Happy in the Poorhouse

Photo/Larry Cobra

In honor of Derek Ahonen appropriating the dime-novel romance and turning it into Odets and Williams Gone Wild, I'd like to coin a new word to describe Happy in the Poorhouse: melomedy. I'd then like to clarify that while I didn't think this latest piece from the Amoralists packed as deep a punch as their last show, The Pied Pipers of the Lower East Side, it still absolutely knocked me out. This cast knows how to hit their marks without toppling into absurdity, and though the show gets too big for its own britches (too packed for a drama, too small for a farce), it does so in a confidently Hulking out sort of way. I wish more attention had been spent on the central conceit: Paulie (James Kautz) must work up the confidence to sleep with his wife, the love of his life Mary (Sarah Lemp), before his ex-best-friend (and her ex-husband), Petie (William Apps) returns from Iraq and steals her back. But at least many of the divergences are creative and interesting, and always charmingly played, particularly by people like Matthew Pilieci (and his sexual sight-gags) and Rochelle Mikulich (who brings new meaning to the word mousy). One of the wackier yet more heartfelt lines of the night goes something like this: "If you don't follow your dreams, you'll get eaten by a shark." Ahonen and company have left that shark far behind: they're living their dream, and this is a great start to what's looking like a terrific 2010 season for them.

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Lenin's Embalmers

Vern Thiessen's entertaining, thought-provoking new play, Lenin's Embalmers, tells the true story of former friends called upon to make Lenin's corpse last forever. If they succeed, they will be rich and lauded; if they fail, their lives are over. Vlad (Zach Grenier) is the scientific genius, a drunk who hates the necessary hypocrisies of dealing with the Soviet regime. Boris (Scott Sowers) is the consummate politician, a pragmatist who understands that playing the game is the only road to survival. Out of this dour tale, Thiessen and director William Carden have created a fluid, darkly funny piece about the insanities and horrors of Stalin's regime and how our saints are invented to meet the needs of their time and place. Interestingly, as the embalmers strive to create Stalin's version of Lenin, the playwright creates his own version of Lenin, a wry, sardonic, sad presence, horrified by his deification. This is a first-class production of an excellent play with a uniformly wonderful cast.

God of Carnage

photo: Walter McBride

The newish ensemble that just took over Yasmina Reza's Tony-winning smash--Janet McTeer (the original London Veronica), Jeff Daniels (the original Broadway Alan, now playing Michael), Lucy Liu and Dylan Baker--is easily the finest cast the show has seen yet. As a group they completely click, and each actor gives a near-perfect individual performance. The problem with this is that watching the play filtered through the energy and vitality of this updated group makes you realize how thin and unsatisfying an evening of theatre it is. The comedy only really gets good in the last half hour, once the sparks start to fly, and even then it's little more than the theatrical equivalent of junk food. Any attempt to read social commentary or deep meaning into the text is only wishful thinking. That said, watching McTeer violently pin Daniels onto their couch, or hearing Liu proclaim that she'll wipe her ass with the Bill of Rights in a moment of reckless abandon are worth the price of admission. It may be junk, but right now it's tasting pretty good.

The Miracle Worker

There's much to admire in this first Broadway revival of the Anne Sullivan-Helen Keller story - above all else a riveting performance by Abigail Breslin - but, as you've likely already heard, the staging is a serious problem. (It pains me to say it, as I thought director Kate Whoriskey's staging of Ruined last year was flawless.) Presenting this story in the round has to rank as one of the worst ideas in recent Broadway seasons - you can't very well have your deaf and blind central character crossing the room mid-scene so that the other half of the audience can see her, especially when so much of her stage business is sitting and writing letters into the palm of her teacher's hand. With so much non-verbal business, it's especially imperative that the audience be visually connected to the players. My view was so frustrating for the first act that I debated skipping the second, and I could spy seats that were far more problematic than mine. (I'm glad I stayed - no major obstructions to my view after intermission, and the play's final scene is as touching and effective as one could possibly hope.) The ideal seats would appear to be numbered in the 100s and in the low to middle 200s on the even side of the theatre. Sit there.

As You Like It

photo: Sara Krulwich

Last year, when everyone was raving about Sam Mendes' production of The Winter's Tale, I was imploring everyone and their mother to go see his staging of The Cherry Orchard. It was simply the best production of a Chekhov play that I'd seen in New York in over a decade. Once again, I find myself to be the contrarian voice: people are going crazy over his production of The Tempest, which I found interminable, while I am still in awe of his fresh, beautiful take on one of Shakespeare's most oft-performed comedies, As You Like It. Mendes manages to tap into the resources of subtext behind the playwright's comedic scenarios without sacrificing any of the wonderful, ebullient moments of hilarity. The cast is an embarrassment of riches: Juliet Rylance's perfect Rosalind, Christian Camargo's invigorating Orlando, Stephen Dillane's surly Jaques; even the tiniest roles are played with aplomb. Only one performance remains, this Saturday at 2. Don't miss it.

Glee Club

Some initial impulsive energy screeches to a halt once the implausible plot gets under way. The play devolves into a couple of modestly funny jokes stretched over much too long a time. There's lots of yelling and cursing, without the development of character that makes such moments anything but annoying. The only really appealing character is Paul (Steven Burns), an apparent serial killer whose chilling non sequiturs always draw a laugh. The actors do their best with the weak material, but little good results besides some isolated funny lines. The high point: the song, which after much hemming and hawing the all-male glee club of the title finally manages to sing at the end. It perfectly captures the spirited zaniness the rest of the production only hints at. Read the full review.