The Bacchae

photo: Joan Marcus

I cannot imagine an actor less suited to the role of Dionysus--the vicious, sexually charged god of wine--than Jonathan Groff. In Joanne Akalaitis' sterile new production of The Bacchae at the Delacorte Theatre in Central Park, Groff cuts an attractive figure in his quasi-Jim Morrison jeans and bejeweled denim jacket, but whenever he opens his mouth to deliver Euripides' poetry, the battle is lost. That almost nothing in this production works is both terribly sad (considering the lack of major classical theatre productions in New York City) and not entirely unexpected, given Ms. Akailitis' history of putting her own directorial intentions above textual accuracy. She has set a large part of the Chorus text (in a new, serviceable translation by Nicholas Rudall) to an original score by her longtime collaborator and former husband, Philip Glass, that lacks any semblance of cohesion or tonality. The Chorus itself, often perched on a set of bleachers that act as the only real set piece, never seem entirely together throughout the proceedings. Among the principle actors, only Joan MacIntosh's Agave approximated the correct tragedian style. Her anguish upon discovering that, under Dionysus' spell, she murdered her own son, Pentheus (Anthony Mackie, still finding his footing), registers as the only truly thrilling moment of the evening.

Note: I attended the first preview of this production, so my opinions reflect something that is obviously still very much a work in progress. However, considering the abbreviated length of the run (it closes August 30), I felt that it was better to publish my thoughts now, rather than waiting until the production officially opens on August 24.

Burn The Floor

photo: Donna Ward

Dancing With The Stars sensations Maksim Chmerkovskiy and Karina Smirnoff may be the "guest stars" (through August 16th) but they have a surplus of what this dance revue otherwise lacks: personality and sex appeal. Certainly there are plenty of talented dancers on stage but the moves rarely allow them to express anything interesting; the show is ballroom dancing as if by boy/girl cheerleading squad: athletic, energetic, soulless. The artless presentation, which includes two generic singers who could easily be imagined working a wedding reception, is Vegas on the cheap.

Wildflower

photo: Joan Marcus

Capping 80 some odd minutes of "Lifetime movie"-sized doings with a "shock" ending (which I won't give away), Lila Rose Kaplan's Wildflower turns out to be a cautionary tale that seems to warn about the danger of not talking frankly with kids about sex. But what the painfully shy new boy in town does to the irritatingly precocious virgin in the play's final scene isn't merely misinformed - it's downright insane. The play's argument makes as much sense as saying that if you don't warn kids to wash their hands they just might stick them in a light socket. Most of the play's action is so bland that there's plenty of time for nagging questions - I wondered how a single mom could afford an indefinite stay at a bed and breakfast with her son on what she makes answering phones in a flower shop. The actors do what they can - Ron Cephas Jones comes off best, and Jake O'Connor is radar-worthy - but the play doesn't do them any favors.

Being Patient

The wordplay in the title of Kelly Samara's engaging one-act isn't just a wee trick; it's an example of the play's wisely crafted language. "Amusement," she philosophizes, is just a cleaned-up word for "distraction." Common words take on entirely different casts when contemplated by a terminal patient confined to a hospital. Ms. Samara trusts the audience to follow her, through words and movement, along her squirming evolution from impatience to eternal Patient. This trust makes the play (which features music and dance as well) an intensely satisfying experience (or "amusement"). So much so that the one time she doesn't trust us – when she concludes a monologue about iguanas and the difference between camouflage and invisibility by stating the obvious – is the one moment she disappoints a little. As part of Manhattan Repertory Theatre's Summerfest 2009, Being Patient ran for three performances only. A powerful and well-tuned fusion of the many talents of a very crafty artist, it deserves further development and a longer run. In any case Kelly Samara has earned some significant attention.

Hey, stranger!

I've gotten a couple of emails asking why I haven't been writing lately. The answer is that I haven't been writing *here*, at Showdown, because nearly everything I saw in July - six plays at the SPF, a couple of workshops, some festival shows - wasn't open for review. I've been writing lots of interviews over at my site in the meanwhile. Once the Fringe Festival kicks up on August 14th, I'll have plenty to cross-post here.

Avenue Q

Close to six years after it opened on Broadway, Avenue Q is in excellent shape. At a recent Saturday matinee, the extremely talented current cast performed with the energy, clarity, and commitment of an original cast in a brand-new musical with critics in the audience. (The current cast includes Robert McClure, Anika Larsen, Christian Anderson, and the ever-delightful Ann Harada.) The show itself holds up very well on repeated viewings: it is clever, heartfelt, and totally enjoyable. The controversy when Avenue Q beat out Wicked for the Tony was odd--it's a better show! Wicked has wonderful moments, and its size is fun, but it also has boring stretches and truly bad songs (particularly the wizard's). In my not-so-humble opinion, the Tony should have gone to Caroline, Or Change, but it makes sense to me that Avenue Q would beat out Wicked. Avenue Q has posted its closing notice for September 13th, which is sad.