Edward the Second

Photo/Brian Dilg

Edward the Second is another notch in the belt for Jesse Berger and his Red Bull Theater company. Christopher Marlowe's text, as adapted by Garland Wright, now takes play in an anachronistic time of gay night clubs and gramophones, a world that stresses the characters rather than the themes, and places no judgment on the page, but simply gives it flesh -- erotic, teasing, half-shadowed flesh. Edward II (Marc Vietor) all but abandons his country for the love of his friend Galveston (Kenajuan Bentley), and pays the price for such reckless behavior, as his court, led by Mortimer (a frightening Matthew Rauch), rises up and seize control. The set, from John Arnone, comes across as a modeling runway (only missteps there will lead to more than humiliation), and Clint Ramos's lush costumes keep the play poised at the height of fashion, both of which give Berger's bits of lightly shadowed nudity or blood and grime more contrast. In all, this is a very moving production, and one which doesn't (as befits fashion) show its age.

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The Puppetmaster of Lodz

Photo/Jim Baldassare

Admit it; if you'd been forced to burn your wife's body in a concentration camp then somehow managed to escape back to "civilization" and an apartment, to gather what money and resources you had around you -- you'd lock the world out too, wouldn't you? Well, that's what Finklebaum (a stunning Robert Zukerman) has done in The Puppetmaster of Lodz, and though his concierge (Suzanne Toren) might try to convince him to come out -- it's 1950 and the war is long gone -- bringing Russian, American, and Hebrew men off the street (Daniel Damiano) to help her argument, he knows too well the high cost of trust. Ironically, there are a few good twists in this play that suggest not only might he be right to remain suspicious, but others might do well to be suspicious of him. The play spends its time switching between the friendly wolves at his door and Finklebaum's attempts to wrap himself ever tighter in a web of imagination. But try as he might to rewrite the story, he is too logical, too intelligent to lose himself for good (though he may talk to a life-sized puppet, he's no dummy), and that's perhaps the greatest tragedy of all. I'm engaged by the clever arguments between the Outside and Finklebaum (which grow increasingly bleak as his imagination goes to work), but also by Zukerman's own performance -- although he's clearly not a talented puppetmaster, he shares his character's convictions, and believes so much that the audience cannot help but stare on in fascination and sorrow.

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Beckett Shorts

Photo/Joan Marcus

After watching JoAnne Akalaitis's remarkably smooth, clear, and precise production of Beckett Shorts, you'll know if you like Samuel Beckett or not. In four broodingly comic meditations, the human condition is fully explored: whistled into life ("Act Without Words I"), goaded into action ("Act Without Words II"), thrown together in the wilderness ("Rough For Theater I"), and abandoned to one's imagination ("Eh Joe"). These pieces are largely physical ones (which plays to the strength of the centerpiece, Mikhail Baryshnikov), but that also makes them highly accessible, with clear-cut actions, needs, and failures. They're also well supported by Alexander Brodsky's set -- playful sandbox or apocalyptic desert -- and Philip Glass's haunting interludes. There are also great performances by the marvelous Bill Camp and Karen Kandel, serious actors who give Beckett's words the somber bounce that they need. For a showcase that's only seventy minutes long, this is a full-bodied (and fully recommended) performance, if for nothing other than the serious exposure to Beckett done well.

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Love, Death and Vengeance: A Comedy

Adding "A Comedy" to the title of a play is always dangerous, for it adds the high expectation of laughter to that show. Luckily, Daniel Kelley, like most of his cast, does sketch comedy, and he knows how to conjure up a laugh: in this case, it's by cramming every Greek myth he could remember into the show. Some scenes still seem too hastily sketched: Al Gibbins (Ben Correale) loses his high school crush, Lily Droshpat (Leah Rudick) because of a ketchup stain, and is thereby cursed by the lightning-clapped Will of High School to be a loveless player for the rest of his life. But the delightfully precise chorus (Katie Hartman, Rachel Risen, and John Moreno) remind us that the humor's been well planned. Though there are many things that will remain unclear about this production -- for instance, why are all the women in Hades blond Southern belles? -- the comedy is crystal, especially when the cast's more-is-more approach (at one point, Al promises to push a boulder up a hill, while wearing wings burned by the son, then to chain himself to a rock to have his liver picked out, &c., &c., all after blinding himself) blocks out the lack of a set and the cheap flickers of the lights. Extra credit to the adaptable Henry Zebrowski, who channels a certain sloppy sort of cool, and to Kelley's modern poetry: "You break our trust as if it were an unlubed condom."

The Homecoming

photo: Scott Landis

Psst. I have a confession to make. I don't enjoy Harold Pinter's plays. I can see why lots of other people do, but even this one - widely considered his masterwork - drives me to immediate distraction. Am I the only one who sees it as passe, a relic from a time when it was considered intellectually fashionable to aggressively jolt an audience out of its passivity? It's the theatrical equivalent of films like Last Year At Marienbad or Antonioni's Blow-Up which leave the audience to puzzle out meaning in their seats. There's nothing wrong with forcing an engaged audience into deconstruction and analysis, but when the result is Pinter's blend of blatant artificiality and relentless nastiness I begin to wonder if he's getting at anything deeper about the human condition than "everyone is rotten". In this one, we are probably meant to think that the endless power games and pervasive air of sickness are somehow just us at our worst, the dark "truth" about how people truly are once you get past the socialization. I reject that; it rings as false to me today as it would if everyone ran around smiling ear to ear for two hours.

Vital Signs: New Works Festival Week Three

OK, put down the bell; stop tolling the death of the American playwright. In the last two weeks, I've seen at least nine promising writers, each with a distinct vision and voice, and different social woe to expose, on the Vital Theater stage. This isn't developmental theater either, but fully produced works that range from Shelia Callaghan's always welcome eccentricity (Ayravana Flies or A Pretty Dish) to Sharyn Rothstein's insightful humanity (Senor Jay's Tango Palace). Directors like Blake Lawrence (The Lock) and David A. Miller (Ayravana) make even the most sedentary blocking charming and alive, and actors like Nick Merrit, Carla Rzeszewski, and Lauren Walsh Singerman make these new voices positively sing. I'm fast becoming convinced that Vital is one of the best places to find fresh, young talents: head over there now so you can say you knew 'em when.

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