Bethany

Bethany begins with Charlie (Ken Marks), a third-rate motivational speaker, practicing his spiel in the mirror. "And I'll tell you one thing about [your] higher power," he says. "He wants you to be rich. Rich beyond your wildest dreams."  In the next scene, Crystal (America Ferrera), a young woman in a suit and red spike heels, lets herself into an empty (she thinks) house. A single mother who lost custody of her daughter after losing her job and home, Crystal wouldn't agree with Charlie. Not at all.

When Crystal discovers that the house is occupied by Gary, a sort-of-crazy, sort-of-savvy, sort-of-likeable sort-of-vagrant, she enters into an uneasy alliance with him. He takes the upstairs, she takes the downstairs, and they agree not to bother each other. Next we find out that Crystal is now working at a Saturn dealership, where she is desperate to close a sale. Who should walk in but Charlie, showing great interest in the various cars, and even more interest in Crystal?

Tobias Segal, America Ferrera
Photo: Carol Rosegg

Bethany, written by Laura Marks and directed by Gaye Taylor Upchurch, is a study of various sorts of neediness, and its examination of the clash between individual responsibility and an uncaring society has strong moments. But the show frequently gets in its own way. The biggest problems are these: 1. The way Charlie is written and played, Crystal would see through him quickly, no matter how desperate she is. 2. Crystal would never stay with Gary when she knows there are dozens of empty houses in the neighborhood from which to choose.

There is also a lack of attention to detail that seriously messes with suspension of disbelief. For example: In this deserted house, shortly after meeting Gary, who could be a murderer for all she knows, Crystal turns her back on him. And: After specifically saying that she cannot afford dry cleaning for her suit, she proceeds to sit on the floor and eat a hamburger, unwrapped, without changing her clothing or using a napkin or showing any concern for how greasy and drippy hamburgers can be. And: She would never tell Charlie that the car he's considering could get him laid under the circumstances in which she tells him just that. And: Early on, Gary mentions that the electricity could go out in the house at any time; this should be a major source of tension but it is completely forgotten.

Ultimately, with the help of a smart performance by the likeable America Ferrera, Bethany manages to do an effective job of showing how the lack of money and power can strip someone bare emotionally, psychologically, and morally. But I think it could have been devastating.

(press ticket, second row center)

Clive

Clive, written by Jonathan Marc based on Baal by Bertolt Brecht, and directed and starring Ethan Hawke, is yet another tale of a male artist so charismatic and tortured that people line up to be fucked or fucked over by him. As is true of most stories of this sort, it is unpleasant, frustrating, annoying, and boring. It also depicts all women as weak idiots (some of the men at least get to be strong idiots). Clive sleeps with his producer's wife, seduces a friend's girlfriend out of her virginity, and says things like, "My insides are on the outside. My intestines are stuck to my chest and my veins are on my skin."

It may be that Clive is supposed to limn the dog-eat-dog mundanity of human society or reveal artistic self-destructiveness or something else equally meaningful, but it comes across as a lot of posturing and blah, blah, blah. Clive is reasonably well-directed and well-acted, but, really, who cares?

Mahira Kakkar, Stephanie Janssen, Ethan Hawke
Photo: Monique Carboni

(press ticket; 7th row center)

Fiorello!

Kate Baldwin

Fiorello!, the 1959 Pulitzer Prize-winning musical, requires a lead actor full of energy and charisma. In the current revival at Encores!, Danny Rutigliano, while likeable and physically appropriate for the role, is only Fiorello and not Fiorello! 

In fact, most of the evening lacks its exclamation mark. Emily Skinner and Erin Dilly surprisingly don't quite land their songs, and Jenn Gambatese's annoyingly hard work adds up to little. The choreography is okay at best. Perhaps most significantly, the edits to the book remove any chance of real emotional investment.

Luckily for the audience, however, the evening includes an excellent male chorus singing "Politics and Poker" and "Little Tin Box" plus Kate Baldwin's ravishing "When Did I Fall in Love."

(orchestra side section, first row; ticket was a gift)

All the Rage

In his one-man show, All the Rage (directed by Seth Barrish), playwright-performer Martin Moran shares his intimate exploration of the sometimes-thin lines between hatred and love, victimhood and survival, and anger and compassion. Part yarn, part philosophy, and part show-and-tell, All the Rage takes us from New York to Las Vegas to South Africa and introduces us to people as varied as a somewhat wicked stepmother and an amazingly resilient victim of torture.

Moran is a charming performer and a likeable man, and he knows how to tell a story. His style is reminiscent of Spalding Gray's in terms of tone and the way he meanders back to where he started--except that it's not quite the same place anymore. In contrast to Gray, however, Moran is all over the stage, dashing and jumping from here to there to show us maps, photos, and other memorabilia of his journey. It's possible he and director Barrish got a little carried away with their quest to provide the audience with visuals--the show would have been fine with a slightly less frenetic presentation. But that's a small complaint: All the Rage is smart, fascinating, funny, and frequently moving.

Collision

A young man dances energetically in his dorm to the music his iPod feeds into his ears. Another young man sneaks into the room and puts up posters of Che and Kurt Cobain. The first young man doesn't notice him. The moment isn't convincing--it's an unlikely setup. In itself, this incident would be no big deal, but when it turns out to be one of the better parts of the play, we have a problem.

Nick Lawson, James Kautz
Photo: Russ Rowland

Lyle Kessler's Collision, currently receiving its premiere in an Amoralists production, examines how lost people can find each other and how a charismatic person can lead others astray. However, since neither the people nor the setups are remotely believable, or particularly compelling, Collision is ultimately about how even excellent theatre companies can have bad days.

Amoralist productions generally sizzle with human foibles and desires. Their shows, many by resident playwright, Derek Ahonen (The Pied Pipers of the Lower East Side, Happy in the Poorhouse), combine highly entertaining, heightened, almost cartoony acting with an unerring sense of the absolute messiness--and wonder--of human existence. Usually, Amoralist productions, even when being totally unrealistic, are somehow true. Collision is a major exception to this rule.

In Collision, ostensibly smooth-talking Grange can convince people to do almost anything, as when he cajoles Doe, with whom he has just had sex, to go to the next bed and have sex with his roommate. Or as when he convinces that roommate to beat up someone he barely knows. The plot, such as it is, comprises a series of such incidents interspersed with "meaning of life" conversations and speeches, such as, 

This Meteor changed the course of life on this planet. One Species disappeared and another Species emerged. We emerged in all our multi colored brilliance. If that Meteor had not plunged into the ocean at that particular Time and Place, we would not exist. We would not be here at this moment discussing the Relativity of Being. So the question we are addressing today, the question I put forth today is the following...Is that Meteor, was that Meteor, God? Or was it just a random collision, a throw of the Celestial Dice?

Since the title of the show is Collision, this speech is likely thematically significant, but it doesn't matter if what transpires is God's work or a throw of the Celestial Dice. It's still boring. Oh, and unpleasant.

The show is not helped by the usually excellent James Kautz's lackluster performance in the central role of Grange. For this play to have any chance of working, Grange must be the ultimate salesman. He must be compelling, charismatic, fascinating. He must spin his verbal webs gracefully; he must entice others to enter his web voluntarily, even enthusiastically. Kautz does none of this. Granted, the writing is weak, but with some energy and personality, Kautz could have given the production a desperately needed center.

It feels unlikely that the Amoralists--and in particular, Krautz--would make these particular mistakes. Is Collision's flat falseness deliberate? Perhaps, but why?

(fifth row center; press ticket)

The Mystery of Edwin Drood

If silliness can be an art form--and I believe it can--then The Mystery of Edwin Drood is an artistic triumph. From the pre-show call-and-response to the audience-chosen denouement, this musical play-within-a-play version of Dickens' unfinished novel is delightful. 

Will Chase, Stephanie J. Block
Photo: Joan Marcus

It's 1895 London. Edwin Drood and Rosa Bud are engaged to be married, but is their romance what it seems? Edwin's uncle Jack is a respected choirmaster, but is he what he seems? And what about the opium dealer Princess Puffer? The Reverend Crisparkle? The orphaned Landless twins? What exactly is going on here?

Because Dickens died before finishing the book, that last question is unanswerable. Nevertheless, with the audience's help, The Mystery of Edwin Drood answers it, while also providing ear-pleasing melodies, wonderful performances, dreadful puns, intrigue and disaster, and a fabulous kick line. The cast is game and energetic, and their clear love of the show is contagious. Stephanie J. Block does well by her various roles and nails her 11:00 number. Jessie Mueller and Andy Karl are polished, elegant, and sly as the Landless twins. Peter Benson's sheer likeability is equaled only by his talent. Will Chase and Betsy Wolfe are both a tad too hammy for my taste (and that's saying something in this ham-filled show) but effective nevertheless. Chita Rivera was out, and while Alison Cimmet lacks star power--and is too young for the role--she pulled it off with flair. By the time she sang "The Garden Path to Hell," the audience had forgiven her for not being Chita.

Another of Drood's many delights is the breathtaking scenery. From street scenes to parlors to a graveyard, the audience is presented with a luscious tour of late-19th-century London. Every time a curtain goes up, the audience is given another visual treat. I imagine (and hope!) that designer Anna Louizos has a Tony in her future.

One criticism must be voiced: at least 50% of the lyrics are indecipherable as sung. When I saw Drood at its first preview, 80% of the lyrics were indecipherable, so I guess this is progress. And, amazingly enough, the show survives this major flaw. But I certainly expect better of a Broadway show.

(press ticket; third row on the aisle)

Parsons Dance

A screen filling the back wall of the stage springs to life with vibrant video footage of the Everglades and other South Florida parks. Voices speak of nature, honoring nature, the importance of nature, the meaning of nature. It feels like a National Geographic documentary. Then a dancer flows on stage, arms beckoning, and seems to entice an on-screen alligator from stage right to stage left. The effect is playful, with a hint of magic. A line of performers snakes (alligates?) across stage, echoing the alligator's vertebrae. The interactions continue. Then one of the dancer appears, startlingly large onscreen, and others as well.  As we see sunsets and waving reeds, egrets, herons, anhingas, woodstorks, ibis, and hawks--and more giant humans--the performers evoke, complement, and imitate nature, all the while playing with size and movement. In one particular case, a performer does a pas de deux with herself in a multimedia duet for one.

Dawn to Dusk
Photo: Eric Bandiero

Commissioned by the Wolf Trap Foundation for the Performing Arts, David Parsons' new piece Dawn to Dusk is a beautiful and enjoyable ode to nature, but perhaps not a totally successful dance piece. The video often overwhelms the dancers, and the switch to Miami at the end, going from the lovely music of the aptly named Andrew Bird to the timba of Tiempo Libre, along with the switch to quick-cut eye-assaulting video, is painfully jarring. The contrast between nature and nightclub may make some sort of point--or not--but as choreography it doesn't cohere. And yet much of the piece is wonderful to watch.

Parsons' 2005 piece Wolfgang, to music by Mozart (natch), is a complete delight, a totally satisfying piece of Parsons-ania (Parson-age?). His trademark playfulness is perfect for this riff on relationships, and the piece is in turns coy, seductive, and funny. The choreography feels colloquial, as though the dancers are talking to one another--and to us--in the familiar vernacular of romance. Parsons' frequent focus on hands and arms adds to the beauty and the meaning of the piece. It's as though the dancers' bodies tell the story and their arms and hands provide the boldface and italics and punctuation. It's a wonderful effect. The lighting by Howell Binkley frames and focuses the piece perfectly, forming a significant part of the choreography.

The evening's other premiere, Black Flowers, choreographed by Katarzyna Skarpetowska to anguished music by Chopin, provides a sharp emotional contrast to Parsons' work. She utilizes much floor work and a unique, uncomfortable choreographic vocabulary that is evocative, painful, vivid, and, to me at least, not much fun to watch.

The other two pieces are Parsons' ever-exhilarating Caught, a magical tour de force that everyone should see at least once a year and his joyfully exuberant In the End.

The troupe is consistently strong and beautiful to watch, and their stamina makes Olympic athletes look like wimps. They are Eric Bourne, Elena D'Amario, Lauren Garson, Abby Silva Gavezzoli,
Christina Ilisije, Jason MacDonald, Ian Spring, Melissa Ullom, and Steven Vaughn.

(press ticket, row N)

The Other Place

Even as the audience finds their seats at Manhattan Theater Club’s presentation of The Other Place, the juxtaposition of human strength and fragility and the whisper of the bridge between, sits in elegant contradiction on the stage.  In dusk-like shadow Laurie Metcalf as Juliana, a neuromedical researcher turned drug therapy shill, meditates in a chair. Her erect posture and cross-legged position emanate businesslike certitude: here’s a woman who knows her place in the world.

Or does she? Like the simple but symbolic set’s multitude of white-framed windows stacked erratically against one another (designed by Eugene Lee and Edward Pierce)— a giant Jenga game waiting to topple over—the audience, as well as Juliana, soon recognize that memory can also unexpectedly and easily unravel, leaving even the most confident persona in confused pieces.

What makes playwright Sharr White’s storytelling so compelling, and sometimes also frustrating, is the nonlinear unfolding of Juliana’s situation. When Metcalf finally rises from her seated position, she offers a hint of the problem as she begins talking about her first “episode” during a presentation about a patented protein therapy she helped create. As Juliana narrates her power point to an invisible St. Thomas crowd of doctors, she tells the theater audience about a bikini-clad woman at the conference and the caustic remarks she inflicts on her from the stage. Does Juliana mock her because of the youth she represents? Does the hate generate from her own husband’s philandering? Or is it something more?

Intercut with Juliana’s presentation, we see her interact with a lost daughter, she recently and awkwardly, re-connected with, spar with a young doctor she thinks incompetent, and argue with a husband who insists he’s not unfaithful nor is he divorcing her. The Other Place makes its audience uncomfortable—not just because it ultimately addresses the terrible result of dementia, but as Juliana grows more befuddled, we do, too. The barrier between what’s real and what’s invented memory perplexes us and reminds all of the precarious nature of the things that make us ourselves. Metcalf, who also appeared in last spring’s MCC Theater production of the play’s Off-Broadway premiere, shows Juliana as the bristly and sarcastic person dementia created, while subtly hinting at the charm and wit overshadowed by the disease.  The rest of the cast support Metcalf beautifully, with Daniel Stern as her husband, Ian, and Zoe Perry, Metcalf’s real-life daughter, playing several roles, including the prodigal daughter and a nicely rendered turn as a kind stranger. Although the play’s end mimics a Lifetime television, disease-of-the week movie, with its pat-like finale, The Other Place still resonates with the very real sadness of someone coming undone  (TDF ticket, mezzanine).

The Other Place

The Other Place, which ran last spring at MCC and which opens tomorrow night on Broadway at MTC's Friedman Theatre, has been described as a "psychological thriller" and a "dark comedy." It struck me as neither. The mystery at the center of the play--the relevance of the woman in the yellow bikini that the main character thinks she sees during the first episode of dementia she experiences--takes its time unfolding, but hardly in a "thrilling" sort of way. Rather, The Other Place creeps up on you, building in ways that are at once enormously compelling and increasingly uncomfortable, before reaching a gentle, sad conclusion. As for "dark comedy"? Um, no. Sure, there were some light moments, and some very funny asides. But more often than big collective chortles were inappropriate ones emanating from solitary members of the audience at jarringly weird times. The Other Place is a highly disorienting play made up of increasingly uncomfortable moments where laughter would help, but isn't encouraged by the playwright, performers, or director.

But I suppose marketing the show this way would be utterly disastrous. And that would be a shame, because The Other Place is worth seeing: it's tightly written by Sharr White, beautifully acted by a small and deeply committed company, and directed with cutting insight by Joe Mantello.

It is also about dementia, which is no secret, but which isn't easy to sell to the masses, either. We all have our stories, don't we? The ones about family members, friends, or loved ones who, sometimes very quickly and sometimes at a snail's pace, descend into a sort of twilight of the mind that initially creeps around the edges ("What day is it?")  and ends up taking over completely, in the most painful and disturbing of ways ("Who are you, again? My husband, you say?"). The subject has certainly been tackled before, in various entertainment forms that range from absurdist and slapsticky (Where's Poppa?), to mawkishly sentimental (Driving Miss Daisy), to heartbreaking.

Full disclosure: I found The Other Place to be an excellent example of the heartbreaking variety, which doesn't necessarily mean that you will, too. Sometimes, art is all about what hits you, and why, and when; timing, here, is of the essence. I've watched a number of older family members slide into dementia in the course of my life, and am in the process of watching it again. My personal experience has thus caused The Other Place to stay with me in a way that it would perhaps not have a year ago. But then, I suppose this applies to just about everything we see and interpret.

Seeing and interpreting are central to the show, which jumps around in time and shifts from scene to scene in terms of perspective, mood, and allegiance to characters. The exceptional Laurie Metcalf plays Juliana Smithton, a biophysicist in her early 50s who is married to a successful oncologist (the surprisingly nuanced Daniel Stern), works for a pharmaceutical company that (cruelly, ironically) sells a drug that aids with dementia, and has deeply conflicted feelings about her daughter, with whom she has had no contact for a decade. Onstage before the house opens and there until the curtain call, Metcalf does an exceptional job of depicting a terse, caustic, highly efficient woman who slides suddenly--and with terrifying rapidity--into a dementia that makes her worse in every way: she becomes disoriented and aphasic, delusional and paranoid. She also becomes viciously nasty, snidely condescending, and shrilly combative, to the point where you might ask yourself--as I did midway through the show--why we should even bother with such a character.

But that's what dementia does, and the play follows the twists and turns of the disease and its impact on Juliana and her husband bravely and without a lot of pandering to the audience. It is a testament to all involved with this production that by the end of the show, Juliana--along with the circle of characters who suffer along with her--earns our understanding, our support, our sympathy.

She also makes us question our own hold on reality. Are the scenes we are being shown actually happening? Is what we are left with at the end of the play true at all? Is the scene, for example, where Juliana sits on the floor being fed Chinese food taking place where the production is telling us it is taking place, or is Juliana in a nursing home being fed something much blander by a kind orderly? The more I think about The Other Place the less I am sure about any of it.

The fact that I began to cry at the curtain call last night surprised the hell out of me. I was drawn in to the play deeply enough that I didn't think much about my emotional reaction to it until it was over. And, to reiterate, the sorrow that the play has left me with is not just about the play itself. But then again, the fact that The Other Place--for all its twists, turns, and slightly inaccurate marketing descriptions--shook me as deeply as it did is perhaps the most superlative praise I can give a production and the people involved in it.

Ode to Anticipation

Vivien Leigh, Robert Taylor
Waterloo Bridge

When I was a kid, Sunday was one of the highlights of my week because it included the Sunday NY Times Arts and Leisure section, with its robust and exciting theatre section. On particularly good weeks, my parents would be in the mood to drive the two miles to the store that had the Sunday Times on Saturday night. That was a real treat.

I remember leafing through the Times in the store to make sure that every section was there. Well, maybe not every section--I probably wouldn't have noticed if the business or cars section was missing--but the big three: Arts & Leisure, Book Review, and the Magazine.

I remember learning how to handle the large pages, folding them just so. I remember the smell of the paper. I remember the feeling of the ink on my hands. I remember calling friends because, oh, Debbie Reynolds was going to be in Irene or Colleen Dewhurst was doing a show.

Similarly, I remember the excitement when the TV guide was delivered. If Waterloo Bridge or Kings Row was on at 2 a.m. a week from Wednesday, I'd have all that time to look forward to seeing it. My parents would get me up in the middle of the night--even on a school night--because who knew if we would ever get a chance to see it again?

I wouldn't go back. I love having the world at my fingertips. I love knowing that someone is going to be in a show practically before they do. The ink from the newspaper made me sneeze. I'm glad I don't kill so many trees. I love that I can watch Waterloo Bridge any time I want to.

But I miss anticipation.

Last year I went to Madagascar, and toward the end of the trip I ran out of books to read. I had brought six paperbacks, but I had read them all in various planes and airports and lodges and tents. Where we staying had one book in English: The DaVinci Code. I had read it, and once was more than enough. So, for about 30 hours, I didn't have a book to read. That's a long time for me. The only other time I can think of, I was in the hospital.

I knew that I would be able to get a book or two on the way home, when we had a layover at the Johannesburg airport, which has a lovely bookstore. I can't tell you how much I looked forward to that bookstore. When we finally got to the airport, I practically skipped there. It felt wonderful to leaf through various books with their worlds of possibility. (I wanted to stroke the covers, but I didn't want to get arrested in South Africa.) I bought Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern and The Empty Family by Colm Tóibín. I read the entire The Empty Family on the way home, and loved it.

When I told people this story, many said, "Why didn't you take a Kindle? Then this would never have happened." But that misses the point. Doing without for a whole 30 hours didn't kill me, and when I did get my hands on some books, it was a flat-out joy. Anticipation enhanced the experience.

I'm tempted to do a "things were better in my days" rap now, but that's not the point either. The access to art, information, books, words, the entire world, is wonderful. But I do believe that young people nowadays, in being given so much, have been denied the deep pleasure of anticipation.

Show Showdown's Most Read Stories of 2012

In 2012, Show Showdown published 146 total posts. These twenty were the most read--or at least the most-clicked-on. I have tried to find a theme, but with no luck. Broadway, Off-Broadway, Off-Off-Broadway, and regional theatre are all represented. Some are positive reviews, some quite negative. Some shows were reviewed on Show Showdown more than once, but only one review made this list--not necessarily the first review, not necessarily the review written by a particular writer. Six of the shows are musicals; one is about musicals; and one is a cabaret performance. Six shows were revivals.

I guess the only theme is that our readers have catholic tastes.

1. Les Miserables (Eastlight Theatre in Illinois; Jamie Fuller)
   
2. "Hard Times: The Adult Musical in 1970s New York City" (Liz Wollman)
   
3. Fort Blossom Revisited (2000/2012) (Wendy Caster)
   
4. Venus in Fur (Liz Wollman)
   
5. Annie (Liz Wollman)
   
6. Judy Kuhn at Feinstein's (Wendy Caster)
   
7. Nice Work If You Can Get It (Aaron Riccio)
   
8. Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (Wendy Caster)
   
9. A Streetcar Named Desire (Wendy Caster)
   
10. Don't Talk to the Actors (Wendy Caster)
    
11. Menders (Wendy Caster)
    
12. A Man of No Importance (Wendy Caster)
    
13. Rock of Ages (Liz Wollman)
    
14. Disaster! (Wendy Caster)
    
15. Clybourne Park (Wendy Caster)
    
16. Wendy Caster's 2012 Top Ten (Wendy Caster)
    
17. How I Learned to Drive (Liz Wollman)
    
18. Other Desert Cities (Liz Wollman)
    
19. DEINDE (Wendy Caster)
    
20. Red Dog Howls (Wendy Caster)

To Spoil or Not to Spoil: A Discussion

An interesting thread on critics and spoilers on All That Chat got me thinking. As a theatre blogger, I've already thought about the role of a critic quite a lot, as discussed here. One conclusion I've come to is that I'm a reviewer, rather than a critic.  (An interesting discussion of the difference can be found here. Based on this differentiation, I think Michael Feingold is the only true full-out theatre critic we have right now, and it remains a sin that he doesn't have an unlimited word count for his writing.)

The Critic from The Critic

As for the spoilers discussion: I completely do not understand why people can't just label spoilers as such. It's such an easy thing to do.

But, of course, reader self-protection is also important. For example, if you don't want to know the ending in advance, don't read John Lahr's reviews (though, of course, he's no longer writing them, which is not a huge loss). And if you really don't want anything spoiled, don't read any reviews or articles before seeing a show. Save them for afterward.

A personal bugaboo is when the one-line descriptor of a show or movie is in itself a spoiler. For example, a friend of mine was reading a book, and I said, oh, that's her AIDS book, right? And my friend actually started yelling at me, because the main character's illness had not yet been diagnosed, and I had taken away the surprise. But I had no idea it was a spoiler--I hadn't read the book, and it was referred to all over the place as a book on AIDS.

I personally don't like even hearing, "Oh, you'll love the twist." It changes how I view things. I recently read a book about which I knew nothing, and every twist and turn was a complete delight. If I had read even the first line of most reviews, I would have been denied much of that delight.

Ultimately, it's hard to write about anything without, well, writing about what you're writing about. Sometimes too much will be said. But, where possible, segregating spoilers into one part of the review and labeling them as spoilers is a form of customer advocacy I can live with.

Fun Home

One show I accidentally neglected for my top ten list was Fun Home.* This amazing musical version of Alison Bechdel's brilliant graphic memoir, by Jeanine Tesori and Lisa Kron, was one of the best new musicals I've seen in years and years. I hope it gets the full production it so richly deserves. And I hope it happens soon, before the cast's amazingly talented young people--in particular, Sydney Lucas as Young Alison--outgrow their roles.

Sydney Lucas sings a song from Fun Home at the Public Theatre Block Party
Photo: Simon Luethi

*I didn't review it because it was a workshop, so it didn't show up on my list of shows I saw this year.

Wendy Caster's 2012 Top Ten

One of the luxuries of being a blogger rather than writing for a publication is being able to pick and choose what shows to see. Because I get to focus on plays that interest me or are written by playwrights I admire or feature actors I like, I enjoy/am impressed by a high percentage of pieces that I see.

Becky Byers, August Schulenburg
Photo: Isaiah Tanenbaum

Which is why I have a top 15 this year (which actually includes 18 shows total). For me, 2012 was another rewarding year in New York theater.

And, once again, most of these wonderful shows are not Broadway shows. Even in 2012, people still write about what's wrong with theatre when they're actually discussing what's wrong with Broadway. High ticket prices, stunt casting, endless revivals, safe choices: these are all Broadway issues.

Off-Broadway and Off-Off-Broadway are fairly exploding with innovation and talent. And tickets are inexpensive to downright cheap. At $18, which is a common cost for an OOB show, you could see seven productions, in excellent seats, for the price of one ticket to Mary Poppins--and still have money left over for a movie.  

The list is in alphabetical order.

1. Antigone: Extant Arts Company's shattering production.
   
   
2. Court-Martial at Fort Devens: A clear, efficient, and devastating courtroom drama.
   
   
3. Disaster!: The laugh per minute ratio at Seth Rudetsky's musical take-off of disaster films was off the charts.
   
   
4. Flux Theatre Ensemble: Hearts Like Fists; Deinde: I imagine that at some point Flux will produce a dud, but it hasn't happened yet!
   
   
5. The Great God Pan: Amy Herzog covers familiar territory and makes it fresh and heartbreaking.
   
   
6. Honeycomb Trilogy II and III: Blast Radius and Sovereign:  Mac Rogers gives us meaning, feeling, compassion, humor, and giant bugs. What more could one ask for?
   
   
7. An Iliad: A one-man tour de force that shows how little the human race has learned over the centuries.
   
   
8. The Mikado: With Kelli O'Hara, Victoria Clark, and Christopher Fitzgerald, this Mikado was one of those evenings that makes a person feel unbelievably grateful to be alive and in New York.
   
   
9. Once: Sweet, delicate, and lovely--and rollicking!
   
   
10.  Slowgirl: Subtly acted, beautifully written--I hope someone brings this back for a longer run.
    
    
11. This Is Fiction: Can a family survive the truth? It's a question that was asked in many plays this year, but This Is Fiction provided a unique, quietly realistic, and convincing exploration of the answer.
    
    
12. Tribes: Playwright Nina Raine brought us right into the life of a deaf young man in a clueless family.
    
    
13. Triumphant Baby: In a just world, Lorinda Lisitza would be a huge star.
    
    
14. Vanya and Sonia and Masha and Spike: Christopher Durang channels Anton Chekhov and, well, Christopher Durang in this hysterical satire with a heart. Kristine Nielsen’s Maggie Smith imitation is itself worth the price of admission.
    
    
15. Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf: Who knew that there was yet more to get out of this classic play?

Volpone

Four hundred years after it was written, Volpone remains a delight. Volpone is a con artist, and his con is simple. He lets it be widely know that he is dying--and choosing an heir--and the pigeons line up eagerly with expensive gifts in hopes of being his chosen one. Although playwright Ben Jonson saw Volpone's victims not as pigeons but as carrion birds, naming them Voltore (the vulture), Corbaccio (the raven), and Corvino (the crow), pigeons they are, letting their greed blind them to their own idiocy.

Stephen Spinella, Tovah Feldshuh

What could be more timely? From 1606 to 2012, the goal of the grifter continues to be getting the pigeon to want to give away her money. Bernie Madoff didn't recruit his victims. Instead, they practically begged him to be included.

But where Madoff and his victims are just depressing, Jonson's characters are deliciously larger-than-life in both their cupidity and their stupidity, and their machinations are silly and entertaining. In Red Bull's rollicking production, the reliable Stephen Spinella gives us a cheerful Volpone, happily reveling in his tongue-lolling rottenness. And among the excellent supporting case, Rocco Sisto and Alvin Epstein stand out for the vividness of their creations. The efficient direction is by Jesse Berger, with set design by John Arnone, costume design by Clint Ramos, lighting design by Peter West, choreography by Tracy Bersley, and original music by Scott Killian.

It's difficult to say whether it is wonderful or depressing that a play from 1606 remains so apropos, but it is easy to say that this is a Volpone worth seeing.

(press ticket; fifth row on the aisle)

Antigone/Progeny

The ambitious Extant Arts Company recently presented two shows in rep: Sophocles' Antigone (translated by Sarah Sharp with Extant Artistic Director Greg Taubman) and Taubman's Progeny, a present-day take on Antigone focusing on a law that would require women to undergo transvaginal ultrasounds before having abortions. Both plays were directed by Taubman and performed by the same group of actors.

Russell Jordan

Extant's Antigone was top-notch, hard-hitting, and smart. In addition, its sung, choreographed chorus interludes provided a taste of what Antigone might have been like in Ancient Greece and were considerably more entertaining than the usual chanting. Allison Brzezinski's choreography managed to seem both ancient and new, and Shane Parks' music (nicely played by violinist Teresa Lotz and guitarist Aden Ramsey and sung by the chorus) was attractive and accessible. (On the downside, it was sometimes hard to discern what the chorus was saying.)

Antigone's main strengths were Taubman's direction and the superb performances of Pëtra Denison as Antigone and Russell Jordan as Creon. They came across as fire and ice, with Denison's Antigone passionate and intense and Jordan's Creon so calmly sure of himself that he rarely bothered to raise his voice. Brandon Tyler Harris was touching as Haemon but less so as Ismene and Eurydice. I understand that having the main actors perform multiple roles reflects the ancient tradition, but I wish that women had played those roles.

Pëtra Denison

This Antigone built relentlessly to its shattering conclusion. I have never been so emotionally involved in a Greek tragedy, including various big-deal Broadway versions with big-deal Broadway and West End stars.

Progeny was considerably less successful, although not uninteresting. Taubman would have been better served by a director other than himself to help trim the script and fix the play's rhythms.

Progeny's performances were good but not great. Quinn Warren as the Antigone figure and Tony Neil as the Creon character both lacked the gravitas necessary for a tragedy. Russell Jordan, Pëtra Denison, and Brandon Tyler Harris were effective as the media chorus.

Antigone and Progeny together displayed Extant's many strengths and fewer weaknesses; I look forward to seeing more work by this company.

(press tix, second row on the aisle)

Show Biz (Book Review)

In Ruby Preston's likeable but awkwardly written novel Show Biz, theatre critic Ken Kantor's suicide sets off shock waves that eventually change the lives of nasty producer Margolies, his ambitious assistant Scarlett, her rich friend-with-benefits Lawrence, arts editor Candace Gold, and gossip columnist Reilly Mitchell. With frequent hat-tips to current Broadway shows and people--Reilly Mitchell sort of equals Michael Reidel, Margolies' newest spectacle features as many flying effects as Spider Man, and so on--Show Biz offers some of the fun of gossiping about theatre with a new friend. And Preston knows how to keep the plot moving along.

However, the book reads like a rough draft. Moods change too quickly; there are inconsistencies in characterizations; and the obstacles that keep boy and girl apart are contrived. Sometimes the writing is simply illogical--for example, we are supposed to believe that "no one remembers" that Candace Gold and Margolies were married, even though both are famous and it's interesting gossip. And Scarlett doesn't own a computer.

Even worse, Preston's writing is sloppy on a line-by-line basis--and drowning in cliches. For example:

• "Writing a musical was deceptively easy."
  
• ". . . his words cut her to the bone."
  
• "He didn't want to face his marquee just then, though he could feel the glow of it beating down on the back of his neck."
  
• "Margolies saw red."
  
• "The intern craned his head . . ."
  
• "He said with a twinkle in his eye." (This character's eyes twinkle and twinkle and twinkle.)
  
• "Here, here!" (When "hear, hear" is meant.)
  
• ". . . overlooking street and sky . . ." 

The infelicities are not infrequent; in fact, they appear on pretty much every page. As a result, Show Biz  is only a somewhat fun read. If Preston had done a few rewrites, with a strong editor, it might actually have been a good book.

(press copy)

A Civil War Christmas

I wanted to like A Civil War Christmas almost as much as it wanted to be liked. Playwright Paula Vogel's sincerity is quite apparent, as is director Tina Landau's creativity. But this tale of Christmas Eve, 1864, tries to accomplish so much that it ends up accomplishing too little.

Alice Ripley
Photo: Carol Rosegg

Its very concept works against it: presenting the Civil War in story theatre form with frequent singing of Christmas carols, and including a huge swath of the people of the time, from slaves to free blacks, poor people to wealthy, illiterate to well-educated, soldiers to generals to the president of the United States and his wife Mary. Its an ambitious concept, but also a scattered one.

While many of the characters would seem to demand our interest (a lost girl, a Quaker soldier, a dying soldier, Walt Whitman, the Lincolns, etc, etc), they come and go so quickly that it's hard to care about them. Everyone plays multiple roles, and it occasionally takes a moment or two to figure out which character is being depicted in a particular scene--and then the scene is gone (there are over 60 scenes!).

And while it's a sweet and playful conceit to have men play women and vice versa, it adds to the general sense of confusion and lack of focus. Add to this the singing and the tropes of story theatre (people talking about themselves in the third person; people narrating what other people are doing; a man playing a cutesy horse; the aforementioned multiple casting), and the stories are diluted and interrupted further. (On the other hand, much of the singing is lovely.)

The cast is largely strong, although not all of them are easy to understand, and some are more effective as some of their characters than as others. They include Sumaya Bouhbal, K. Todd Freeman, Chris Henry, Rachel Spencer Hewitt, Antwayn Hopper, Amber Iman, Jonathan-David, Karen Kandel, Sean Allan Krill, Alice Ripley, and Bob Stillman. (If you'd like to see a trailer for the show, click here.)

(press ticket; 6th row center)

Hearts Like Fists

The Flux Theatre Ensemble continues their hot streak with the delightful Hearts Like Fists, currently at the Secret Theatre one subway stop into Queens. Three masked crime fighters, all women, have rid the city of all of its murderous miscreants save Dr. X, who expresses his hurt and anger at being rejected by killing cuddling lovers in their sleep.

Becky Byers, August Schulenburg
Photo: Isaiah Tanenbaum

Author Adam Szymkowicz has written an extremely funny script that alternates long lyrical monologues with staccato noir-ish one-liners. It's both poignant and hysterical when Dr. X, speaking of his long-lost love, explains, "And we drank and we drank and we went to my place and we made love like normal people." And then there's this exchange, between a cardiologist with a (literally) broken heart and a cheery femme fatale:

PETER: When they saw you, I felt all their hearts stop for a second. They all skipped a beat. Something about your eyes or your lips or the way you walk. Something about your shoulder or your hair or the color of your skin. Something inside you, just below the surface: a musical, a roller coaster, a sledgehammer.

LISA: I used to work in construction, but too many men fell to their deaths.

PETER: What do you do now?

LISA: They pay me to stay away from all the construction sites in the city.

PETER: They pay you not to work?

LISA: It‘s not fulfilling.

This is dialogue that could easily be overdone, hyper-camped-up, but director Kelly O'Donnell keeps the goings-on at exactly the right level of restrained insanity. The physical comedy is brilliant, thanks to O'Donnell and fight director Adam Swiderski. I won't give any examples--they would all be spoilers--but I will tell you that the audience laughed pretty much continuously throughout the fight scenes.

And then there is the amazing cast. The wonderful playwright August Schulenburg gives a perfect performance as Dr. X, making him both creepy and perversely likeable. His sister Marnie Schulenburg is also excellent as the femme fatale, a woman who wants to be appreciated for how she looks and for what she accomplishes. Susan Louise O'Connor's open-mouthed crying is brilliant;  Becky Byers, Rachael Hip-Flores, and Aja Houston kick ass as the crime fighters; and Chinaza Uche is sweet at the doctor who wants to save the world.

A couple of teeny-tiny complaints: the music before the show is annoying and doesn't set the right tone, at least to my middle-aged ears, and it's close to impossible to understand what the DJ says. And maybe the show could be tightened a bit. But, again, these are just details. All in all Hearts Like Fists is fabulous and smart fun.

(press ticket; second row center)

The Great God Pan

There is nothing new under the sun, yet a truly excellent playwright can make a familiar story new and vivid and surprising and heartbreaking. And Amy Herzog is a truly excellent playwright, as shown by her new and vivid and surprising and heartbreaking play, The Great God Pan. Focusing on such well-worn themes/topics as childhood abuse, the fragility of relationships, whether to have children, and the power of denial, Herzog compassionately depicts the  cost of being human and how a seemingly happy life may turn out to be built on shaky foundations. She also shows how easily we can all misunderstand one another. And how being honest is not an easy goal. And she does this all amazingly economically--it's a short play.

  
(Note: although I saw an early-ish preview, I am reviewing this now because I paid for my ticket and because I want to give you as much opportunity as possible to get tickets!)

Jamie's career as a writer is moving along. He has a wonderful girlfriend, Paige, and odd but loving parents. His life is not perfect, but it is good. And then his girlfriend gets pregnant, and he is faced with his ambivalence about the future.  Also, he has coffee with an old friend--and suddenly he has to reevaluate his entire life. Paige too has to deal with life-changing decisions and realizations, and must also face the limits of her ability to help people as a social worker.

The Great God Pan has seven characters, which is not a small cast in these financially tight days. The story could have been told with fewer people, but much would have been lost. The play has an airiness, an ability to breathe, that gives it more humanity than a tightly measured three-person play might have had. It's a sad and beautiful play, with no heroes or villains--just painfully human humans.

Herzog has been gifted with an excellent director, Carolyn Cantor, and a superb cast. In particular, Jeremy Strong depicts Jamie's unraveling subtlety yet vividly; you can almost see him age in the short time period of the play. The rest of the wonderful cast comprises Keith Nobbs, Sarah Goldberg, Becky Ann Baker, Peter Friedman, Erin Wilmhelmi, and Joyce Van Patten.

As I write this, it has been announced that Herzog won the New York Times Outstanding Playwright Award for her play, After the Revolution. I wish I could go back in time and see it.

(member ticket; first row audience left)