The King Is Dead

Photo/Jonathan Slaff

I'm not surprised that a play inspired by Stephen King is a little goofy and B-movie-like, but I do wish that Caroline V. McGraw hadn't gotten distracted by the superfluous and spangled Elvis motif, and that she spent more time focusing on her strong central character, Farrah; then perhaps director Jerry Ruiz wouldn't end up trying to maintain a creepy atmosphere all on his lonesome.

[Reviewed for Time Out New York]

Red Haired Thomas

Another Ice Factory production that isn't open for review, but I will say (hint hint) that I look forward to the opportunity to actually review Red Haired Thomas at some point in the future. Just so that you know why I was interested: Robert Lyons wrote it, Oliver Butler directed it, and Bill Coelius is in it.

Love, Incorporated

I have a low tolerance for cute romantic musical comedies but this one (at the Midtown International Theatre Festival) won me over. The plot doesn't have any suspense - from the get-go we know that the wallflower female exec and the dreamy tv newscaster will work it all out - but the show manages to be charming anyhow and, partly thanks to Igor Goldin's direction, never lags. While the characters could use more personality and detail on the page, the four delightful performers in the ensemble - Tally Sessions, Jennifer Blood, Jonathan Rayson, and Hollis Scarborough - compensate splendidly, and Marc Castle's breezy, often catchy score is well-matched to the tone of this material. (It's also often witty besides: Castle is especially good at writing songs or parts of songs that are reprised with a twist by a different character.)

Summer Shorts 2: Series A

Photo/Carol Rosegg

For those of you who have been keeping tabs on this race, you know that there's only one thing I love more than aesthetics, and that's festivals--where else can you catch such an eclectic variety of shows all at once? Compressing so much work often leads to a lot of misfires, all at once, but it also means that when a show succeeds, it really leaves a mark. For Series A, that show was Roger Hedden's Deep in the Hole, a nonstop satire of the partying life--that is, what is "too much"? Billy Hopkins builds the action slowly, going from an argument about the deadening woes of bottom-shelf liquor to a rousing game of spin the bottle and ultimately to its logical conclusion: accidentally possibly snorting anthrax. (That sentence makes more sense in context.) The whole thing is held together by the four actors, especially the carelessly suave David Ross, but it's the everyday tone that defines this piece.

[Read on]

Bouffon Glass Menajoree

photo: Elizabeth Weinberg

Vulgar, grotesque, over the top and laugh out loud funny - all the things that Tennessee Williams' The Glass Menagerie is not is this late-night send-up in which Amanda's telephone solicitation is of the sex line variety and Laura's gentleman caller is plucked from the audience. It's like Williams' play has been hijacked by trailer trash and all the subtext has been put rudely on display. The concept of the show is so strong that you can't look away from it, even in the overindulgent moments here and there, and the cast (directed by Eric Davis) is a scream. The only thing I'm sorry to have to report is that I came late to this party and caught the final performance of the run.

Heistman

Photo/Brian McDermott

Of all the shows at Soho Think Tank's Ice Factory, Heistman is perhaps the only one that shouldn't be open for review: not because it's bad, but because it's still very much in the midst of percolating. Matthew Maher's script is fantastically daring: a philosophical assessment of Personal Happiness and The Fear, and Steven Ratazzi's portrayal of Heistman--this manifesto-spouting bank robber, a hostage to his own heart and insecurities--is top-notch, calling to mind Wallace Shawn. But Gabriella Barnstone's direction, created and performed by el gato teatro, takes the work in a different direction, with four scantily clad actors dancing on stage. Or should I say, distracting, for there's nothing interpretative about their movement, and the vivid physicality prevents us from focusing on Maher's syllogisms, which read as a smartly punctuated David Foster Wallace essay, full of meandering side points and examples. The manifesto is a tough sell, and I can't fault the company for wanting to experiment with the text, but the play has been stolen from the Heistman, and it may take a one-man show to get it back.