Reading: "Box Americana"

Obviously I'm not going to review a reading of Box Americana, but I certainly hope to see Jason Grote's little gem of an observation on class struggle and capitalist dreams make its way to the Playwrights stage in the '08-'09 season. I liked this play much more than the freewheeling 1001 (which, despite moments of beauty, still felt disconnected to me) because despite the contraptions of narrative in place, the characters are all too familiar, and the social dangers all too real. It just seems more specific, more relevant, and it's got me all excited.

A Bronx Tale

Chazz Palminteri wrote and first performed this semi-autobiographical monologue about twenty years ago. His story, of growing up under the guidance of the friendly neighborhood Mob boss, has since lost some of its novelty thanks to many years of The Sopranos in our consciousness. But Palminteri himself has gained something (besides, of course, fame in the movies) in the meantime: he's a more confident actor now, more able to put this story over intimately with what seems like effortless skill. His play is conversational and no-nonsense: except for the silent, slow motion recreation of a major event near the play's climax, it isn't fanciful. The pleasure of it is in Palminteri's relaxed, just-folks delivery and in his connectedness to the material (which gains an extra poignance now that Palminteri is older): he may be a movie star, but he turns everyone in the audience into someone who's just happened by that neighborhood stoop of his past.

The Santaland Diaries

photo: Jennifer Maufrais Kelly

David Sedaris' sardonic 1992 essay The Santaland Diaries, which recounts his stint working as a Macy's elf, is to my mind a modern holiday-time classic: its dry, keenly observational humor is antithetical to the sugarplum schmaltz of the usual holiday-themed offerings. Among its many pleasures is its cold-eyed peek behind the curtain of Christmas, so to speak, as we're walked through the absurdity of a workplace that puts its employees in elf costumes and forces them to be relentlessly cheerful. The monologue stage version, which pops up all over the country this time of year, is as tight and as wryly funny as the essay but in order for it to be wholly satisfying (as opposed to merely enjoyable) it demands a comic actor who connects to Sedaris' style. Happily the Gallery Players production has, in B. Brian Argotsinger, a performer who gets the layers in the material. He knows that many of Sedaris' absurd, funny details are little microcosmic stinkbombs laced with social and cultural critique (one of my favorites tells of the parents who request a "traditional" Santa, meaning white, which prompts the deadpan Macy's-dictated scold: "There is only one Santa") and he knows, with a bit of Paul Lynde in his delivery, how to throw them at us with a light touch. Recommended, but note: the show's final performances are this weekend:

Vital Signs: New Works Festival (Series 2)

I'm generally a supporter of new works play festivals just because they get the writers writing, actors acting, directors directing, and everybody sort of just finding their way through the development of new works. It's also a great place to see what sort of topics are on everyone's minds. It pleases me to say that with Vital Signs, now in its twelfth year of production, I don't need to just blindly support a bunch of playwrights stumbling their way into greatness: there's already a lot of remarkable work on display here. Granted, much of the work still plays towards compressed, small ideas -- a lot of stand-ins for larger issues -- but what I saw featured some tender writing from Steve Yockey's Kiss and Tell, some political parallels about censorship in Catherine Allen's Class Behavior (beware, you may be doing it too!), the large way in which racism is still a part of our society, as shown by the twinned stories of Laura Eason's Lost in the Supermarket, the way in which we ultimately haunt ourselves in Sonya Sobieski and Jana Zielonka's one-act musical, Evict This, and the fantastic close to the evening, Jason Salmon's excellently written twist on the boy-meets-girl genre, a wistful and romantic Meeting that covers all the angles to love and all the exits away from it.

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The Devil's Disciple

Photo/Carol Rosegg

Is it murder if you're gentlemanly about it? Are you good if you are narrowly religious, or is true good measured by action? George Bernard Shaw's wit is in exceptionally good form in The Devil's Disciple, as is Irish Rep's production, condensed and well-directed by Tony Walton. Overall, the play is a bit narrow in scope and spends most of the second act repeating itself, but the performances from Curzon Dobell in the first act and Lorenzo Pisoni in the second keep us interested.

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No Dice

Photo/Peter Nigrini

No Dice plays a high-stakes game of craps but without the dice, which is good because they're letting it all ride on the yo, doing epic storytelling about mundane things but without a story. That's where they distinguish themselves, for other companies or playwrights have either theatricality to back up their slices of life or some larger aim (like The Debate Society or Charles Mee), but here, the Nature Theater of Oklahoma has only their parody of dinner theater -- which is a community thing -- and a series of physical gestures put together by Pavol Liska from disco videos or books about magicians and other such random, yet collectively uplifting, sources. The performers work orally, without memorization (though hardly without practice, for they seem so effortless on stage), getting their lines from an iPod (similar to experimental work from Rotozaza) that plays carefully an audio track carefully culled by Kelly Copper from over 100 hours of casual conversations ranging from pudding cravings to filling out TARs (Time Adjustment Reports) to the nature of storytelling, creativity, art, or, simply put, life. They channel this "cosmic murmuring" perfectly, even as they distort it savagely through their ridiculous costumes, intentionally amateurish accents, and delightful reactions, to a point where by the end of this near-four-hour ride, we can almost hear it, too.

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