The Libertine

Photo: DfxDen

Stephen Jeffreys' comedy-drama is a delicious throwback to Restoration times. With Cromwellian Puritanism a thing of the past, the return of the monarchy was an optimal time for an omnisexual, charismatic, downright outrageous character like John Wilmot, Second Earl of Rochester, to barrel into the history books. Eric Tucker fleetly directs a nimble cast of well-drawn characters, vividly evoking the scramble that goes on backstage at a theater, the clash of wits at the public house, and carefree rutting in a dark prostitutes' alley.

Patricia Duran is wonderful as a proto-feminist Mrs. Barry; Tom O'Keefe is superbly in-the-moment in the dual roles of Rochester's wry friend Charles Sackville and the smug star actor Harry Harris; and the fine Libby Arnold as the prostitute Jane has a lovely scene battling an annoying inclination to actually care about her client the Earl. The production's flaw arises from the Earl's complexity. Not having seen the play before—not even the movie version with Johnny Depp—I can't say how others have approached the lead role, but Joseph W. Rodriguez fails to entirely convince, because his Rochester lacks the charm the real Earl must have oozed.

The same cannot be said of the overall production. Rambunctious and clever, it has many virtues. Above all, the play transports us to a lofty realm of wit and ribaldry very few modern playwrights even attempt,

Excerpted from Theater Review (NYC): The Libertine on Blogcritics.

Ghosts in the Cottonwoods

Photo: Annie Parisse

As The Amoralists' production of Ghosts in the Cottonwoods begins, we see Bean Scully sucking venom out of her son Pointer's leech bites. He is 18 years old and nude, and author-director Adam Rapp has served us vivid notice that this is no ordinary mother-son relationship. Bean's treatment of Pointer occupies an uncomfortable area somewhere between seduction and abuse, and she disparages any chance of romance or improving himself that Pointer may aspire to.

Living in the backwoods, the Scullys have no TV set and no phone, and they supply their own electricity thru a hand-cranked generator. Their one-room house is rickety and cobbled together. It contains a large noose to anchor the building to a tree stump during mud slides.

Tonight Bean and Pointer are waiting for Bean's older son Jeff to come home; Jeff has broken out of prison after six years. But before he arrives, the Scullys receive two unexpected visitors: a repo man with a bullet wound and a young woman with a suitcase. While Ghosts in the Cottonwoods has some funny moments, it is generally a story of loss, violence, grudges, and revenge. The characters cannot communicate, although they try everything from attempting to learn how to read to rapping to clicking to book-writing to literally eating their words. The three Scullys are deeply damaged, and they share a willingness to kill if they feel it is necessary.

Ghosts in the Cottonwoods is deeply disturbing. However, it is extremely well-written, -directed, and -acted; consistently interesting; and sometimes fascinating. The always-brilliant Sarah Lemp shines as Bean, and the other actors (Nick Lawson, William Apps, Mandy Nicole Moore, James Kautz, and Matthew Pilieci) are also excellent. (Lawson, however, is frequently difficult to understand.)

Mistakes Were Made

Photo: Michael Brosilow

It is a theatre season of prodigious feats of memory. Mark Rylance in La Bete. Belle Caplis is Balm in Gilead. Bill Camp in Notes From Underground. And now Michael Shannon in Craig Wright's Mistakes Were Made (directed by Dexter Bullard). Shannon plays a theatrical producer who is juggling a moody movie star, a stubborn playwright, an unraveling business venture, and deep personal problems, all via an office phone that never stops ringing. Shannon is onstage alone for virtually the entire 90 minutes, yelling, cajoling, and pleading into the phone; chatting with his obese fish; and periodically melting down. Mistakes Were Made is generally lightweight, with occasional moments of extreme tone-deafness, as when a distant tragedy only matters to the extent that it affects the producer. However, there is much that is funny here, and Shannon's multifaceted, beautifully timed performance is well worth seeing. (Designer Tom Burch's set is a treat--make sure to check out the posters of the producer's previous shows, including one for Roseanne Barr and Erik Estrada in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.)

Notes From Underground

Photo: Joan Marcus

"I am a sick man. I am a wicked man. An unattractive man. I think my liver hurts." With these classic opening lines of Dostoevsky's Notes From Underground, actor and co-adapter Bill Camp invites us into the rotting psyche of a character known only as "the man," who has decided to share with us his deepest thoughts and even the secrets he keeps from himself. The man has not always lived underground. In his twenties he was in the civil service, but already his paranoia, hunger for humiliation, hopelessness, and cynicism had set in. At his office, he would wonder, "Why does no one except me think that people look at him with loathing?"

The man explains that he isn't even good at being wicked; he is merely possessed by a compulsive desire to ruin anything that might be beautiful, lofty, or loving. It's not a disease, he thinks, but his "normal condition." It's interesting to spend time with Doestoevsky's man in an era of psychiatry and psychoactive medications. Would Prozac help him? Lithium? Or is he genuinely hateful and ugly just because he is genuinely hateful and ugly? The man is in some ways emblematic of torturers and rapists, yet in other ways, he is merely a pathetic--and dangerous--loser. Does he have free will? Does anyone?

Watching the play was a disjointed experience for this particular playgoer. On one hand, it was unpleasant and grueling, including scenes of almost unbearable violence. On the other, it was thrilling to watch Bill Camp's tour de force as the man, talking to the audience for close to two hours with few breaks. Even at the man's worst, Camp is never less than compelling. And, as a deeply unfortunate prostitute, Merritt Janson is excellent, heartbreaking, and brave/foolish. (I am not sure how she does her performance without needing medical care.) The adaptation by Camp and director Robert Woodruff ranges from fascinating to boring and back again; the direction is clear and imaginative. I deeply disliked this show while I was watching it, but my respect for it grows and grows the more I think about it. And I do think about it.

Short Takes

Elling. Elling is a little play. A very little play. A teeny-tiny, itsy-bitsy play. Brendan Fraser and Denis O'Hare play odd-couple roommates, both recently out of a psychiatric hospital. Every once in a while the play seems about to veer into being original or dramatic, but the moment passes. (For example, when the O'Hare character loses his most precious possession, he doesn't notice.) Elling would be a not-unpleasant evening in the theatre if tickets were $25 or less. They are not $25 or less. (Fraser is fine and O'Hare is wonderful--he can't seem to help it.) I saw Elling in an early preview, but I doubt that it will get any better; it is what it is.

In the Wake. I only saw the first act of In the Wake so I can't actually review it. However, I am astonished that a quite a few critics found the characters compelling and the storyline enthralling. I found the characters annoying and the storyline unconvincing. I guess this is a classic case of "to each her own."

Lucky to Be Me: The Music of Leonard Bernstein. This tribute to Leonard Bernstein was wildly uneven, with highlights provided by Donna Murphy, Victoria Clark, and Kelli O'Hara. The lowlight? The sound was terrible. Sitting first-row-center orchestra, I could barely hear many of the singers, even when they were miked.

Middletown. I saw this at an early preview and had a mixed response to it. Author Will Eno seems to be going for an Our Town sort of vibe, but more complex, and the play only works sometimes. However, while I never felt completely involved, the show has stayed with me.

Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown

I've read the reviews, and it's hard to argue with them. Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown is indeed sloppy, uneven, and unfocused. The score by David Yazbek is only amiable. The book by Jeffrey Lane is a pale copy of the movie. The production adds up to much ado about . . . not much.

Just I thing: I really enjoyed it.

Women on the Verge zips from scene to scene and song to song, the wind in its metaphysical hair. Most of the songs entertain at least a little, and some quite a lot. Director Bartlett Sher, as always, brings every inch of the stage to life, and with the ever-changing projections, Women on the Verge feels like a unusual and invigorating amusement park ride. Patti LuPone shines in a supporting role, bringing humor and pathos to the poor, abandoned, crazy wife she plays, and she nails her solo, "Invisible." Laura Benanti is adorable, running on the balls of her feet from scene to scene, not too bright but completely good-hearted. Brian Stokes Mitchell is underutilized, but it's always a pleasure to hear his voice--and looking at him doesn't hurt either. Justin Guarini plays the befuddled son with the perfect amount of befuddlement. On the other hand, Sherie Rene Scott, in the lead role, doesn't register--rather than coming across as the calm eye of the storm, she seems disengaged, bringing little energy to her songs and less to her acting.

Overall, Women on the Verge is so uneven, and shows so much promise, that it's surprising opening night wasn't delayed a couple of weeks. There is a solid show in there, and I believe that Sher, Lane, and Yazbek would have found it. Instead, the Women on the Verge that did open is a mess.

I hope I get to see it again.