How Now Dow Jones

It's a mystery what this earnest 70 minute revisal of this dusty old musical is doing in the Fringe: did the York pass? The show was already last-gasp in 1968 when it debuted, a throwback to the template in which every secretary's default dream was to find a husband. Ben West has dug it out of mothballs and done a commendable job of trimming and re-shaping the material, but he's basically spruced up a yellowed museum piece. It's an irrelevant, standard issue musical comedy of yesteryear. Presumably the reason is the show's score (music by Elmer Bernstein, lyrics by Carolyn Leigh) which has more than a couple of square charmers, but since when is the Fringe a try-out for Encores? Undoubtedly there is some appeal in this enterprise for devotees of old musicals, but that enjoyment is likely to be mitigated by the production's lack of attention to design and production value (yes, even by Fringe standards) which summons the feeling of a community theatre rehearsal. In the plus column are the instantly likable and charismatic leads (Colin Hanlon and Cristen Paige) who are so much more skilled and entertaining than all else on stage that I've no doubt I'll be seeing each of them in many other things in the future.

Remission

photo: Inverse Theater

Early on in this intense 90 minute solo show (written and directed by Kirk Bromley) performer Dan Berkey makes hand-to-hand contact with most of the people in the audience. That moment of connection is a shrewd, brilliant move, because it guards against us distancing ourselves once the calm, lucid man we've met transforms into a full-blown schizophrenic. The harrowing, claustrophobic show plays like a series of his psychotic episodes during which we're inside his often incoherent stream of consciousness - it feels like a terrifying, violent freefall into insanity. The playwright has very definitely organized the show into distinct vignettes and themes - a section in which a slidehow of graphic pornography segues into candids of non-sexualized female faces is the most wrenching, while a section where schizophrenia proves helpful for the make-believe needed for stage acting is downright funny. Despite the organization, the playwright has done all he can to erase his hand and let the show feel chaotic and random and the performer convinces at every single moment. The result is a one-of-a-kind, undilluted and unforgetttable trip into the crazy.

Dolls

Reviewed for Theatermania.

A Time to Dance

Photo: Damon Calderwood

In her wonderful new solo show (part of FringeNYC), Libby Skala channels her great-aunt, Elizabeth ("Lisl") Polk, who experienced just about all of the 20th century – both in timespan and in all it had to offer. As Ms. Skala tells it, before becoming a dance therapy pioneer in New York, Lisl grew up in Austria, was sent to Denmark for safekeeping during World War I, contracted and beat tuberculosis, got kicked out of a modern dance studio for the sin of studying ballet, and managed a harrowing (and apparently also magical) escape from the Nazis. That Ms. Skala is a confident and graceful dancer is clear from the nearly constant movement she weaves through the hourlong monologue. But what makes the show such a charming entertainment, aside from the meat of the story itself, is her remarkable skill as a comic actor, and the way character and actor fuse until we just about believe that Lisl herself, thick Austrian accent and all, is before us, telling story after story for us to laugh and wonder at. A Time to Dance is truly uplifting without being at all saccharine, and that is perhaps the greatest miracle of all.

Look After You

photo: Antonio Minino

When you learn early on that the protagonist (played by Louise Flory, also the playwright) has recently survived a brain aneurysm, you might be led to expect a tearjerker of the tv-movie variety. But the playwright isn't exploitative; her thematic focus is more true-to-life and her writing shows more curiosity than that. The play is really about the shifts that occur in the character's relationships after her mortality has seeped into everyone's consciousness. The play does have a sneaking cumulative emotional payoff but it's delicate and unforced. I wasn't totally convinced by the dialogue in the couple of scenes between the play's two male characters - it just didn't sound to me like the way men talk to each other - but the writing is otherwise solid throughout, distinguished especially by a sureness of tone and a keen understanding of the drama that builds incrementally with deceptively small events.

Citizen Ruth

Reviewed for Theatermania.

The Adventures of Alvin Sputnik

Reviewed for Theatermania.

MoM

In this "rock concert musical" (part of FringeNYC), five middle-aged suburban moms form a band for fun, only to be bludgeoned by unexpected success. The concert format, in which the women tell their raunchy tale through songs, narration, and just a couple of dramatic scenes, is both a strength and a weakness; it enables a direct connection with the audience, but the stage set, loaded with instruments and pedals, limits the possibilities for movement and drama. Though some of the cast members are musicians as well as actors, as a band their musicianship is generally hesitant. (It would probably improve with more rehearsal.) This works fine for the first half of the show, when they are meant to be amateurs playing the local high school, but less well later on when they are supposed to be legitimate rock stars. What makes MoM an ultimately winning proposition are certain strong acting performances, especially from Stefanie Seskin and the magnetic Jane Keitel, and the singing. Mr. Caliban can be prone to writing juvenile lyrics of the "some make us happy, some make us sad" ilk. But the hooks and punchlines are infectious and amusing, and the cast executes multi-part harmonies superbly. On a purely musical basis, then, there's much to enjoy in this show, and since it's loaded with songs, it's hard to go wrong.

Willy Nilly

Photo: Ken Stein/Runs With Scissors

The first few scenes of this extravagant musical (part of FringeNYC) promise an amusing send-up of both the hippie generation and the "squares" who feared them. Aiming to skewer the Sharon Tate-Roman Polanski circle as well, the show follows the familiar story of the Manson Family and their eventual victims, but with Charles Manson himself flattened into an evil-free, comic character. By the time the Tate-LaBianca murders and the subsequent trial roll around the play has long since fallen apart. At the climax, intended (I think) to suggest the media frenzy around the trial, characters are desperately leaping about, even undressing, amidst a cacophony from the overly loud band — anything to find a way out. There are some effective comic bits, but neither the mostly solid acting nor the vigorous, clever choreography can save this exercise in futile exuberance.

The Boys Upstairs

photo: Samantha Souza

A "Sex And The City" peopled with martini-swilling gay-fabulous twenty-somethings, Jason Mitchell's The Boys Upstairs could be adapted right this minute into cable TV's next hit series. The three gay male friends of the title are privileged sitcom-ready examples of, to quote the play, "the generation of gays that have had it too easy", but the playwright's clear affection for the characters (as well as endearing portrayals from a group of winning, appealing actors) makes it near impossible to resist them. The well-paced, often hilarious comedy has more heart than might be first thought - its softly-sold message is ultimately about the importance of friendship - and there's something fresh about the play's youthful nothing-to-prove attitude: it's not only post-tolerance, it's post-assimilation.

Mary Stuart

photo: Alastair Muir

Although I never technically wrote a proper review of the Donmar Warehouse's production of Friedrich Schiller's Mary Stuart, which closes at the Broadhurst today after a four-month run, I cannot think of a recent Broadway show more deserving of praise. This past season was a watershed for both original dramas and revivals on the Great White Way, but none came close to moving me, thrilling me, or touching me as this 200-year-old German play about two strong-willed female rulers. Will we ever see the like of Janet McTeer's Mary--proud, fierce, even sexual--in New York again? When was the last time a contemporary actress so freshly and fearlessly embodied a classic role on stage? (Oh, right--it was McTeer herself, in Anthony Page's benchmark production of A Doll's House, back in 1997) Still, even though she is larger than life, McTeer's Mary never overshadows Harriet Walter's elegant Elizabeth I. Watching Walter, I felt both empathy for the hard choices that only Elizabeth could make and the true faith and doubt with which she appeared to make them. Each of the six times I saw the show, the actresses complimented each other beautifully, and I was happy to stand and applaud their joint bow each time. The production itself was smartly directed by Phyllida Lloyd and featured an estimable ensemble that boasted Maria Tucci, John Benjamin Hickey, and the brilliant Chandler Williams, one of the finest young actors currently working in New York theatre. However, the images that will remain indelible to me will always center around the two queens: the one on the throne and the one in the prison cell. Goodbye, Mary Stuart. We truly shall not see your like again.

A Streetcar Named Desire

Photo: Kevin Sprague

Marin Mazzie may seem an unlikely choice to play Blanche DuBois. Mazzie is tall, strong, and sexually confident--not the first traits that come to mind when describing the damaged, desperate Blanche. However, in the excellent production of A Streetcar Named Desire at Barrington Stage Company, beautifully directed by Julianne Boyd, Mazzie makes Blanche her own, using her strengths to make Blanche's unraveling particularly poignant and heartbreaking. Christopher Innvar's fascinating Stanley, rather than a simple animal, is a complicated man whose feelings can be hurt--an interpretation that brings fascinating textures to the play, particularly when Stanley is going head to head with Mazzie's Blanche. Kim Stauffer is superb as Stella, struggling between loyalty to her sister and loyalty to her husband. Considering the many annoying revivals of the classics of the past few years, where the directors were more interested in expressing themselves than respecting the writing (for example, All My Sons and the Roundabout's Streetcar), this production is a particular treat: while done with complete allegiance to the text, it offers a fresh point of view of a sturdy masterpiece.

Viral

Uncompromising, provocative and often bitterly funny, Mac Rogers' Viral is the first must-see of this year's Fringe Festival. In lesser hands the story - of a suicidal woman who consents to let three fetishists videotape her death - could make for nothing more than lurid, soulless shock, but the playwright uses it as a high-stakes example of the potential for dehumanization in both fetish and in Internet culture. The play's suspense, as well as much of its pitch black comedy, comes mostly from the tension of whether close personal contact will thwart the suicide. As with his Hail Satan! two years ago, Rogers approaches edgy relevant topics with a probing intelligence and a wicked sense of humor and the result is an absorbing, thought-provoking entertainment. The cast effectively form a tonally cohesive unit but Amy Lynn Stewart, compelling as the suicidal Meredith, and Rebecca Comtois, vibrant as one of the fetishists, stand out in the show's most pivotal roles.

Fringe Preview '09

It isn't humanly possible to see every single one of the 201 shows in this year's Fringe Festival. That won't stop some of us theatre junkies from seeing as many as we can, hoping that what awaits at the top of the stairs at The Player's Loft is as captivating as Zombie or The Amish Project last year, or that one of the musicals at The Minetta Lane or Dixon Place will be as fresh as BASH'd or as fun as Perez Hilton Saves The Universe from festivals past. Maybe we'll be turned on to a theatre company we didn't know about, as I was when I saw Riding The Bull from the Flux Theatre Ensemble a couple of years ago.

Here's an index of the Q&A's I just completed to preview two dozen of this year's most promising Fringe shows. In addition to these, I'm hoping to also see Esther Steeds, His Greatness, Remission, Citizen Ruth, Alvin Sputnik, Dolls, Some Editing and Some Theme Music, Gutter Star, Complete and Two On The Aisle, Three In A Van.

Quick Q&A: FringeNYC#1 - Dramas Part 1
Michael Edison Hayden, The Books
Daniel McCoy, Eli and Cheryl Jump
Louise Flory, Look After You

Quick Q&A: FringeNYC#2 - Comedies Part 1
Jason Mitchell, The Boys Upstairs
Naomi McDougall Jones, May-December With The Nose and Clammy
Greg Ayers, John and Greg's High School Reunion

Quick Q&A: FringeNYC #3 - Musicals Part 1
Ren Casey, Graveyard Shift
Phil Lebovits, Dancing With Abandon
Ryann Ferguson, VOTE

Quick Q&A: FringeNYC #4 - Dramas Part 2
Monica Flory, Afterlight
Andrew Unterberg, The Crow Mill
Jonathan L. Davidson, Victoria and Frederick For President

Quick Q&A: FringeNYC #5 - Solo Shows
Elizabeth Audley, all over
Matt Oberg, The Event
Libby Skala, A Time To Dance

Quick Q&A: FringeNYC #6 - Musicals Part 2
Paul Schultz, Eat Drink and Be Merry
Ben Knox - For The Love Of Christ
Michael Chartier - Far Out

Quick Q&A: FringeNYC #7 - Comedies Part 2
Erin Judge, The Meaning Of Wife
Jon Galvez, 30 Minutes Or Less
Tim J. MacMillan, Photosynthesis

Quick Q&A: FringeNYC #8 - Dramas Part 3
Nicholas Gray, Population 8
Mary Adkins, The 49 Project
Mac Rogers, Viral

The Bacchae

photo: Joan Marcus

I cannot imagine an actor less suited to the role of Dionysus--the vicious, sexually charged god of wine--than Jonathan Groff. In Joanne Akalaitis' sterile new production of The Bacchae at the Delacorte Theatre in Central Park, Groff cuts an attractive figure in his quasi-Jim Morrison jeans and bejeweled denim jacket, but whenever he opens his mouth to deliver Euripides' poetry, the battle is lost. That almost nothing in this production works is both terribly sad (considering the lack of major classical theatre productions in New York City) and not entirely unexpected, given Ms. Akailitis' history of putting her own directorial intentions above textual accuracy. She has set a large part of the Chorus text (in a new, serviceable translation by Nicholas Rudall) to an original score by her longtime collaborator and former husband, Philip Glass, that lacks any semblance of cohesion or tonality. The Chorus itself, often perched on a set of bleachers that act as the only real set piece, never seem entirely together throughout the proceedings. Among the principle actors, only Joan MacIntosh's Agave approximated the correct tragedian style. Her anguish upon discovering that, under Dionysus' spell, she murdered her own son, Pentheus (Anthony Mackie, still finding his footing), registers as the only truly thrilling moment of the evening.

Note: I attended the first preview of this production, so my opinions reflect something that is obviously still very much a work in progress. However, considering the abbreviated length of the run (it closes August 30), I felt that it was better to publish my thoughts now, rather than waiting until the production officially opens on August 24.

Burn The Floor

photo: Donna Ward

Dancing With The Stars sensations Maksim Chmerkovskiy and Karina Smirnoff may be the "guest stars" (through August 16th) but they have a surplus of what this dance revue otherwise lacks: personality and sex appeal. Certainly there are plenty of talented dancers on stage but the moves rarely allow them to express anything interesting; the show is ballroom dancing as if by boy/girl cheerleading squad: athletic, energetic, soulless. The artless presentation, which includes two generic singers who could easily be imagined working a wedding reception, is Vegas on the cheap.

Wildflower

photo: Joan Marcus

Capping 80 some odd minutes of "Lifetime movie"-sized doings with a "shock" ending (which I won't give away), Lila Rose Kaplan's Wildflower turns out to be a cautionary tale that seems to warn about the danger of not talking frankly with kids about sex. But what the painfully shy new boy in town does to the irritatingly precocious virgin in the play's final scene isn't merely misinformed - it's downright insane. The play's argument makes as much sense as saying that if you don't warn kids to wash their hands they just might stick them in a light socket. Most of the play's action is so bland that there's plenty of time for nagging questions - I wondered how a single mom could afford an indefinite stay at a bed and breakfast with her son on what she makes answering phones in a flower shop. The actors do what they can - Ron Cephas Jones comes off best, and Jake O'Connor is radar-worthy - but the play doesn't do them any favors.

Being Patient

The wordplay in the title of Kelly Samara's engaging one-act isn't just a wee trick; it's an example of the play's wisely crafted language. "Amusement," she philosophizes, is just a cleaned-up word for "distraction." Common words take on entirely different casts when contemplated by a terminal patient confined to a hospital. Ms. Samara trusts the audience to follow her, through words and movement, along her squirming evolution from impatience to eternal Patient. This trust makes the play (which features music and dance as well) an intensely satisfying experience (or "amusement"). So much so that the one time she doesn't trust us – when she concludes a monologue about iguanas and the difference between camouflage and invisibility by stating the obvious – is the one moment she disappoints a little. As part of Manhattan Repertory Theatre's Summerfest 2009, Being Patient ran for three performances only. A powerful and well-tuned fusion of the many talents of a very crafty artist, it deserves further development and a longer run. In any case Kelly Samara has earned some significant attention.

Hey, stranger!

I've gotten a couple of emails asking why I haven't been writing lately. The answer is that I haven't been writing *here*, at Showdown, because nearly everything I saw in July - six plays at the SPF, a couple of workshops, some festival shows - wasn't open for review. I've been writing lots of interviews over at my site in the meanwhile. Once the Fringe Festival kicks up on August 14th, I'll have plenty to cross-post here.

Avenue Q

Close to six years after it opened on Broadway, Avenue Q is in excellent shape. At a recent Saturday matinee, the extremely talented current cast performed with the energy, clarity, and commitment of an original cast in a brand-new musical with critics in the audience. (The current cast includes Robert McClure, Anika Larsen, Christian Anderson, and the ever-delightful Ann Harada.) The show itself holds up very well on repeated viewings: it is clever, heartfelt, and totally enjoyable. The controversy when Avenue Q beat out Wicked for the Tony was odd--it's a better show! Wicked has wonderful moments, and its size is fun, but it also has boring stretches and truly bad songs (particularly the wizard's). In my not-so-humble opinion, the Tony should have gone to Caroline, Or Change, but it makes sense to me that Avenue Q would beat out Wicked. Avenue Q has posted its closing notice for September 13th, which is sad.

West Side Story

I always thought that I liked West Side Story, Leonard Bernstein's once-revolutionary retelling of Romeo and Juliet amongst the gangs of 1950s lower Manhattan. I relished the highly stylized film adaptation as a child, and understood how jarring the original stage production (which starred Chita Rivera, Carol Lawrence and the late Larry Kert--quite the team) was to Broadway audiences at the time. The new production at the Palace Theatre--directed by the original bookwriter, Arthur Laurents, with Joey McKneely recreating Jerome Robbins' landmark choreography--has a strong sterility to it, and I had the feeling that someone unfamiliar with the history of this musical would view this current staging and not understand why the show has become the classic that it is. Part of the reason has to do with some major pieces of miscasting--Matt Cavenaugh is far too old and vocally wrong for Tony, while Cody Green's Riff is about as threatening as a midwestern Sunday School teacher. Even Karen Olivo, who won the Tony Award for her performance as Anita, failed to convey her character's fiery spirit throughout the performance. Only Josefina Scaglione, an ideal Maria, found the perfect balance of beautiful singing and intense acting that this particular show requires. In her hands, the devastating final scene offered the only semblance of the kind of emotion that should permeate an entire production of this musical.

Vanities

Photo: Joan Marcus

What differentiates a period piece from a dated work? At first glance, quality might seem to be the main difference, but it’s not. For example, Getting My Act Together and Taking It on the Road is an excellent show but it is definitely dated. Lack of universality might lend itself to datedness, but the while Moon for the Misbegotten is not universal, it is also not dated. Perhaps being too contemporary is a problem, since some of the most cutting-edge pieces are the most quickly dated, as time blunts their edges. I suspect the answer to the period-vs.-dated question is probably a complex formula along the lines of

“breadth of the moment examined” + “deepness of the examination” - “level of reliance on contemporary signifiers (brands, TV shows, etc)” x “talent and insight of the creator(s)” + "number of years from the present time"

For example, Getting My Act Together examined a particular moment in feminism, and feminism‘s success is one of the main reasons it is now dated, yet A Doll‘s House isn‘t--perhaps because of its underlying themes of loyalty and trust. Also, the Ibsen play is over a hundred years old, allowing the audience distance, while Getting My Act Together is only 30 years old.

The new musical version of Vanities, adapted by Jack Heifner from his 1976 play, is dated. While the ins and outs of friendship and loyalty are universal, this particular story depends on now-cliché tropes that limit its story to a tiny time and place. The new version has nothing new to say, which might be okay if it said the old things better. The three actresses give it their all, and there are moments that work, but mostly it just isn’t particularly interesting. The songs add little to the mix.

Tin Pan Alley Rag

Photo: Joan Marcus

There's not much to say about Tin Pan Alley Rag, written by Mark Saltzman and directed by Stafford Armina. A fictional bio, it suffers from all of the weaknesses of the genre. In particular, there is no plot and no conflict, just Saltzman's idea of what Irving Berlin (Michael Therriault) and Scott Joplin (Michael Boatman) might have said to each other if they had ever met and if they shared the habit of occasionally speaking in blocks of awkward exposition. There are some pleasant moments, particularly when the songs take over, and the highlight is the surprisingly good-sized ensemble performing excerpts from Joplin's opera Treemonisha.

The Europeans

Photo: Stan Barouh

The reliable and important PTP/NYC is currently presenting an excellent production of Howard Barker's The Europeans in rep with Thérèse Raquin. This small epic (not as oxymoronic as it sounds) takes place in Vienna in the late 1600s, following a Turkish invasion and war between Christians and Muslims. Barker practices a "Theatre of Catastrophe" depicting human beings in their most extreme and elemental states following violence, war, and other terrible life-changing events. Well-directed by Richard Romagnoli, The Europeans clearly fits this description, as desperate and deeply damaged people try to find sanity and connection in the ruins of their former lives. (While there is much pain in this play, there is much humor and sexuality as well.) The excellent cast, led by Brent Langdon as the emperor and Aidan Sullivan as a woman who has experienced deep physical and psychological horrors, has only a weak link or two. Mark Evancho's scenery and Hallie Zieselman's evocative lighting manage the miracle of turning a small nondescript performance area into a convent, a palace, and anything else it needs to be, giving the production the sense of space(s) it needs and often delighting the eye.

West Side Story

Photo: Joan Marcus

The production of West Side Story currently playing at The Palace is a mixed bag at best. The concept of having some of the characters speak Spanish some of the time is excellent in theory, but distancing and distracting in practice. (When Light in the Piazza used Italian, it was more or less clear what the people were saying; here, even though I know West Side Story fairly well, it was not.) The casting of Matt Cavenaugh is an astonishing miscalculation; he is wrong for the part in looks, acting chops, and voice (he sounds like he's still playing a Kennedy, as he did in Gray Gardens). When he sings Maria, he seems unaware that Tony is bursting with love and joy. Josefina Scaglione as Maria is much better, but her performance is too small to carry to row T in the orchestra (I can't imagine what people in the sky-high Palace balcony think of her). Director Arthur Laurents' odd choices and sluggish pacing give the audience plenty of time to ponder just how flimsy the storyline is. Boy meets girl, boy kisses girl, boy woos girl, boy kills girl's brother, girl sleeps with boy anyway, boy dies. This supposedly major romance is little more than about a day and a half of hormones, and I don't believe that Anita would agree with Maria that "when love comes so strong, there is no right or wrong"--her boyfriend was just murdered after all. So, what does this West Side Story have going for it? The amazing score, of course, and the choreography, which remains fresh, evocative, and astonishingly beautiful over 50 years after its creation. In clips I've seen on TV, the original dancers come across as more perfectly in sync, but even without Jerome Robbins to abuse them to perfection, the current dancers are still quite good. The scenery (James Youmans) and lighting (Howell Binkley) are beautiful. And Karen Olivo, in her Tony Award-winning turn as Anita, brings energy, charisma, and sheer talent to the show. One final complaint: The sound was uneven, with much of the orchestra coming across indistinct and electronic. Also, remember when you used to be able to tell who was speaking? Well, maybe you don't--you may well be too young.

Tin Pan Alley Rag

photo: Joan Marcus

The situation, which has "The King of Ragtime" Scott Joplin paying an initially desperate but ultimately inspirational visit to songsmith Irving Berlin, is contrived and the dialogue is often clunky. (Here's one groaner: "Maybe you can turn that Tin Pan Alley tin into something greater than gold!") Yet, when he's not heavy-handedly making the case for art over commerce, playwright Mark Saltzman is on to a theme that is hard to resist: art lives longer than the artist. I got a bit misty-eyed at the moment when the play makes clear that Joplin's opera Treemonisha, rejected in the composer's lifetime, finally got its due; I wasn't the only one, judging from the chorus of sniffles all around me. The play's essential argument, that Berlin wasn't a serious artist because he worked within the confines of the marketplace, rings false; it's rather like saying that Hitchcock wasn't a serious filmmaker because he worked in the studio system. Whenever we hear one of Berlin's tunes the man's genius is evident. The play is packed with Joplin rags and Berlin songs, a not inconsiderable pleasure, and the lead actors are hugely engaging. Michael Boatman brings an almost regal dignity to Joplin, as if the strength of the composer's artistic vision has lifted him to a higher consciousness. Michael Therriault brings a gentleness and a likability to flesh out Berlin who, on the page, often comes close to being cold and one-note.

Grease

I caught an understudy-heavy performance of the Grease national tour in Philadelphia and was surprised to find it much more enjoyable than the recent Broadway revival, where the actors seemed forbidden to connect to their crotches. I still mourn the fun, slightly raunchy slice of nostalgia that the show used to be before the phenomenon of the movie - the revised, oppressively "family friendly" book wastes time shoehorning in songs from the movie, and the further the 1950's recede the more the characters are typically played like types rather than like people - but at least the guys I saw in the tour (Mark Raumaker as Kenickie, and David Ruffin as Danny) generated some genuine oool. Other cast stand-outs were Bridie Carroll and Will Blum (as Jan and Roger respectively) and Brian Crum who, as Doody, sings flawlessly and dances like it's opening night. Sorry to say that Taylor Hicks, doing not only his one number as Teen Angel but also, after curtain call, something from his new CD (on sale in the lobby, of course) looked bored out of his wits.

Lavaman

Photo: Kalli Newman

The title character of Lavaman, Casey Wimpee's literally visceral new play, is an animated monster created by Arnie (Michael Mason) for his comic book—or, as he insists, "graphic novel." The live action is interspersed with a number of amusing Lavaman animations, but the one it opens with is the most telling: Lavaman's cartoon bout of painful, multicolored flatulence and diarrhea turns out to presage the play's logorrhea. Told in a series of flashbacks, the story zeroes in on the events leading up to the protracted, violent end of one of the story's three former punk rockers. But unlike the songs the characters listen to and talk about, the play lacks a hook, for all its vehement verbosity and claustrophobic fury. In trying so hard to be provocative, this much too long effort ends up provoking only exhaustion and a mild nausea. Read the full review.

Bird House

Reviewed for Theatermania.

Next Fall

Photo: Francesco Carrrozzini

Writing a play of ideas that features believable characters seems to be one of the more difficult challenges in playwrighting. All too often, the ideas are presented didactically and the characters are reduced to wind-up points of view. In Next Fall, Geoffrey Nauffts manages to avoid these pitfalls, examining a fascinating array of ideas (religion, homophobia, family) through the depiction of authentic complicated people dealing with love, sex, and loss. At the beginning of Next Fall, a few people sit in a hospital waiting room in varying states of stress and fear. As others join them, their relationships to each other--and to the hospitalized person--gradually become clear to us, but not necessarily to each other. Flashbacks introduce us to the central characters--a gay couple composed of a young religious Christian who is not out to his parents and an older atheist who has little patience for closets. Naufft and director Sheryl Kaller are remarkably even-handed in their presentation of the various personalities, allowing each deep humanity and labeling no one as hero or villain. The excellent performances by, in particular, Patrick Breen and Cotter Smith, reveal the characters in all the flawed beauty of real people.

Twisted

Photo: David Anthony

Twisted is an evening of five short and often funny one-acts. In Matt Hanf's Teddy Knows Too Much, the most substantial and ambitious of the plays, the hefty Peter Aguero hilariously deadpans the role of three-year-old Billy, whose toys—a plush bear, a Dick Cheney mask, a rubber duckie—are his only confidantes. The only way he can fight back against his comically insensitive parents is through ever-intensifying mischief. A garden shears, lots of pastries, and a tragicomically misunderstood Salome (the droll Lindsay Beecher) highlight the skit-like pieces that follow. Unfortunately the evening closes with its weakest entry, but overall it's a diverting anthology. Read the full review.

Thérèse Raquin

Photo: Stan Barouh

A woman sits and stares. She is trying to see the river, she explains. We quickly realize that what she is trying to see is something, anything, other than the unexciting life in which she feels trapped. Her cousin, then husband, Camille is sweet but ineffectual. Her aunt is kind but boring. Thérèse feels buried alive. And then she meets Laurent--dashing and sexy Laurent. Based on Emile Zola's novel, Thérèse Raquin combines the sexuality of a potboiler, the eeriness of an Edgar Allan Poe story, and the morality of an old movie, sometimes movingly and sometimes awkwardly. In the small Atlantic 2 theatre, the audience is intimately involved with the dreams, nightmares, and fervid couplings of Thérèse and Laurent. Sometimes Jim Petosa's staging seems hokey, but often it is vividly evocative and emotional. In the second act in particular, the inventive, almost-over-the-top direction uses simple yet intense theatricality to pull the audience into the story. Lily Balsen as Thérèse is always fascinating if occasionally overwrought, and her amazing looks (Frieda Kahlo meets Lena Olin) bring much to her portrayal. Scott Janes is attractive and smoothly charming. Willie Orbison comes across as being as much in love with Laurent as he is with Therese. This is an interesting approach, but it could have and should have been more subtly handled. Overall, it is wonderful that this production of Thérèse Raquin exists. How lucky we theatre-goers are that incredibly talented people are willing to work their butts off for little or no money and little or no acclaim, giving us intense, exhausting, often exhilarating performances for the sheer love of doing theatre.

Perfect Wedding

Photo: Sun Productions, Inc.

No one does bedroom farce like the British, and a fine example just blustered onto the New York stage with the Vital Theatre Company's sharp new production of Robin Hawdon's Perfect Wedding. Bill (the excellent, elastic-faced Matt Johnson) wakes up on his wedding morning in the hotel's bridal suite with a naked woman he doesn't know. Hilarity ensues, and a touching love story too. The effervescent Dayna Graber threatens to steal the show as the wisecracking, mint-popping hotel housekeeper who gets caught up in the proceedings. But Tom (Fabio Pires in a very promising Off-Broadway debut) distracts us with his finely tuned fury upon discovering that Bill's best man is by no means the only role he's destined to play in this careening plot. Teresa K. Pond's sure-handed direction shapes Hawdon's snappy dialogue, slapstick humor, and blurry maze of plot twists into a cheery evening of laughs and good feeling.

The Europeans

Reviewed for Theatermania.

Thérèse Raquin

Photo/Stan Barouh

Neal Bell's brilliant adaptation of Émile Zola's 1867 novel Thérèse Raquin puts a stake through the heart of dry naturalism. With a sense of Ibsen's modernism, he focuses on the stark apathy Raquin feels toward marrying her cousin, Camille ("I can't be frightened to death; I'm already dead and this is hell"), which is all the better for showing her sexual awakening at the hands of the roguish Laurent. Adding to this is Jim Petosa's romantic direction, which finds clever ways to mix such morbidity with dashes of sweetness: ravenous passion, indeed. Much credit to the cast, too: as Raquin, Lily Balsen (like a younger, more innocent Helena Bonham Carter) is haunted by an actual ghost, but what moves us is the way she is haunted by genuine regret. It's a shame that Scott Janes isn't allowed such range, but his Laurent is nonetheless solid, as are the terrific turns of Willie Orbison (Camille) and Helen-Jean Arthur (Camille's mother), both of whom are sharpened by a different sort of passion: rage. It's easy to be poetic, but hard to justify such language, as Thérèse Raquin has done. That's easy to say, but not at all hard to believe for those who have seen it.

[Read on]

Euan Morton at Castle On The Hudson

photo: Juan Jose Ibarra

I’ve been nursing a mad man crush on Euan Morton’s voice ever since he starred as Boy George in Taboo, so I was especially pleased that he opened his delightful set at Castle On The Hudson with that show’s “Pretty Lies”. (Bonus for Taboo fans: Liz McCartney in the audience. See picture.) Accompanied by a single piano, Morton sailed through an eclectic set of songs – the Nat King Cole standard “Smile”, “Danny Boy”, Roy Orbinson’s “You Got It”, the Eurythmics’ “Why”, a song from the musical Caligula - with assured seamlessness, partly thanks to the easy, unpretentious charm of his banter but also thanks to the depth of feeling in each interpretation. I laughed, I cried, I got wood. His voice may be smooth and pretty and his tone sweet but what is especially outstanding about his singing is how much emotion he puts into his interpretations while judiciously maintaining a vocal restraint and a gorgeous tone; it’s not for nothing that he counts Karen Carpenter among his vocal influences. I’m not often a cabaret person, but this was bliss.

Archbishop Supreme Tartuffe

Reviewed for Theatermania.

Telethon

Photo: Carl Skutsch

Three residents and two staffers of a group home for the disabled coalesce into a bickering but affectionate "family" in this witty and entertaining one-act. On some level, as playwright Kristin Newbom demonstrates, the disabled and the staffers aren't so different. The cast shines, Ken Rus Schmol directs smoothly, and Kirche Leigh Zeile's costumes are hilarious. But the real star of this show is the sparkling script. Ms. Newbom has a surefire sense of rhythm. Watching this Clubbed Thumb production is like listening to a brilliant piece of music executed with precision and filled with surprises, funny, touching, and sometimes both.

Arcadia

Tom Stoppard can be a problematic playwright. While his brilliance is undeniable, his shows can be tough slogs through encyclopedic swamps of (not always compelling) information. However, Arcadia, arguably his masterpiece, boasts a perfect balance of math, history, satire, love, sex, compassion, humor, ego, and witty repartee. It demonstrates, in a fascinating, funny, and heartbreaking three hours, that humans' ability to understand anything (particularly each other) can be severely limited by their circumstances, prejudgments, and, well, humanity.

The plot can't really be done justice in less than a few hundred words, but, in brief: Arcadia takes place in the same room in the early 1800s and the late 1900s. In the early 1800s, the gawky, insatiably curious, child genius, Lady Thomasina, is being tutored by Septimus Hodges, who is smart enough to recognize her genius but not quite smart enough to understand her discoveries. In the 20th century, academicians are trying to understand the people in the 19th through the clues/detritus they left behind: notebooks, poetry, blueprints, letters. Multiple assignations are carried out, much plotting is done, discoveries--correct and incorrect--are made, and enough funny lines are said to fill a dozen plays written by ordinary mortals (for example: "Her chief renown is for a readiness that keeps her in a state of tropical humidity as would grow orchards in her drawers in January").

The recent production of Arcada at the Folger Shakespeare Library in Washington, DC, did full justice to this wondrous work. It would be lovely if someone brought it to New York.

Paved Paradise Redux

Reviewed for Theatermania.

Twelfth Night

Sign me up as a member of the Twelfth Night fan club. It's a magical evening in a magical setting.

Nothing Like a Dame

Photo: Walter McBride/Retna Ltd

The yearly benefit for the Phyllis Newman Women's Health Initiative, Nothing Like a Dame, hit a new high this year. In the past, Nothing Like a Dame featured dozens of women; this year, the focus was on only six, but what a wonderful six! Stephanie J. Block, Betty Buckley, Andrea McArdle, Audra McDonald, Bebe Neuwirth, and Kelli O'Hara were interviewed by the always-funny Seth Rudetsky, who knows how to listen (a surprisingly rare trait among interviewers). Each woman then sang a song or two. In an evening made up almost totally of highlights, the staggeringly talented Audra McDonald stole the show with her effortlessly lovely rendition of "Bill." Keep an eye out for this wonderful yearly event--rarely in life can one have such a great time while supporting a good cause.

Things of Dry Hours

Photo: Joan Marcus

The plot of Naomi Wallace's Things of Dry Hours does not stand up to examination--actually, the word "flimsy" comes to mind. The characters are odd amalgams of traits, inconsistencies, and political stances. But the plot and characters are sturdy enough to support Wallace's beautiful language and thought-provoking ideas, Ruben Santiago-Hudson's pleasingly theatrical direction, and a couple of superb performances. In brief: a white man with dubious motives forces an African-American father (the superb Delroy Lindo) and daughter (the equally superb Roslyn Ruff) to take him in after he (maybe) commits a serious crime. The father is a Communist and uses the forced proximity to the white man to try to win him over to the cause. The daughter is smart and angry and at loose ends. The white man is lonely. Stir in some magic realism, racial tensions, a few not-terribly-convincing plot points, and genuine emotion, and you have a deeply flawed but excellent evening in the theatre.

Twelfth Night

Though only a week into previews, Daniel Sullivan's fun, fluid and refreshingly traditional production of Twelfth Night, or What You Will stands as one of New York Shakespeare Festival's most satisfying productions of the past decade. It may come as a surprise to some that Anne Hathaway, playing the lovelorn lady-in-disguise Viola, has stage presence to spare, but she makes one of the most assured Shakespearean debuts I've ever seen. It will come as no surprise that Audra McDonald is an ideal Olivia--her aloofness opening up into positive glee upon meeting Viola, dressed as the page Cesario--or that Raul Esparza registers deeply in the usually one-note role of Duke Orsino. The heart and soul of the production, however, are the brilliant comedians: Julie White's lacerating Maria; Jay O. Sanders' uproarious Toby Belch; David Pittu's hilarious (and remarkably sung) Feste the Fool; and, in what may be the comic performance of the season, Hamish Linklater as the blithering, clueless Sir Andrew Aguecheek. A word to the wise: if you want tickets, I'd start queueing at the crack of dawn. This is going to be a huge hit.

The Wiz

photo: Robert J. Saferstein

The tornado-sized vacuum at the center of this Wiz is pop star Ashanti, a pretty, pleasing-toned singer who has been pitilessly stunt-cast as Dorothy. From her first scene you slump in your seat and settle in for a long evening - she doesn't have the training to even make calling after Toto believable. It isn't that the role absolutely requires a skilled actress - undertrained teens have done all right by it with little more than thoughtful pretending in the past - but it does need energy and heart, and Ashanti hasn't been urged in that wide-eyed direction. (An understatement; after The Wiz rewards Lion, Scarecrow and Tin Man but comes up empty for Dororthy, Ashanti has been directed to plead "What about me?" with the outraged indignation of an entitled teen rather than with the fragile anxiety of a child.) With a void where its heart should be the musical, one slice after another of 70's black-tastic retro, can't amount to more than concert and dance pageant. As such it has two enormous virtues in its favor - the strength of the City Center Encores orchestra, and Andy Blackenbuehler's electrifying, often thrillingly inventive choreography. To my mind, Blackenbuehler is one of the most interesting and exciting of the newer choreographers and a lot of his work here wows. Not all, however - the production, with a playing area cramped by the on-stage orchestra and a not especially useful unit set, relies almost entirely on Blackenbuehler for its spectacle and "less is more" comes to mind. I assume that Blackenbuehler is responsible for having the performers repeatedly "Ease On Down The Road" mostly up and down the stage rather than across, a very curious choice that halts any illusion of an ongoing journey.

Stunning

Reviewed for Theatermania.

Musicals in Mufti

With the spring 2009 edition, the York Theatre's Musicals in Mufti series continues to delight and amaze. The Muftis are five-performance staged readings of forgotten and/or neglected musicals. In the tiny York Theatre, with no scenery, minimal costumes, one piano (occasionally two), wonderful unmiked voices (occasional exceptions), and superb casts somewhere between on-book and off-book, the Muftis are intimate adventures in raw talent. Past highlights include 70 Girls, 70 (with Jane Powell, Helen Gallagher, Mimi Hines, George S. Irving, and Charlotte Rae!), Cyrano, Enter Laughing, Lucky Stiff, and my particular favorite, Carmen Jones. This season started with The Grand Tour, Jerry Herman's stab at a serious musical, in which life-threatening events are bizarrely alternated with the usual, generic, cheery Jerry Herman songs. Jason Graae's wonderful performance made it well worth seeing, and hearing James Barbour sing unmiked in a small theatre was a treat. The second show, High Spirits, was a total delight, with Howard McGillan, Veanne Cox, Carol Kane, Kristen Wyatt, and, in particular, Janine LaManna as good a cast as one could ask for. Coming up is Knickerbocker Holiday.

Someone In Florida Loves Me

photo: Sue Kessler

A short-notice reunion between two somewhat estranged friends - Annie (Lisa Louttit), living in depressing squalor in a Brooklyn boarding house, and Nicole (Ana Perea), a chatty flight attendant on a layover - brings tensions slowly to the surface in this low-key but mostly credible play by Jane Pickett. Although the playwright (who also directs) means for Annie to be shut down - she even has Nicole sprawl "Annie-body home?" on the bathroom mirror - the character is a bit too blank on the page, and an essential, late-in-the-play interaction with an unnamed third character (played by T.M. Bergman) isn't convincingly written. But the bulk of the play, in which the two women slowly recognize their distance from one another, is involving and sometimes affecting. Ana Perea is attention-getting as the fully fleshed-out Nicole, and especially scores with her tightly written exit monologue.

Groundswell

Photo: Monique Carboni

Ah, the strangeness of New York theatre. On Broadway, God of Carnage, a faux-meaningful piece of nasty fluff, in which the highlight is on-stage vomiting, walks off with a couple of Tonys. Off Broadway, Groundswell, a flawed but intense, compassionate, thoughtful, and thought-provoking drama, sells discounted tickets and may well vanish into the theatre ether with barely a ripple. It's not fair. Of course, the unfairness that South African playwright Ian Bruce examines in Groundswell is of a more serious sort: the unfairness of racism, of lack of opportunity, of ignorance, of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Groundswell takes place in post-Apartheid South Africa. Thami (Souleymane Sy Savane), who is black, works in a lodge and sends money home to his family, who live in a tin-roofed shack that is freezing in cold weather and searing in hot. His dream is to make enough money to be able to live again with his family in reasonable comfort; he is willing to work hard to make his dreams come true. Johan (the amazing David Lansbury), who is white, is an ex-cop, a deep-sea diver who has been injured by the bends, and an alcoholic. He dreams of a big win that will allow him to have a huge farm and never have to deep-sea dive again. Smith (Larry Bryggman), who is white, is a financially-comfortable widower roaming the country since he no longer has his job, which was given to a black man after Apartheid ended. His dreams are mostly in the past tense; right now, he just wants to play golf. One foggy evening, the three men end up as the sole inhabitants of the lodge, and their personalities and pasts clash as they fight to make their dreams come true. This very-well-acted show is unfortunately not well-directed. Director Scott Elliott must have been glued to the center of the second row during rehearsals--in much of the rest of the theatre, it is often difficult to hear and see what is going on. Significant exchanges are lost with actors facing upstage or standing in each other's way or simply speaking too softly. Other, less important, flaws include a slow start to the show and a certain "by-the-numbers-ness" to the plotting, but they matter little next to the vivid depiction of what a lack of options can do to people, particularly men, when they reach the end of their ropes.

Preview: Twelfth Night

It was only the second preview performance of this Shakespeare In The Park production yet it's obvious it's going to be a huge crowd-pleasing hit once word is out. In other words, go sooner rather than later because by the end of the run you'll need to get on line at the crack of dawn for tickets. It may be too early to properly review the show, but I'm comfortable saying that the performances are delightful: Anne Hathaway, who seems entirely at ease with the text and who gets to sing one of the production's handful of songs, is thoroughly beguiling as Viola; her scenes with the wonderful Audra McDonald as Olivia, who falls madly in love with Viola when disguised as her brother, are a real kick and are the show's comic highlights. That's saying a lot, with brilliant comedy talents like David Pittu and Julie White also on stage as well as a quirky-funny turn by Hamish Linklater as the foolish, cowardly Sir Andrew. Raul Esparza, Jay O. Sanders, Michael Cumpsty and Stark Sands round out the principal cast.