The Giant

photo by Ellie Kurttz

****
hampsteadtheatre

London

In spite of a wicked case of jet lag and ephedra poisoning, I was at least coherent enough to drag my strung-out self to the theatre on my first night in London. I knew nothing about this play or company but "This production contains strong language and nudity." was more than enough reason for me to risk nineteen pounds. Whether it was due to my altered state of consciousness or the fact that I was a flummoxed American overwhelmed by his first few hours in a foreign country or the fact that perhaps the play was a bit too wordy and overwritten (or perhaps all three!), playwright Antony Sher's gorgeous-sounding language floated in one ear and lilted out the other. It was a comedy about Michelangelo and da Vinci competing for the contract (and the model) for the statue of David. That's about all I absorbed from the script. What I did absorb in abundance was the glorious production value. The enormous amount of respect and attention to detail the director, actors and designers committed to this play left this seasoned New York theater-goer quite astonished. There was not a single weak link in the cast (the model for the statue, Stephen Hagan, was as talented as he was droolingly hot) and the scenic and costume design- a pastiche of Renaissance sensibilities- was some of the best I have ever seen. It just seemed like all parties involved had a PHD in the science of kick-ass theatre. Nineteen pounds well spent!

Cymbeline

photo: Paul Kolnik

With Cheek By Jowl's different (and far more adventurous) production of Cymbeline still fresh in my mind, it took me a while to accept the straightforward, by-the-numbers approach to the characters in this handsome new production at Lincoln Center. Once I did, I could marvel at Martha Plimpton's dynamic and compelling portrayal of Imogen, the princess who goes into hiding as a boy after aspersions are cast on her, ahem, purity. This production, driven by Plimpton's accessible and exceedingly well-judged performance, gets Shakespeare's story told (and doesn't shy away from the scene with the gods that turns the mood of the play in the second act) but it only sporadically gets his dialogue to sing: there's a chasm that divides the ensemble between those who make it seem like natural speech (Plimpton, John Panko, and John Cullum for example) and those who do not (among them a miscast Phylicia Rashad and Jonathan Cake, who doesn't seem to have been encouraged to have any fun playing Iachimo. He seems to weep most of his line readings, as does Michael Cerveris). I saw an early preview, and it's likely that the ensemble will smooth out with some more time, but Martha Plimpton's performance is already one damned good reason to see this Cymbeline.

Note that Cymbeline is one of a small number of Broadway shows still running during the current stagehands' strike: the others are Xanadu, Pygmalion, Mary Poppins, The 25th Annual Spelling Bee, Maritius, Young Frankenstein, and The Ritz.

Cyrano

The former Tony winner, the former Tony nominee, the tv actress: which one of the three would you expect to give the least assured performance in this new Broadway production of Cyrano de Bergerac? Bzzzt. The answer is Daniel Sunjata, formerly Tony-nommed for Take Me Out, whose too-contemporary turn as Christian makes it seem as if he hasn't been introduced to anyone else in the cast. Said TV actress, Jennifer Garner, turns out to be a radiant, spirited Roxanne. And Kevin Kline, in the title role, is wonderful: his performance is marked by fiercely intelligent choices, playing Cyrano with more quiet dignity than might be expected. The production is visually luscious, like a Rembrandt painting in motion, and although it sometimes feels long (the cuts that are usually made to the play have been restored; runtime: three hours) it does build to the needed emotionally affecting conclusion.

Bingo With the Indians

Photo/Joan Marcus

I'm convinced that Rapp is, beneath his blustery exterior, an extremely creative and talented playwright, but this latest piece, Bingo With the Indians, is half Cecil B. Demented, half Dead Man (a sort of hyperviolent raunchiness that somehow manages to remain quietly thoughtful), but fully awful. I want to turn Rapp's profanity back on him and let him tongue-fuck my ass: all that good acting, turned to shock value and an alienating study of the strange. And I really want to like this play, this concept of otherness at the heart of these twisted actors-cum-burglars. I enjoy the quiet moments between the subversive Wilson (Rob Yang) and the helpless Steve (Evan Enderle), and think Rapp's staging of a controversially graphic semi-rape is beautifully done. But I can't contend with this cool severance of emotion, this way in which Rapp just "smiles" and "unsmiles" and expects us all to be there right beside him. No, ultimately Bingo With the Indians is not a a play, nor even a Bingo; it is just a series of stray dots that happen to closely approximate a dramatic thought.

[Read on]

The Turn Of The Screw

photo: Wandrille Moussel

Henry James' novella has always been open to interpretation: are the ghosts in the story real, or figments of the overheated imagination of the governess? This adaptation (currently at the Bank Street Theatre) attempts to preserve this ambiguity by having a single actor play everyone (including the cook, the ghosts and the children) except the governess. While this conceit admirably succeeds at allowing the audience either interpretation one might take from the novella, it also unfortunately demands a lot of tell rather than show: some of the chill of the book, despite eerie lighting and a sparse set that subtly evokes a pine coffin box, is lost. However the acting is very good: Steve Cook delineates his variety of roles handily, and I especially liked the macabre touch he brought to the play's opening narration. My only complaint is that I wish Melissa Pinsly, who clearly understands the character of the governess and does an otherwise fine job of rendering her growing terror, would slow down a bit, so that we can get the full effect of the character's growing awareness of her situation.

A Hard Heart

Photo/Carol Rosegg

Even though it's Melissa Friedman's subtle performance that gets me in Epic Theater Company's excellent production of Howard Barker's masterful play, A Hard Heart (somehow only just now receiving a NY premiere), I'm so glad to have at last seen Kathleen Chalfant on stage. All the actors, not just these two, work wonders with Barker's difficult Catastrophism (an unwieldy form of language that ever challenges the audience and the actors with its constant shifts and outbursts), and the outcome is one of those rare moments of synergy on stage. Everything about this show works, from the political messages about the cost of war and the greater cost of winning it (if we sacrifice what we are to survive, have we really survived?), to the emotional parallels between keeping one's heart closed and keeping one's borders closed. Riddler, the cold-hearted genius of the play, is as close to Barker as we'll see on stage, a woman who is never short of an innovative idea or a metaphor with which to mask it, a megalomaniac who enjoys the opportunity for fame that war brings her, and Chalfant, though brusque in this role, remains utterly human for those moments when she ceases to be unnervingly calm. The final flourish is that of Will Pomerantz's direction, which constantly finds ways to merge the steely exterior with the fleshy interior: action takes place in the aisles of the audience, the set itself is an impenetrable box that folds lightly in on itself to expose an gaping emptiness, &c., &c., the list of things that are simply right about this play go on and on. A Hard Heart is not at all a hard play to highly recommend: its heroes may find only tragedy in triumph, but may this remarkable ensemble find only success in their nightly suffering.