The Glorious Ones

Photo/Joan Marcus

I'm a sucker for commedia dell'arte: Lynn Ahrens could've written nothing more than the simple lazzis (sight gags) that John Kassir pantomimes as the flatulent Dottore or the deep-seated emotion of Natalie Venetia Belcon, as Columbina, and I would have cracked my way through this show. But with the addition of a subdued but rich score by Stephen Flaherty and the comic direction (and choreography) of Graciela Daniel, and thanks in no small part to the novel by Francine Prose from which this was adapted, The Glorious Ones is so much more than the crude "one hand on the crotch, one hand on the heart" that it sings about. Instead, it aspires to answer "What is life but the beauty of improvisation?" and seeks the heart of all artistic endeavors when the stubborn and narcissistic leader of the troupe, Flaminio Scala (Marc Kudisch), clashes with his surrogate son, the harlequin, Francesco Andreini (Jeremy Webb) over the presentation of their work. I couldn't say how historically accurate it all is, but the characters give a plausible rise and a real humanity to stock characters that generally just traipse around the stage with little thought or consequence to their pratfalls. Here, the falls are more serious, and they are well chronicled in the mournful "My Body Wasn't Why" or "I Was Here," just as they are earlier laughed about in the self-deprecating "The Comedy of Love" and foreboding "The Glorious Ones." Great art may love to fail, but it doesn't have to, and The Glorious Ones is a real hit.

August: Osage County

*****

Imperial

(now in previews)

I agree emphatically with Modern Fabulosity's rave of this "magnum opus". This intense, fiery, very funny, enormous play about an Oklahoma family falling apart is the best I have seen in years. Like seriously. The amazing Deanna Dugan, playing the drugged up matriarch, carefully stomps up and down the stairs in her pajamas and shreds all those who venture too close in this, the new great female role in American theatre. The three story house is loaded with sweaty relatives- each with baggage of their own- holding court on fold out couches and air-mattresses as they try and sort out the dilemma of "Where's Daddy?" and about 1000 other issues the clan is dealing with. This production was 3 hours and 20 minutes and there was not a single moment where I was watching the clock. This play needs to be seen and if Playwright Tracy Letts, Dugan and Amy Morton (the level headed drunk daughter) aren't at the very least nominated, then the Tonys are a lie.

The Runner Stumbles

TACT's revival of Milan Stitt's 1976 play The Runner Stumbles has not aged well. It's no longer racy enough to tackle the real issues with the church (Doubt) or even to question the solitude of its priests (100 Saints You Should Know). The murder trial that frames this "illicit" affair between a nun and her priest is shakily conventional, and stilted, too, and the procession of ghost-like memories that haunt Father Rivard from his jail cell is far too orderly to shake things up. That's not all a terrible thing: Stitt's play is more suited toward contemplative soul searching, and his best moments are those that match Rivard's unstinting intellectualism against Sister Rita's practical interpretations of the Bible and Mrs. Shanding's deep-seated emotional beliefs. (No surprise, either, that these are the strongest actors of the bunch.) But proselytizing without passion can only go so far, and the reliance on rote and repetitive learning (we see the same scenes in the past that we hear confessed to in the present) never affords us the deep connection we see from theater.

[Read on]

Die Mommie Die!

***

New World Stages

Finally I have seen Charles Busch onstage in drag. I am an official New Yorker now. This old-school satire lampooning the cinematic melodramas of yesteryear features Busch as the sinister(?) matriarch of a dysfunctional Hollywood family. At times gut-bustingly hilarious and at others a bit tedious and wordy, the script sometimes gets bogged down in a little too much exposition and explanation. The magic of this production lies not only in the naughtiness (a Chad Hunt sized suppository. HA!) but in those campy comedic flourishes that come in the form of an evil backwards glance or a panicked breakdown after a well placed slap across the face. This production was most entertaining when Busch, decked out in gorgeous gown after gown, makes grand entrance after entrance and milks the sick glamour for all it's worth.

Also blogged by: [Patrick]

The Brothers Size

photo: Michal Daniel

The breakout hit from the most recent Under The Radar festival, written by a twenty-seven year old playwright named Tarell McCraney, The Brothers Size is in many ways an impressive piece of theatre and a promising piece of writing. The dialogue is often highly lyrical, the presentation (in the manner of African storytelling) highly stylized. Yet I found the play unsatisfying: the story, loosely adapted from West African mythology according to press notes, is pedestrian and predictable and lacks, well, the size that we associate with myth. Until an especially vivid monologue in which one of the two brothers of the title recounts his despair in prison, I didn't feel the slightest emotional engagement with the material. The play also has its baddie making a dramatically unnecessary, unwanted (homo)sexual advance on one of the brothers: that made me cringe, and not in the "challenge my world" way.

1001

Photo/Evan Sung

Jason Grote's new play, 1001, reminds me of an ingenious string of computer code I once saw: filled with nested for loops, these endlessly sharp lines (specific and yet filled with broad generalizations that left room for hundreds of back and forth variations depending on the value) were a pleasure to browse, yet at the end did no more than perform a routine task on the PC. Grote's play has wider ambition than the routine, and he uses the conceit of storytelling -- and not just those of The Arabian Nights (though he riffs on it well, with one scene more melodramatically staged than a '50s Hollywood romance) but the stories of our history, from fabulists like Borges (and his ingeniously infinite stories) to the spooky narratives of people like bin Laden (now staged alongside a clip from Michael Jackson's Thriller). The plot parallels Scheherezade and Shahriyar with that of their modern equivalents, Dahna and Alan, and Ethan McSweeny's beautifully inventive staging unites the scenes, with an ancient tome appearing also as a suitcase nuke and a laptop and the sky blue theme popping up in both costumes or as the waves of Sinbad's voyage, giving way to the bed of two trapped lovers. These two leads, a bewitching Roxanna Hope and the serious and seriously talented Matthew Rauch bring life to the play, allowing the politics to exist around them, but Grote doesn't manage to contextualize the majority of his dreamlike characters (from one-dimensionally Arab-hating Jews to a grossly comic Flaubert, mystic Borges, and digital Dershowitz) and that turns the exotic postmodernism into little more than the present, filtered, gutted, and paraphrased through the haze of fiction. I was happy to lose myself in the story (Grote is a sort of Rumpelstiltskin, spinning yarns into golden prose), but disappointed that all this labyrinthine storytelling had such vague messages.