Wonderland; Free Fall

When I first mentioned the Wonderland one-act festival to all of you ten days ago, I spoke about the potential of a competition like this, and about the power of a showcase to surprise you. Having just come from the finale, a true show showdown between three playwrights and their assembled directors and actors, I can tell you that the potential is still there, and that at least for Jessamyn Fiore, it's been fully realized. If her darkly comic gem, Sandwich doesn't win tomorrow, I'm going to be terribly disappointed in what this representative portion of America thinks is "good" theater. Thanks to a note-perfect director, Kimberlea Kressal, and a well-ranged cast (the superb Karly Maurer and Dechelle Damien), Fiore has managed to launch lunch (or at least its mundane preparation) into a high metaphor for the entrapment of married life, and the difficult moral ground of adultery. The other two shows hit the far reaches of theater: Farewell Evenbrook is far too normal and forgettable a play, and Indigenous People is so far over the top that it's nothing more than a hideous sketch. Okay, so not every play's a winner: but there's good stuff (like actor Jeremy Ellison-Gladstone or actress Nicole Heriot) to be found in all of them, and yes . . . there's still great potential.

[Read on]

Xanadu

No Krakowski? No out-of-town try-out? Based on a notoriously bad movie? Summer opening? We were convinced this was going to tank! Though the look and vibe of this spoofy romp has much more of an off-Broadway feel to it, this $51-$111 a ticket Broadway mounting is pretty much worth it thanks to Douglas Carter Beane's crispy, tipsy, joyfully sassy book and a cast of hilarious actors who are in on the joke. From the second Kerry Butler delivered her first breathy Olivia Newton John-esqe vocal flourish she completely won over the gays (93.5% of the audience). She was a BLAST! As were Mary Testa and Jackie Hoffman but that's a given. The beauty of this show is that no one is making fun of it more than itself and when the penultimate junction of all art is considered a roller disco there's tons of the-current-state-of-Broadway jokes to be mined. One complaint: You've got one of the hottest guys on Broadway in the gayest show on Broadway- Is it too much to ask to have him take his shirt off at least once?! 93.5% of your audience was counting on it!

The Return Of The Prodigal

photo: Richard Termine

The mission of the Mint is to revive "worthy but neglected" plays and they've this time dug up a particularly lively one, by St. John Hankin, never before seen in New York. An Oscar Wilde-ish comedy that wrings its laughs (and its social observations) out of some of the hypocrisies and class-conscious expectations of Edwardian England, the Mint's production retains the text but re-sets the action in modern times. The result often makes for fun stage business - the layabout, ne'er do well prodigal son of the title wastes his privileged-class time sunbathing in board shorts, one of the daughters entertains guests by playing the guitar, and no one speaks with a British accent, which makes the snooty, voice-of-snobbery character named Lady Faringford seem like something out of Dynasty. But the concept too often hits a wall when the modern-dressed characters behave according to social codes unique to England a hundred years ago. The production is entertaining, but in the end less effective than if it had remained in period, with the audience allowed to find the play's modern relevancy. The members of the ensemble range from very good to exceptional, with the sensational lead performance by Roderick Hill at the very top of the spectrum.

In a Dark Dark House

Ever since doing scene work for The Shape of Things, I've had a soft spot for Neil LaBute, who wrote it, and Frederick Weller, who played "my" part in the movie (and was much better than me). In a Dark Dark House reunites the two for a ninety minute tale of brothers at odds over childhood abuses and adult revenges, and also adds the sweet Louisa Krause, and the smarmy Ron Livingston, whose adorable befuddlement channels very well into the asshole legalese he's given here. Director Carolyn Cantor draws a lot out of the actors, but she also encourages LaBute's exclamatory sloppiness: his need to explain (like a mustached villain to his tight-wearing nemesis) every act of meanness. Luckily, Weller's transformed himself into such an upright yet brutish mid-Western realist that the play maintains a level of subtlety (especially in Weller's sudden dead eyes) and even a glimmer of insinuation. Ultimately, the characters are manipulative, not the play, and the final twists are as well-earned as LaBute's reputation as a prolific playwright.

[Read on] [Also blogged by: David] [Patrick]

Old Acquaintance

photo: Joan Marcus

This chestnut, first on Broadway in 1940 and made into a Bette Davis "women's picture" at Warners soon after, has been given a handsome, well-designed revival by the Roundabout. Two actresses I love (Margreat Colin and Harriet Harris) are in high gear as the competing novelists and lifelong friends whose rivalries come to a head when they're not descending staircases, summoning maids, and mxing cocktails in their fabulously roomy Manhattan apartments. Furs, silk gowns, the works. I was licking my chops ready to eat it all up but the play itself, by the author of Bell, Book and Candle, isn't much of a meal. As a catfight it's barely more than a morsel, and beyond that its main message - that valuable lasting friendship requires tolerance - isn't so tasty when only one of the two characters behaves almost intolerably. Colin's character as written is on the bland side, but it's fun to watch her in '40s heroine mode. (Really, when *isn't* it fun to watch her?) Harris gets all the lip-smacking, showy stuff and she goes as far out there as she can short of chomping at the walls. Chomp away, I say.

Horizon

Full disclosure: I, too, am somewhat of an atheist douchebag, but not enough that I can't appreciate the aesthetics of both David Schweizer's panoramic directing and Rinde Eckert's playful, postmodern prose in Horizon. I think the show loses itself in allegory (the main character writes himself into his own Beckett-like play, only to have a Christ-like revelation and resurrection), but saves itself with its performers, who not only have the right questions about faith to ask, but ask them in the right way, too: a capella, vaudeville, or with a energetic dose of accents. It's nice to see David Barlow after he stole the show in the Fringe's Perfect Harmony, but it's even nicer to hear lines like "the nature of truth is to be despised but indispensable" delivered in all seriousness. My only qualm with Horizon is that despite building (and dismantling, and building again) a pulpit, it never really preaches (unless you count the religious sing-song) with enough force to escape all its clever trappings: consequently, I left the theater talking about the images, not the messages.

[Read on] [Also blogged by: David]
Photo/Carol Rosegg