The Man Who Ate Michael Rockefeller

Photo: Lia Chang

In 1961, the anthropologist Michael Rockefeller, of the business-political-philanthropic Rockefellers, visited the Asmat people deep in the jungles of New Guinea. He fell in love with their art and made a second visit for further study, during which he disappeared. There are two versions of how he died (if indeed he did die): (1) A crocodile ate him after his canoe overturned (a theory supported by another anthropologist who saw the canoe overturn but didn't see what happened to Rockefeller) or (2) The head-hunting, cannibalistic Asmat killed and ate him in revenge for an earlier murder of some of their people by white men (this theory is based on extremely circumstantial evidence).

Jeff Cohen's smart, funny, and moving play The Man Who Ate Michael Rockefeller (based on a short story of the same name by Christopher Stokes) tells the story of Rockefeller's visit from the point of view of the Asmat, who are initially amused by Rockefeller's enthusiasm and his mangling of their language (he cheerfully announces at one point, "I am a monkey fucker"). However, as he focuses his attention on the carvings of Designing Man, he throws off the balance of the tribe, and his visit sets off a chain of events that epitomizes the concept of unintended consequences.

The Man Who Ate Michael Rockefeller is, on one hand, a romp of a show, including an hysterical sex-as-manipulation scene, and on the other a serious examination of how humans (both strangers and friends) interact, how our assumptions color our view of the world, and how the road to hell can indeed be paved with good intentions.

The Man Who Ate Michael Rockefeller is beautifully directed by Alfred Preisser, and superbly acted by, in particular, Daniel Morgan Shelley as Designing Man; David King as his friend Half-Moon, who feels threatened by the attention Designing Man is receiving, and Tracy Jack as Half-Moon's sexually enthusiastic wife.

(Reviewer comp; third row on the aisle.)

A Perfect Future

Photo: Richard Termine

There are certain things that are devilishly difficult to pull off in a play. One is having middle-aged people reminisce about a shared wild youth without sounding artificial. Another is assigning characters different political points of view without making them two-dimensional "theme-bearers" rather three-dimensional humans. A third is having characters drink themselves into brutal honesty without writing a pale copy of the works of Albee or O'Neill.

I am sad to say that David Hay's new play, A Perfect Future, directed by Wilson Milam, does not succeed at overcoming these difficulties.

Natalie and John are visited by their old friend Elliot. Decades ago, the three shared sex, drugs, and radical politics. Natalie is now a film maker; John is on Wall Street; Elliot is raising money for the defense of a former Black Panther they all knew, now a Muslim in jail for terrorist activity. John has invited along one of his staff members, Mark, supposedly to provide a potential match for Elliot, but really to set the plot in motion. Much wine is drunk. Much, much, much wine is drunk. Oh, boy, is a lot of wine drunk.

John is supposedly an oenophile, but his behavior does not match the description. It is hard to tell whether this is a character point or careless writing, particularly since the production is sloppy about which bottles supposedly contain red wine and which supposedly white.

So, anyway, they drink and drink and drink. They drink so much that one has to wonder if the unnecessary intermission was added to give the actors a pee break.

At some point in the evening's festivities, Mark makes a comment so egregiously wrong that the others turn on him. The problem is that it is so egregiously wrong that he would never, ever, in a million years have said it in that room at that time. Then the other characters go on to say a lot of things they would never say. Oh, and they drink a lot. Did I mention that? That they drink?

When finally the social masks have been stripped away, some of the characters turn out to be not what we expected. But they turn out to be unbelievable as well.

At its best, A Perfect Future is a third-rate copy of Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf. At its worst, it is watching a bunch of people drink dyed water.

(reviewer comp; eighth row on the aisle)

StageGrade (Website Review)

StageGrade provides an important public service for New York theatre-goers: it assembles reviews of Broadway, Off-Broadway, and Off-Off-Broadway shows, providing a synopsis, an average grade, and links to the reviews themselves. The site is attractive and easy to navigate.

One of StageGrade's most interesting features is the way it pairs reviewer and community ratings. Some are identical--for example, Mary Poppins received C+'s from both groups. Some differ in predictable ways--for example, Wicked received a C+ from critics but a B+ from audience members. Some differ in surprising ways--for example, Through the Night received a B+ from reviewers but only a C from the community. And some I think could be (should be?) of particular use to producers--for example, while the critics gave Phantom of the Opera a B, community response is down to C+. Perhaps it's time for some extra rehearsals or a visit from director Harold Prince.

StageGrade carries advertising and links to Telecharge. I have no idea if the site makes enough money to pay its staff of four (Rob Weinert-Kendt, Isaac Butler, Karl Miller, and Linda Buchwald) even minimum wage. However, I hope StageGrade does very well--the staff members obviously work hard keeping up this comprehensive site.

StageGrade's most important contribution to the theatre world? It provides a wonderful and vivid reminder that reviews are ultimately just opinions--ideally, knowledgeable and educated opinions, but opinions nevertheless.

(Disclosure: my reviews are often included on StageGrade.)

Dog Act

Photo: Isaiah Tanenbaum

In Liz Duffy Adams' amazing new play Dog Act, presented by the Flux Ensemble Theatre, the apocalypse has come and gone, and various tribes scramble to survive in a barren, unfriendly landscape. Zetta Stone, of the Vaudevillian Tribe, and her companion Dog (a young man undergoing a voluntary species demotion) are on their way to China for an important gig. This description, part of which is directly from the Flux Theatre's website, does as good a job describing Dog Act as "it's about Russia" does describing War and Peace. Dog Act is a meditation on religion, civilization, responsibility, morals, the implacability of the life force, and how the arts/media bring meaning to people's lives. It's also extremely entertaining, breathtakingly imaginative, and quite funny (especially in the second act).

Adams and director Kelly O'Donnell, with the help of a wonderful cast and a superb creative team, bring to life an entire world, fascinating and frightening, on a small stage with limited scenery. The different patois Adams has created for the different tribes are totally convincing as future forms of English (and not difficult to understand). Members of the Scavenger Tribe talk in a combination of Shakespearean English and obscenities, including the perfectly delightful phrase "for-fuckin-sooth." The Vaudevillians use mangled versions of sayings from TV shows that went off the air before their grandparents were born.

Each cast member makes a strong, important contribution. I was particularly impressed by Lori E. Parquet's subtlety, Liz Douglas's intensity, and Becky Byers perfectly calibrated insanity.

As a reviewer, I sometimes feel tired and jaded. It can seem as though everything has been said and all that's left for theatre is different combinations of tired tropes and creaky cliches. But then I see something like Dog Act (although there really isn't anything like Dog Act) and I am reminded of theatre's power and beauty. Dog Act only runs through February 20th. Here's the website. Go!

(Reviewer's comp; second row center.)

Black Tie

Photo: James Leynse

In A.R. Gurney's stilted, unconvincing play Black Tie, middle-aged Curtis is thrilled at the prospect of wearing dinner clothes and giving a traditional speech at the rehearsal dinner for his son's wedding; however, his future daughter-in-law Maya has other ideas. Through this not-particularly-compelling conflict, Black Tie ostensibly explores changing contemporary mores, but Curtis's cluelessness and bellowing are straight out of a late-20th-century sitcom. Even worse, we never see Maya, so there is a gaping hole where the play might be. The characters we do see are thinly drawn--when a ghost is the most complex character, something is off-balance. The occasional political references seem random and make Black Tie neither more meaningful nor more interesting. Mark Lamos directs the show with big takes and overdone business. Of the performers, only Ari Brand as the son manages to sound like an actual human being. Gregg Edelman as Curtis gives a one-note performance and his inverted-S posture is annoying and wrong for the role.

(Reviewer's comp; eighth row on the aisle.)

Lysistrata

Theodora Skipitares has directed a new version of Aristophanes' Lysistrata, featuring performers wearing Skipitares' masks or life-sized puppets. (The other puppet designers are Jane Catherine Shaw and Cecilia Schiller.) Her adaptation is true to Aristophanes' version, with the storyline (women withholding sex to convince their menfolk to give up war) and bawdy humor intact. Skipitares also includes recent footage about real women using Lysistratan techniques, including a sex strike by girlfriends of gang lords in Colombia. There is much creativity in this production, but, sad to say, the show is on the dull side and runs too long, even at an hour. Part of the problem is that Lysistrata itself is a one-joke, one-theme show. While it is interesting historically, it is not that interesting theatrically. Penis jokes wear thin. Skipitares' puppets and masks bring a sense of ceremony and period, but they are distancing, and it is hard to care about anything happening on stage for more than a few minutes. The video footage, while compelling, is difficult to see and the narration is difficult to hear. Lysistrata is blessed, however, by a fascinating score, composed, played, and sung by Sxip Shirey on/with a wonderful array of digital, plastic, and wooden devices.

(Reviewers comps, 4th row.)