The Seafarer

Photo/Joan Marcus

A wonderful play about our struggles for redemption, Conor McPherson's narrative is only aided by the fact that the world of his play is submerged in one alcoholic vice and raised by a poker addiction. It's also helped by excellent casting, including the talented Conleth Hill, who plays Ivan as a slovenly yet lovable simp, the sort of man who puzzles things out by rolling around his tongue or nonchalantly offering a thumbs up and the splendid Jim Norton as Richard Harkin, the blind but hardly invalid elder brother of our adrift hero, Sharky (David Morse). Morse, a stocky guy, grounds the show with the polite distaste that he mastered on House, along with a more intimidating rage that is all his own (and all the more surprising for it). As these three friends carouse in their own unique blends of blindness, they are joined by the careless young Nicky (Sean Mahon), a man oblivious to the problems with his lifestyle, and the devilish (drop the -ish) Mr. Lockhart (Ciaran Hinds), who is comically portrayed here as an arrogant loser, save for those rare moments when he gets the object of his desire -- Sharky -- alone, at which point the lights start flickering and all hell seems liable to break loose. As the stakes are raised, we see the limitations of these men -- Sharky's real violence, Ivan's reckless past, Richard's stubborn boozing -- but more importantly, learn that together, they just might be able to steer this ship.

[Also blogged by: Patrick]

The Homecoming

Photo/Scott Landis

I confess to having a very negative reaction to Harold Pinter's The Homecoming -- not so much that I can't applaud the powerful alpha-dominating actors to be found in Ian McShane's Max, Raul Esparza's Lenny, or Eve Best's paradoxical Ruth (she blossoms into what many would consider a most withering profession), but enough that I can't recommend the show. Granted, Pinter works with the so-called "pregnant pauses" and writes in a cryptic, often symbolic style, but the characters here seem too much like nasty stand-ins that it's hard to connect enough with a relationship enough to pity its loss. We certainly don't get that from James Frain's Teddy, nor even enough goodness from the balancing figure of Uncle Sam (Michael McKean); instead, we quickly leap into the depravity of a family viewed -- unfiltered -- as animals, the sort of people who find boxing to be a gentleman's sport. Pity the hardworking women who cannot rise above Max's collapsed coinage: "slutbitch." Pity more the audience that has to sit through two hours of the most depressing theater in order to arrive at that very same conclusion.

Man is Man

The problem I have with The Elephant Brigade's production of Brecht's Man is Man is that the youth of the company stands in the way of them realizing "epic theater." All the elements of success are there -- the set is created by actors filming miniature sets, songs are delivered by an off-kilter Lauren Blumenfeld, the fourth wall is completely broken, and Dutch director Paul Binnerts is somewhat of an expert on Brecht. However, in this setting, the ideas are trivialized by the amateurish production brought about by these (intentionally) alienating college students, and more so by the technical difficulties that draw more attention to the aesthetic than the raw ideas. In other words, it's very clear that we're watching a play, but it often seems like we're watching a very bad play.

[Read on] [Also blogged by: Patrick]

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: