soul or real substance to glue it all together.

Blast Radius

Photo/Deborah Alexander

This engaging work from Gideon Productions taps into the themes of humanity that made Mac Rogers's previous foray into science-fiction (Universal Robots) so compelling, and is both a heartbreakingly bleak look at our rebellion and, like third-season Battlestar Galactica, a useful mirror in understanding the nature of terrorism. (Humanity's last chance is to gather fifty-one suicide bombers in an attempt to topple one of the massive hives of the alien invaders.)

Although there's no need to have seen Advance Man in order to enjoy this sequel, those who have will appreciate all of the distress set designer Sandy Yaklin has put into this once-charming home in Coral Gables, FL, as well as the murkier lighting that Jennifer Linn Wilcox has brought to the clandestine meetings occurring there. Those just tuning in, however, will thrill to see the evolution of these characters. The Honeycomb's ambassador, Conor (Jason Howard), has now fully acclimated to his human body, putting his newfound appreciation of "individuality" to the task of loving, body and soul, his fellow human ambassador, Abbie (David Rosenblatt). Meanwhile, as Conor grows more human, mourning the illness afflicting his proxy (and Abbie's actual) mother Amelia (Kristen Vaughan), Abbie comes across as a spoiled brat, abusing his powers in the hopes of squashing the futile resistance he believes (correctly) his sister Ronnie (Becky Byers) to be mounting, convinced that humanity will only be saved once it no longer exists -- i.e., once it has been assimilated into a beautiful, ever-loving, single mind. As for Ronnie, her teenage rebellion has blossomed into a fully justified war, one in which she no longer has to stand alone, well-matched as she is by the wisdom of her co-leader, Shirley (Nancy Sirianni), and the strength of her beloved Peck (Adam Swiderski).


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(Press ticket)

Court-Martial at Fort Devens

Court-Martial at Fort Devens, by Jeffrey Sweet, tells the true story of a group of African-American women who joined the women's army corps during World War II to be trained as medical assistants, only to be assigned to washing floors and toilets due to a white officer;s racism. The women went on strike; most returned to work when ordered. Two, however, decided to take their chances with a court-martial. (I don't know how much theatrical liberty Sweet took with the story; I do know that the version he tells is convincing.)

Nambi E. Kelley
Photo: Gerry Goodstein

Sweet tells the story efficiently and cleanly, ably juggling the events and characters. Mary Beth Easley keeps the machine of the play moving smoothly, provides focus where focus should be, and guides the performers into an impressive ensemble.

The play shows us many brands of heroism. Ginny (beautifully played by Nambi E. Kelley) is a no-nonsense women who cannot back down from what she believes. She's genuinely frightened but moves forward anyway. In contrast, Johnnie Mae (the charming Eboni Witcher) doesn't frighten easily--Ginny describes her as someone who would jump into a pool without checking if there's any water--but she is fully aware of the risk she is taking. The two female lieutenants, Lawson, white (Emma O'Donnell), and Stoney, black (Gillian Glasco), display the heroism of self-control, of putting up with mistreatment now to achieve important goals later. Both O'Donnell and Glasco are superb, subtly revealing the three-dimensional women beneath the discipline and repressed anger.

Watching Court-Martial at Fort Devens is frequently painful and infuriating, and it stays with you. Since seeing it, I've been thinking about the myth of post-racial America. I've been thinking of how far we've come, with a largely well-integrated military. I've been thinking of how far we still have to go, with the Trayvon Martin tragedy being only the most recent proof that America is far from post-racial. I've been thinking of my parent's neighbor, who is incensed at the very idea of a black president. I've been thinking about who the heroes are, and who the villains.

Court-Martial at Fort Devens tells an important story, and the pain of watching it is well-mitigated by the pleasure of the writing, direction, and performances. It's only running through April 1st. If you are interested in serious theatre, it's a must-see.

(press ticket; first row)

The Maids

Ana Reeder, Jeanine Serralles
Photo: Carol Rosegg

In Jean Genet's intense one-act, The Maids, Claire and Solange are in service to a frivolous woman who treats them with a false bonhomie; she believes she is a generous and kind mistress, but she is self-centered and unaware they exist outside of her needs. The sisters express their repressed intelligence, energy, imagination, and anger in sadomasochistic play in which one sister plays "Madame" and the other her servant. The Maids is loosely based on a true story, and in response to the accusation that maids "never spoke like that," Genet said, "If one put one's ear on their heart, they would hear that, more or less. One must know how to hear what is not articulated." However, just as we don't really hear the ocean when we put a shell up to our ears, Genet didn't really hear the maids. What he did hear, I suspect, were his own thoughts and desires, which The Maid expresses with a clarity both compelling and fevered.

In the Red Bull production, the three-woman cast consists of Jeanine Serralles and Ana Reeder as the sisters and J. Smith-Cameron as Madame. All three are vivid and excellent. Dane Laffrey's fine set is boxed in, with two-foot-high walls and audience on all four sides. Director Jesse Berger has the women use the space as a combination of jail cell and boxing ring, and the viewers end up as voyeurs as much as theatre-goers.

Genet also said, "I go to the theatre in order to see myself, onstage . . . such as I wouldn't know--or dare--see or dream myself, and yet such as I know I am." In The Maids, we see a version of him, and it is an intense, disturbing, and often fascinating ninety-minute view.

(press ticket, first row, quotes from program)

The Lady from Dubuque

There's much to appreciate about the message at the muscular heart of The Lady from Dubuque, particularly David Esbjornson's fluid staging, the ease of which only serves to cast the two visitors with more menace. (Ever seen the film Funny Games? It's a bit like that, in that the calm veneer simultaneously masks and reveals the horror.) And Signature Theatre's revival boasts a terrific ensemble: not just the deeply wounded Hayden, utterly relaxed Alexander, scene-stealing James, and mighty Robins (who one can easily imagine doing true justice to Wit), but also Thomas Jay Ryan and Catherine Curtin as an annoyingly meddlesome couple. (It's much harder to get a read on C. J. Wilson's brutish Edgar and his more-than-a-floozy girlfriend, played by Tricia Paoluccio.) But much of the show's second act revolves around blind hysterics and an unfocused script that makes the first act's fourth-wall-breaking winks seem out of place. Albee notes that he lets the characters speak; perhaps he should have stepped in as an editor, then.

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My Occasion of Sin

(Caveat: at the performance I saw, not one, but two, women crumpled plastic bags on and off for the whole 100 minutes. They were really annoying, and they made it impossible to concentrate fully. So take this review with however many grains of salt you consider appropriate.)

  Rosebud Baker, Scott RobertsonPhoto: Ben Hider

In Monica Bauer's well-meaning but not-quite-successful play, My Occasion of Sin, it's 1969 in Omaha, Nebraska. George Hollewinski, a Polish musician and music teacher, hires Luigi Wells, an African-American drummer, to teach at his store. George's wife Helen is glad that George is finally acknowledging the existence of rock and roll, but wary of Luigi. Mary, a young student of George's, is thrilled to put down the accordian and pick up the drum sticks, cheerfully eager to disprove Luigi's belief that drums are not for girls. The four people's needs, desires, assumptions, and even innocence rub raggedly together, sending up dangerous sparks in a world about to explode.

The play also has a fifth character, Vivian, an African-American girl in her early teens who doesn't interact with the others, speaking to the audience directly.

Using actual events and people as her inspiration, Bauer works hard to present a complex situation where good people can unknowingly be bad and even people who strive to be better can end up destroying what they want to build. The problem is that her characters are not real enough to support this level of ambition. The wife Helen, in particular, consists of traits that never cohere into a breathing person (it doesn't help that actress Janice Hall has not found a way to give her depth). It's also impossible to accept that Mary could be as completely innocent/oblivious as she is--though she is in other ways a wonderful character, beautifully acted by Rosebud Baker. George (Scott Robertson) and Luigi (Royce Johnson) are more believable; Bauer has given them more depth, and the actors do much to bring them to life.

And then there's Vivian, who exists unmoored in the play. She comes onstage, she talks, she leaves. On, talk, off. On, talk, off. We eventually find out who she is and where she fits in, but for most of the play, her lack of grounding is disturbing. However, Danielle Thompson's performance is amazing; she develops Vivian fully, tells stories well, and brings everyone she talks about to life.

Director Hill unfortunately lets the pacing lag, particularly between scenes; after the fifth or sixth scene change, the musical intervals become irksome. Hill's blocking is also problematic; in certain scenes, particularly between George and Helen, the characters seem unanchored, with no physical reality. The set, by Roman Tatarowicz, is attractive, but may contribute to the lack of context. On the other hand, the projections, by Kevin R. Frech, work well, adding a sense of the bigger issues and concerns.

I feel a bit churlish in this review; there is good work in this show, and a great deal of talent. But the whole is less than the sum of the parts.

(press ticket, sixth row on the aisle)