Ore, or Or

Duncan Pflaster's tale is essentially a classic love triangle, with the beefy Calvin Kanayama (E. Calvin Ahn) at the apex. He seems to love his new girlfriend, down-to-earth Debbie (Elizabeth Erwin), but lusts after the lithe and forward Tara (Clara Barton Green). Along the way he bonds with Sean (Shawn McLaughlin), Debbie's gay roommate, who, through no fault of his own, suffers from knowing more than he wants to about his friends' love lives. In creating a supportive and single "gay best friend," Mr. Pflaster flirts with cultural stereotype, but comes out pure, as Sean flowers into the most likable and vivid character of all. The action skips deftly through one seriocomic situation after another, as the mostly solid cast has fun with video games, food poisoning, Star Trek, and Sean's adventures as a substitute teacher. Periodically, a gong and some evocative shakuhachi music divert us into one of Calvin's dreams, inspired by the legends of Yamashita's treasure. This sub-theme is an appealing, ornate framing device, though perhaps not totally necessary, as the imperfect, realistically rough-edged New Yorkers living their laughing, heartbreaking lives in front of us are intriguing enough by their plain selves.

Squiggy and the Goldfish

Photo: Elisha Schaefer

A brave, sharp performance by Josh Breslow as the title character (Squiggy, not the fish) can't make up for this play's weakness of focus. Abuse at the hands of his suicidal father has made Squiggy a cutter of long standing, though he's successfully hidden his scars from his ineffective, half-unmoored mother (Dana Aber). Terrorized by his cruel fiancée Veronica (the excellent Katrina Ylimaki) and her violent father (Jonathan Miles), Squiggy gets no relief even in his dreams, where a horror-movie psychiatrist and a nightstick-happy cop chase him through paranoid fantasies. As the realities of Squiggy's past and present tribulations (and those of the women in his life) are revealed to us, the characters stimulate aches of recognition, but the effect is too often subverted by Recovery Movement catchphrases, characters stating the obvious to one another, and narrative inconsistencies. Mr. Breslow does absolutely all he can to keep the play centered, but he can do only so much.

Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson

photo: Joan Marcus

With more than a little bad-ass nose-thumbing attitude, this show at The Public (seen here staged and costumed but billed as a "concert version") about Andrew Jackson pokes some snarky fun at rock musicals (the anachronisms of Spring Awakening, for instance) but beneath the snotty 'tude are some provocative ideas about Jackson's legacy. Was the fourth President a hero or an American Hitler? Was the populism he preached a recipe for pure democracy or for chaos? The show, which has an unpretentious rag-tag looseness, isn't out to make a definitive statement and it steadfastly refuses to get too serious until the very end, but that's part of its refreshing appeal. As staged by Alex Timbers, it's silly and smartypants at the same time. The show's conceit has Jackson in strutting rock god drag which not only amusingly illustrates his celebrity and resonance with the people but also allows Benjamin Walker to rock out old school in his thoroughly winning breakout performance.

Le Serpent Rouge

Photo: Steven Schreiber

Austin McCormick's Company XIV is back with another extravagant, sexually charged dance-theater piece of the kind only they can produce. Where last year's Judgment of Paris drew on the young choreographer's study of French baroque dance (pre-classical ballet), the dancing in Le Serpent Rouge is more modern; but again the company creates a visionary re-imagining of a classic story, this time the legend of Adam, Eve, and Lilith. Swings, a giant chandelier hung low to the ground, a focused rain of water, a huge mirror (for Eve to lose herself in), light bondage, near-nudity, and the world's first threesome are only a few elements of this luridly opulent production. The choreography is continually expressive and beautifully realized by the amazing dancers. It's a richly woven, thoroughly rewarding entertainment.

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The Philanthropist

photo: Joan Marcus

The main character in Christopher Hamtopn's bone-dry comedy of manners is the bookish sort who is alienated from most people and who comes most alive playing with anagrams - in order words, he's British and dated by about four decades. As played by Matthew Broderick, miscast and struggling to convince as a Bit, he practically vanishes into thin air on stage, especially during the more static scenes (directed by David Grindley) where it is essential that we feel some gravity from the actors. Another American, Steven Weber, fares better in Anglo mode, but it's an uphill battle when one can see bona fide Brits in The Norman Conquests just a few blocks north.

Mare Cognitum

Photo: Elisha Schaefer

Mare Cognitum follows three twenty-somethings reliving the wide-eyed excitement of intellectual discovery they experienced in college. Or rather, that's what the playwright himself, David McGee, seems to be indulging in. Not enough happens; the characters' exchange of ideas can't carry 90 minutes of drama. When something does occur -- notably, one character's spiritual awakening, and at the end, a half-real trip to the Moon -- the production springs to life. Lena's (Devon Caraway) description of her church visit is a fine piece of writing, and Ms. Caraway brings it home brilliantly. It's one of the periods of focus that represent the promise of the play, which, tightened up, could be a powerful piece of theater.

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