Archipelago

Photo/Joanna Wilson Photography

In "The Way Down," one of the ten short one-act, one-man playlets that make up the isolating spine of Archipelago, a boy named Danny (Nick Lewis) has jumped to his death, only to find that time now passes remarkably slow, allowing him enough clarity of thought to regret the choice he made. But playwright Richard Strand doesn't give Danny any room to develop, nor does he waste much more than Danny's three seconds to consider anything broader than the cheaply developed gimmick of the short play, and he dies without any catharsis at all. The rest of the plays largely follow suit, giving largely unimaginative glimpses into the lives of characters whom we meet too briefly to care much for. This is especially true of an adaptation of Joyce Carol Oates' "(A Diptych)" and for Davy Rothbart's "Scarface," which spends more time trying to convince us of its feelings through an anecdote about a bat than by giving us anything real to ground ourselves with. There are sparks of creativity in Shelia Callaghan's "Hold This," and in Brian Patrick Leahy's "Cranberry" (about a suicide artist who is literally going to leave her mark), and both the performances and the writing of Anton Dudley's "Up Here/In Here" and Erica Rosbe's "Orbit" are satisfying wholes. Along with the passably performed Beckett piece, "Act Without Words I," that makes the show about as even as you'd expect, a fifty-fifty mix of theater that demonstrates just how important it is for a show to eventually come together.

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Crime and Punishment

Photo/Courtesy of Writers' Theatre

Dostoevsky's classic novel makes an excellent transition to the stage in this dramatically and psychologically focused retelling of Crime and Punishment. From Eugene Lee's cramped set to Keith Parham's floodlights of truth and repression to Michael Halberstam's tightly mirrored direction to the elegant and subtle acting, the Writers' Theatre isn't being cruel, nor unusual (but not easy either); just exactly the sort of ninety-minute sentence one hopes for. Trapped alone on stage as the very real ghosts of his lover/confessor Sonia (Susan Bennett) and genial pursuer Porfiry Petrovich (John Judd) spin in and out through doors, Raskolnikov (Scott Parkinson) turns to us (and an overwhelmingly large Jesus-on-the-cross) for forgiveness. In clearly extracted (yet contradictingly human) monologues, our soft-spoken murderer tries to talk himself out of sin, justifying his work as theoretical and extraordinary, but fails, at last coming to terms with his self-inflicted sickness as he tries to answer the simplest of questions: "Why?" For us, the answer is much easier: because this is a profound production, stretched a bit in the middle, sure, but a haunting tale all the same.

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All About My Mother

**

Old Vic

London

According to IMDB, the film All About My Mother is 101 minutes long. This newly staged version of the Almodovar classic was at least 30 minutes longer. The extra stuff added is just extra stuff. Much like many of the screen-t0-stage adaptations of recent years, this story suffered from the square-peg-in-the-round-hole syndrome. Even though there are theatrical elements inherent to the story (we're often backstage at A Streetcar Named Desire), All About My Mother is cinematic any way you look at it. Almodovar's eye is as potent as his voice and to have well intentioned theater artists attempt to recreate his magic live onstage is a virtually unattainable feat. New monologues delivered directly to the audience left me confused and the constant location hopping made the play seem too busy and ungrounded. Another rabble of amazingly talented Brtitish actors give it their best, including the dry as gin Diana Rigg and the passionate Lesley Manville (pictured), but unfortunately without Almodovar's obsessive close-ups they were doomed to be ersatz to their cinematic counterparts . I paid 25 pounds to be reminded that I need to revisit the film.

A Thought About Raya

Photo/Ericka Heidrick

Few people right now are happy about losing their Broadway tickets, but I was ecstatic, since it gave me the opportunity to catch the limited run of The Debate Society's first play, A Thought About Raya. This play, based on the work of Daniil Kharms, also provides insight (if The Eaten Heart and the upcoming Untitled Auto Play are any indication) into the largely vignette-based plays of TDS. Raya is their most nonlinear, an experimental predecessor, but the looseness of the evening allows for great stage magic. Anything can happen on Oliver Butler's stage: Kharms's unpredictability enables it, as do Butler's collaborators, the wonderfully frazzled and excitable Hannah Bos and her straight man, the deliberate yet modest Paul Thureen. The years spent as a tight-knit company have only solidified the chemistry between performers, and their dedication to Butler's staging is impeccable, allowing for realism to abruptly turn to fantasy, as when Daniel (or Daniil), who is trying to write, suddenly finds that his arms have become literal utensils. Once the plastic curtain that divides us from the performers is ripped down, the show is an exciting romp through the absurd ideas that Daniel has covered the floor with. Each piece is wildly different from the next, and they erratically jump, loop back, and reverse themselves, just as with Kharms's own writing. It's quite enabling, so long as you stop looking for meaning: a stick of butter, swallowed in one scene and regurgitated later on, is just a stick of butter, with inherent comic value, and nothing more. Absurdism is, by nature, better suited to comedy than drama, but the melange of ideas allow TDS to dip into a little of everything, as with a tragic, almost balletic, drowning. In one moment, Bos and Thureen recounting a series of increasingly gory murders, all while gleefully shuffling around a suitcase in a vaudevillian jaunt; later, the two stand before us, silently appraising the audience in their attempt to follow the voiced-over directions on humor: "Stand silently until someone laughs." Few performers can get away with such stunts, but based on my experiences with TDS, I suspect they can get away with just about anything, and I'm happy to let them do so.

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.