Aftermath

Photo/Joan Marcus

Yes, the cast of Jessica Blank and Erik Jensen's latest documentary play, Aftermath, are actors. But in perfectly speaking the exact words of Iraqi refugees in Jordan (well, 90% of their words), they are something more, too: they are mediums. At their best moments--and there are many--they are mirrors, too. And yes, the show has been edited--piecing together moments from six different interviews--it's not blatantly agenda-driven, or accusation-based. In other words, it's a lot harder to dismiss. The show is so quietly powerful, in fact, that even Blank's expert direction, full of subtleties, is even too much: the actors are convincing enough to make us forget the conventions of theaters. What we won't forget are their words--"There are some things for which apologies are not enough," says an imam unjustly brought to Abu Ghraib--or their surprising characters, like the arrogant dermatologist Yassir (Amir Arison), whose idolization of Richard Gere ("He is...steely") says a lot for what traits he now values. The play is also filled with a variety of wonderfully mundane moments, like a wife "negotiating" the facts her husband is laying out, and sometimes the description of how a man's wife has stopped painting (after the bombings) is just as affecting as a widow's keening over the infant son she just lost in the bombing. The news may have inoculated us against one type of sorrow, but not the other. Do yourself a favor and stop all these "afters"; go now.

[Read on]

Bash

Photo/Christine Han

Given the Greek names, trick endings of a blood-thirsty O. Henry, and the lack of anything overtly religious, it's hard to believe that when Neil LaBute's bash premiered in 1999, it had the subtitle "latter-day plays." But whatever; ten years later, Eastcheap Rep attempts to at least keep it present, with director Robert Knopf forgoing a stage in favor of a more intimate coffee-house set-up, an attempt to make the creepy casualness of LaBute's three one-acts even more apparent. For the first two pieces, "Medea Redux" and "Iphigenia in Orem," the acting holds up. In the first, Chelsea Lagos pins the audience to their seats with her eye-contact, ensuring that we're on the same page as her character--a 13-year-old having her teacher's baby--while at the same time reminding us that we can't possibly understand. In the second, Luke Rosen's focused nonchalance as a well-intentioned middle-manager serves him well, especially as he explains his calculated choice to let his infant daughter smother. However, the final piece, "A Gaggle of Saints," needs to abandon the naturalist staging, because while the engaged Sue and John may be telling their own sides of the same story, it's awkward to have them one standing awkwardly as the other explains the truth of what happened that night in Central Park. (Worse, Rosen's disaffected demeanor now makes his character one-dimensional and unbelievable.) This revival of bash isn't anything to rush out and celebrate, but if you drop by a 10:30 weekend performance, you do get a glass of Prosecco to help wash down the dirty feelings LaBute so expertly evokes.

[Read on]

The Hole

* (out of five stars)

The Theater At St. Clements

Circa 2002 the police were more apt to turn a blind eye to seedy East Village joints like The Hole, The Cock and Fat Cock with their hidden sex rooms, porn screens, and naked coke-head strippers. Cherished memories. Sadly, THE HOLE, a messy, poorly conceived musical, currently playing in the basement of a church (a church!), fails to capture the vibe or energy of this long lost hardcore scene. Granted, intermittently there is a low, sexy thumping beat piped in over the dialogue, however, when it is time to sing, we get a full score of corny, poppy showtunes that are less sexy/edgy and more silly/ridiculous. In its attempts to be as naughty and filthy as they can get, the whole evening becomes a numbing hodge-podge of cliche' one liners, and confusing romantic entanglements. And when you have a fully grown man cast as a baby in diapers and rolled around in a wagon, you know that the desperation for the laugh is unmistakable.

The River Crosses Rivers: Series B

The core of drama is someone desperately wanting something. In The River Crosses Rivers (Series B) the strong evening of one-act plays by women of color at the Ensemble Studio Theatre, people want--and need--to be loved, to be safe, and to be heard. Despite their similar desires, however, these people run the gamut from a woman whose husband of decades is a cheat (in the excellent Hot Mehuselah by J.e. Franklin) to a Middle-East journalist who risks her life to tell the truth (in the powerful Truth Be Told by Melody Cooper) to a wife and husband who just want to love each other (in the funny and moving Jesse by P.J. Gibon) to a couple of gay men who wish they could bring their son back (in the heart-breaking His Daddy by Cori Thomas) to a tech genius who wants to be loved for who he really is (the entertaining Sloppy Second Chances by Mrinalini Kamath). Of the generally high-level performers, standouts include Vinie Burrows, Shetal Shah, Maya Lynne Robinson, Christopher Burris, Matthew Montelongo, and the very likeable Vedant Gokhale. The Ensemble Studio Theatre and Going to the River work together to make sure that the voices of women of color are heard. By doing so, they make the theatre world a better place for all of us.

The Bereaved

Photo/Louis Changchien

Look, as long as you're fine with surface-level laughs, The Bereaved satisfies. But is that all that Thomas Bradshaw's after? I mean, it's one thing to shock us into seeing slavery and alcoholism--two things we've all got pretty strong opinions about--in a new light. But we already know that American families are increasingly callous and disconnected. What's the point of Bradshaw's 80-minute bit of shocksploitation, save to let May Adrales show off her lack of inhibition as a director? Without giving away any surprises (since that's all the show has up its sleeve), just know that things quickly elevate from Michael (Andrew Garman) and Carol (McKenna Kerrigan) arguing over chores and their son's semen soiled underwear; Carol has an adverse reaction to some of Michael's casual cocaine, and their son, Teddy (Vincent Madero) is soon playing Nintendo DS by her deathbed, barely listening as she advises Michael to marry her best friend, Katy (KK Moggie), so that they can continue to support their upper-middle-class lifestyle. (And Teddy hasn't even gotten his schoolmate Melissa [Jenny Seastone Stern] pregnant yet!) The speedy delivery of plot- and comic-heavy scenes is somewhat refreshing--who needs subtext?--and the lack of hidden facets doesn't diminish the surprising effect of seeing the characters actually doing what they're talking about (like a rape scene in blackface). It's just a shame there's nothing to actually mourn in the play, let alone to feel the smallest shred of sorrow for.

Emily

Photo: Firebone Theatre

This modestly diverting play partially succeeds in bringing Emily Dickinson to life, but less through the script's conception or realization than through the lead performance, a finely calibrated, unsentimental yet touching portrayal of the poet by Elizabeth A. Davis, and the poetry itself. In spite of the graceful cast and their lush costumes, director Steve Day doesn't develop much of interest to look at on stage; the slow pace sometimes sinks into ennui rather than expanding into stateliness. I can't deny, though, that Chris Cragin's script and Ms. Davis's sweet recitations of some of the poet's well-known works succeeded in sending me home to crack open my copy of Emily Dickinson's Collected Poems. Read the full review.