Amerissiah

Photo: Larry Cobra

The Amoralists' current production, Amerissiah, is the story of a man who thinks he's god, his struggle with cancer, and his impressively dysfunctional family. It sort of believes in miracles, and it sort of doesn't. Starting with the huge moose head that dominates the set, much is left unexplained. The characters in Amerissiah live at the top of their lungs, brandishing their desires like pulsating neon swords. This high-energy, even cartoonish writing and acting worked to great effect in the Amoralists' wonderful previous production, Happy in the Poorhouse. In Amerissiah, however, too many of the characters and situations are ugly, from unsuccessful toilet humor to a father-daughter team who embezzle millions of dollars by neglecting to purchase the health insurance they promised their employees. I guess Amerissiah fits perfectly with the company's stated mission of producing "work of no moral judgment." But is that goal desirable? Is it even possible? For me, it was hard to care much about Amerissiah, and I guess that is at least partially a moral judgment.

Bloody, Bloody Andrew Jackson (revisited)

In my review of Bloody, Bloody Andrew Jackson, I wrote, "However, the whole of Bloody, Bloody Andrew Jackson is somewhat less than the sum of its parts, mostly because director and book writer Alex Timbers, while extremely creative, sometimes seems more interested in clever theatrics and cheap (albeit funny!) jokes than in the painful history he is exploring." The more I thought about the show, the more I thought that its politics were offensive. But I wasn't sure, so when a friend wanted to see the show, I joined him for a second viewing. (Warning: I discuss the ending of this show and of Cabaret below.)

Andrew Jackson was responsible for the mistreatment, forced relocation, and deaths of thousands of Native Americans. The show mentions that some people view him as an "American Hitler," and one of its last images is a poignant silent tableau of displaced Native Americans. But then the handsome, energetic Benjamin Walker comes bounding out to sing yet another song as Andrew Jackson, rock star. At the curtain call, one of the white performers is killed by a Native American, and she never gets up to take her bow--the final image of the show is the dead white girl. In other words, the Native Americans are ultimately presented as murderers and honoring them is nothing more than lip service.

Compare this to the end of Cabaret, with its tableau of the victims of ethnic cleansing: prisoners in a concentration camp. And that's the actual end, that lingering image of evil. To have had the Emcee prance out to sing one more "look at me, aren't I funny" song would have been perceived as--and would have been--in bad taste. To have one of the Nazis come out to sing a cheerful, "aren't I lovable" song at that moment would have been unimaginable. Yet what Bloody, Bloody Andrew Jackson does is the equivalent.

A defense I have heard of Bloody, Bloody Andrew Jackson is that the hero-ization of Jackson is supposed to be ironic. Okay, I kinda buy that. But (1) the Native Americans still should have had the last word/image, and (2) there was nothing ironic about the dead white girl at the end.

Normal as Blueberry Pie: A Tribute to Doris Day

On one hand, the sweetly odd and completely delightful jazz singer Nellie McKay comes across as a combination of, oh, Cyndi Lauper, Steve Martin, Gracie Burns, and Diana Krall, with a soupçon of Ella Fitzergerald thrown in. On the other hand, she is like nobody else, sui generis. In Normal as Blueberry Pie: A Tribute to Doris Day, at Feinstein's at the Loews Regency, McKay uses a variety of voices, including sweet and thin, Ella-esque, and 1930's vibrato-laden soprano--all perfectly matched to the material. Her song list, while mainly focused on pieces sung by Doris Day, travels hither and yon, including "Mother of Pearl," her ironic contribution to the argument as to whether feminists have senses of humor. McKay plays piano and ukulele and is backed by a fabulous band (Kenny Davis on bass, Ben Bynum on drums, Belinda Whitney on violin, Glenn Drewes on trumpet, and Jay Berliner on guitar). Highlights for me included an energetic "A-Tisket, A Tasket"; a tender "Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans"; an appropriately crazy "Crazy Rhythm"; and a poignant version of "Georgy Girl," accompanied by ukulele and dedicated to Lynn Redgrave. Her patter comes across as stream of consciousness, and an entertaining consciousness it is. Added bonus: in honor of the title of the show, the audience receives yummy blueberry tarts. (Tickets max out at $75 with a $40 minimum, but select $40 seats with no minimum are often available.)

The Metal Children

Photo: Carol Rosegg

How much responsibility for a reader's behavior resides with the author? When, if ever, is it okay for a school board to pull books from a school's library and/or curriculum? These are the two main questions addressed in Adam Rapp's fascinating new play The Metal Children. When Tobin Falmouth (played by Billy Crudup with quiet brilliance) hears that his young adult novel has become the center of a huge controversy in small town, he doesn't care much. Actually, he doesn't care much about anything other than smoking weed and wallowing in the fact that his wife has left him. But when his agent (David Greenspan, in his usual performance) bribes him to make an appearance in the small town, he finds himself surrounded by people who care very much indeed, some going so far as to treat his novel as a sort of bible/blueprint for a new life, others resorting to violence. Rapp locates the play somewhere between reality and not, and leaves many questions--both theoretical and plotwise--unanswered, which is effective. The tone is sometimes uneven, but the play is smart and often funny; supporting cast members Guy Boyd, Betsy Aidem, Susan Blommaert, and Connor Barrett invest their excellent performances with compassion and intelligence; and thoughts get provoked. Most importantly, Rapp lets all sides have their say and labels no one a hero or a villain. The Metal Children is what a play should be: full of life and ideas. (Two other things: The young woman is too too articulate. I know brilliant 16-year-olds; they're still 16-year-olds. And no one sits casually with a knife, point down, in his back pocket .)

The Glass Menagerie

photo: Joan Marcus

No matter how many times you've seen tragedy unfold for the Wingfield family - Amanda desperately selling those magazine subscriptions by phone, Tom taking those codified night time trips to the movies, Laura blowing out her candles - you're likely to be astonished by this current off-Broadway revival. This "new interpretation" of the Williams classic (from Roundabout by way of Long Wharf) may not quite qualify as a reinvention, but it's nonetheless fresh and surprising. The most defining of director Gordon Edelstein's contributions is his decision to have the memory play spring to life as Tom tortures it out of himself on a typewriter, anesthetized by booze. This may seem a minor distinction, but in the playing it's remarkably powerful. The conceit allows Patch Darragh, brilliant as Tom, to bring a booze-soaked toxicity to some of his line readings, and it allows some of the more charged exchanges between Tom and Amanda (Judith Ivey, superb) to play like black comedy. Bold choices also distinguish the play's other 2 performances - Keira Keely may over-emphasize the handicap, but she otherwise doesn't play Laura as a physical weakling: you can feel Laura's strength every time she walks across the stage in a broken but determined stride. Even Jim, Laura's "Gentleman Caller", feels freshly imagined thanks to a surprising, underplayed aloofness in Josh Charles' characterization.

New Islands Archipelago

photo: Darien Bates

Talking Band's latest experimental piece, currently at 3LD Art & Technology Center, is that rare example of multimedia theatre in which video projections are used judiciously, presented artfully, and kept in disciplined service of the story. Set on a cruise ship, with just enough visual theming to qualify as environmental but not so much as to become kitsch, the unpretentious, often whimsical collage-like play drifts from vignette to vignette as it tracks an increasingly strange trip at sea. We meet specific, vivid characters, and we learn some backstories, but there's an engaging ambiguity to the piece as it builds: its meaning is more meant to be intuited than explicitly spelled out by narrative. Gradually, the show's mix of music (by Ellen Maddow), scenes (writer-director Paul Zimet), movement pieces (Tigger!), and multimedia (Simon Tarr) combine to evoke the feeling of a gentle, waking dream. This has to be one of the most theatrically sound and memorable pieces I have yet to see at 3LD.