Blink

The fourth character in Blink, the absent father, is represented by an empty hospital bed. The characters talk about him, about the way he sometimes blinks to communicate. Now, the father has little to do with the play, but that idea of talking laboriously through blinks stuck with me when trying to describe Ian Rowlands's play, for that's how it comes across. Blink's series of artificial monologues and scenes are rarely linked together by the aggressive push-and-pull energy it needs, and so the words all come across as deliberate and overdone. There are some good moments from Sion Pritchard, who plays an abused son, but only when he's speaking directly to Rhian Blythe, who plays his first love. It's a shame so much of the play focuses on things other than that relationship, for without focus, the blinks mean nothing.

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Artefacts

Mike Bartlett's new play, Artefacts, is clever in the best possible way: it turns shallow thoughts into deep observations about character, and pulls apt cultural metaphors out of those depths. By grounding itself in a family drama—a spoiled British girl learns she is half-Iraqi—it avoids the pitfalls of political drama and speaks personally rather than preachingly. It's also a great demonstration of the old maxim about writing: "Show, don't tell." The stream-of-consciousness of a typical, selfish teenage girl, allows him to tell plenty, but the telling itself shows us even more about ourselves.

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Port Authority

Port Authority was a little too natural for me: the hypnotism of Conor McPherson's passive triptych of unexplainable feelings--particularly longings--nearly put me to sleep. I longed for a little bit of action--some devil in all those rich details--but then again, this is a different animal from The Seafarer. Neither John Gallagher, Jr., nor Jim Norton managed to convey anything other than dialog to me, but I was pleasantly surprised by Brian D'Arcy James, who plays the crude Dermot with a ravenous but reserved desire, the sort found in men who don't believe themselves worthy. In any case, I can normally tell a show isn't working for me when the lighting starts to catch my eye: in this case, it doesn't help that director Henry Wishcamper pays more attention to the plating than the food.

Rafta Rafta

photo: Monique Carboni

The pace is especially relaxed at first: we're taking in the South Asian customs and household dynamics as much as we're following the often gently comic story of the newlyweds who, for one reason or another, can't seem to consummate their marriage. Aside from a couple of quick spikes of melodrama, the play is a warmly amusing, leisurely slice of Anglo-Indian life, rich with keen observational detail and humor that is rooted in the cultural values of the characters. It's very much an ensemble piece in which newlyweds, parents, relations and friends are coming and going, and no one in this uniformly excellent ensemble is out to steal undue focus. A genuine pleasure, and the best effort I've seen from The New Group in at least a couple of years.

Boeing Boeing

This door-slamming "Coffee Tea Or Me"-era farce, in which a fast-on-his-feet bachelor gives the revolving door treatment to three fiances who all happen to be estewardesses, shouldn't be as entertaining as it is: the script is short on laugh lines, and the premise smells of yesteryear's sexism. Yet it's lively ridiculous fun anyhow: thanks partly to the choice to emphasize the immaturity of the bachelor (Bradley Whitford, who even skips around the stage) and the over-the-top sexual ferocity of the stewardesses, the show plays like a cartoon and the punchline is squarely on the three-timer. The show wastes Christine Baranski - she does all she can, but her role as the household's French maid doesn't register as much more than double takes - and I'm in the minority to find the characterization choices by Mark Rylance, as the bachelor's sidekick, to be too oddball and out-there to mesh with the material. But the stewardesses are silly, delicious joy: Gina Gershon as the passionate Italian, Kathryn Hahn as the spoiled American, and most sensationally Mary McCormack as the dominating German. No one will mistake this play for top-drawer farce, but those gals make Boeing Boeing the funniest show on Broadway this season.

Prisoner of the Crown

Photo/Carol Rosegg

Richard F. Stockton's courtroom drama Prisoner of the Crown is filled with so many dubious distinctions about the defendant, Sir Roger Casement, that the play should be a knockout. For example, put to death in 1916, Sir Roger has the "honor" of being the last knight ever to be executed for treason. But the play suffers artistically from some dubious distinctions of its own, most notably how sloppy it looks and misdirected it feels. One of the most vague and anachronistic dramas I've ever seen (scene changes are set to sad jazz; actors even dance into their costume changes), Prisoner of the Crown would rather play than be a play. Some audiences will enjoy a history lesson that uses ammo like "No empire can survive the loss of its moral authority" to cast judgment on our current political mudslinging. But most will be bored and confused by this unimaginative and too comic "swift boat" of a play. Here's a political parallel for you: one cannot run a campaign (or a play) on cleverness: you need passion, too.

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