Man of La Mancha

Turns out that The Gallery Players are men of La Mancha just as much as Cervantes. Imagination (not to mention determination and passion) has taken their revival of Man of La Mancha pretty far. Jennifer McCabe doesn't have a very good vocal bridge, which sometimes makes her Aldonza a bit nasal, but she still gives a damned good performance, bringing so much passion and sorrow to the role that you may find yourself begging to be her knight. And Jan-Peter Pedross may not look (he's a bit too composed) or sound (either flat or singing in a lower key) like the Don Quixote you imagined, but his needs are palpable, and his actions are clear. As for Robert Anthony Jones . . . well, he's exactly the sort of Sancho Panza you expect, but moreover, he's exactly the sort that you need; talented enough for two, his personality is enough to carry the show wherever it might sag. That the ensemble has a few weak voices isn't really a problem: Martin Andrew's ominous set so perfectly resembles a prison that I just assumed those were actually convicts and just accepted them as rowdy additions to the show. Tom Wojtunik's to be commended for making it too hard for me to tell the difference.

Cherry Docs

photo: Caleb Levengood

A neo-Nazi skinhead, soon to stand trial for a brutal hate crime, is defended by a liberal Jewish legal aid lawyer in this two-hander written and directed by David Gow. Surprisingly, the play doesn't delve very deeply into questions of legal ethics, but it's otherwise by-the-numbers and easy to predict. What elevates it a bit above its disappointingly pat plotting is that Gow has written these two characters credibly and he's given them a lot of solid dialogue; he's also paced and directed the play sensibly so that the characters' confrontations are suitably taut and dynamic. He's fortunate that his two actors - Maximilian Osinski as the skinhead and Mark Zeisler as the lawyer - both give strong, emotionally intense performances that hold the attention even when the play is at its most formulaic.

Me

Kirk Wood Bromley's latest play, Me, doesn't really get to the heart of Mr. Bromley. (Unless we take his mash-up of placenta mythology, ecological warning, and fractious parents -- there's father, a hammerhead shark in a golden diaper, and a mother-as-sponge -- at face value. And that's not really the point of this comic play.) However, it does get to the heart of his style, with the entrance to the theater littered with the detritus of his past, from old props and clippings to epigraphs from his favorite influences. It's fair, then, to say that this is the sort of play I imagine John Ashbery might write if he were smoking peyote and unwinding on the guitar. It's a highly literate, linguistically comic, and utterly refracted, interrupted, and regurgitated work of theater. Well, just call me a baby bird then, 'cause I ate it all up, from the self-reference to the Joyce-worthy absurdism: "When someone's obliminal nodes excite your oceanic plasma, you are hookt." Job well done for director Alec Duffy, who somehow manages to keep the twelve actors playing Kirk fresh, interesting, and on point.

No, No, Nanette

photo: Joan Marcus

I usually resist writing about dress rehearsals for a variety of obvious reasons but I want to say that this latest Encores! show - a new version of the 1971 hit adaptation of the frothy 1925 musical comedy - is certain to be a crowd-pleaser. (It runs through Monday, at City Center.) I can say so purely on the sparkle of the blissfully delightful dance numbers (put together by Randy 42nd Street Skinner) which provide spectacular transportation back to the forget-your-troubles Broadway of yesteryear. And some of the songs ("Tea For Two", "I Want To Be Happy..") are so infectious that you might find yourself grinning like a fool and humming along. I'm not comfortable commenting on the performances, but I do want to say what a pleasure it is to have Sandy Duncan doing jaw-dropping fan kicks and lighting up a stage again. At 62, she's still the best kind of "bubbly".

Good Boys And True

*** (out of five stars)

Second Stage

In the wake of an explicit sex-tape floating around an exclusive private high school, a mother and her senior jock son must deal with the surrounding questions and all of the fallout. Is the guy in the tape actually him? If not, who is it? If so, why did he do it? This pretty good, pretty interesting play by Roberto Aguirre Sacasa, sped along and raised a whole bunch of issues surrounding the cluelessness of privileged youth and their immense sense of entitlement. With J. Smith-Cameron and Brian J. Smith leading the pack we have a designer cast living on a gorgeous designer set (an immense gallery of sports trophies) by Derek McLane. I liked this play and I was glad I got to see it.

Glory Days

1/2 (...out of five stars)

Broadway

I was charmed by the Cinderella story of these young first timers sneaking their little show to Broadway just under the Tony deadline. I wanted to like it but 5 minutes into it i realized that liking it wasn't going to be an option. This hanging-out-on-the-old-high-school-bleachers-reliving-the-old-glory-days (the "old glory days" being three years previous) pop musical suffered from a myriad of problems one would most likely find in the first draft of a workshop production: low stakes, cliche', stories not resolving, at least one main character missing any sort of journey at all. Nick Blaemire, the composer (obviously heavily influenced by Jonathan Larson and Jason Robert Brown) does have potential and maybe down the line can look back on this freshman disaster as a humbling learning experience as he is hopefully launching a new, more Broadway-worthy production. However, this time, no go. There was a prevailing bitterness for me while watching this wildly shocking misfire: Why the FUCK isn't [title of show] right here right now?