The Unconquered

Crafting a poetic rhythm out of repetition (think Seuss meets Churchill), Torben Betts's brute-force allegory, The Unconquered, is one of the most distinct and comically unsettling shows this season. It's far from subtle (imagine Edward Gorey making a life-sized pop-up book), but is all the more powerful by being completely, brutally true to form: a play following in the footsteps of many "righteous" nations before it.

Photo/Eamonn McGoldrick

Reviewed by Aaron Riccio

With a Seussful of allegory and a Churchill of rhythm, Torben Betts has conjured up one of the most distinct and comically unsettling shows of the season. The Unconquered gets the message across with all the subtlety of a Gorey pop-up book (grim and colorless), but the energetic bleakness of the performances make those two dimensions spring to life. Speaking of willful contradictions, the trappings of capitalism are the first to go, with Girl assailing Mother's "affectionate yet strangely passionate existence" and the "equanimity" of her routines. As Girl says, that's all "just so much . . . exhalation!" though it's important to note that the play's forceful repetitions are far more than hot air: they are the whetstone upon which the satire sharpens.

To keep things grounded, director Muriel Romanes makes a series of wise artistic choices. First, she extends the exaggeration of the text to Keith McIntyre's set: a crudely sketched pop-up house, hung from a perspective-cheating wire-frame. Next, she puts the actors in whiteface, a dehumanizing device that, when coupled with Catriona Maddocks's proper middle-class costumes, makes them into walking caricatures. Finally, with a painter's touch, she adds in Peter Vilk's gluttonous sound effects and Jeanine Davies's helicopter-like spotlight, and is able to neatly turn the wire-frame home into a gutted, chaotic mess.

With the circumstances so well established, the language is free to skirt between absurdism and realism, which is where The Unconquered makes the most of its allegorical plot. Mother and Father (Alexandra Mathie and Neil McKinven) -- two meek, materialistic fops -- watch as their daughter, Girl (Nicola Harrison) gets caught up in the consequences of a revolution that they have tried so hard to blissfully ignore. Unfortunately for them, the Free World (which "will not tolerate governments with unconventional philosophies") comes knocking on their door, a cardboard assault rifle that bears the standard of homogeneous violence. Worse, this childlike Soldier (Neal Barry), is so smitten with Girl that his determined lust turns to rape; worse still, the parents are bought off with a string of sausages and the promise of comfort. "I'm now not so concerned for the state of the world," says Father, trading in his suit for golf wear; "A good Christian man," repeats the Mother, selling herself on the soldier-cum-rapist. As for Girl, she is slowly moved backstage, behind the house's transparent back wall, where her screams to "Get out of my house" and "Get out of my country" can be better ignored.

Who said a play had to be subtle to be effective? In this case, The Unconquered makes its point best by being completely, brutally true to form: a play following in the footsteps of many nations before it.

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The Unconquered (80 min.)
Stellar Quines Theatre Company @ 59E59 (59 East 59th Street)
Tickets (212-279-4200): $37.50
Performances (through 5/18): Tues. - Sat. @ 8:15 | Sat. @ 2:15 | Sun. @ 3:15 & 7:15

Substitution

In the midst of unthinkable grief, a mother coping with the death of her son finds an unlikely ally in his former teacher. Intrigued yet horrified at the possibility that someone else is as upset over the death as she as, the two find connection in the midst of chaos.

Reviewed by Ilana Novick

“There are no words.” That's a common enough saying after tragedy, but to the woman known only as Calvin’s Mom (Jan Maxwell), it’s a hurtful cop-out. She’s against funerals, receiving lines, and even the people who think that they’re being kind when they say there are no words (in reference to the tragedy of her son’s death). Invading her mourning is a teacher of her son’s, Paul (Kieran Campion) -- a substitute no less--, whose claim to have had a bond with him angers her (how could he begin to presume he understands?). Still, just as she’s drawn to him because of the shared memory, Substitution finds strength in these interactive memories and what they reveal about grieving and life after another’s death. Paul’s relentless attempts to get Calvin’s Mom to bond with him over their shared loss (despite her adamant refusals) and her hurt responses reveal just how differently people experience grief, even if it’s over the same person. Would such bonding be an insult to the memory of the deceased?

Maxwell plays the mother as understandably haggard and careworn -- hunched over, her neck permanently tense, hair tangled, sweater unwashed, eyes narrowed in a cross between a sneer, and the moment just before the tears come -- her face stuck in the unique mixture of sadness and anger that follows news of death. She meets Paul at Calvin’s school, once a lively place, but now, after the accident, a building-size memorial. The students died on a boat trip and the colors of the set, turquoise and sea foam green, make it seem as if the characters are drowning in the memories of the sea accident.

Paul is as young and full of possibilities as Calvin’s Mother is tired and weary -- all razor sharp cheekbones and gym-toned arms. To top it off, he’s smart and seems to genuinely care about Calvin. Still, he’s jumpy and nervous, talking in a staccato jabber. He’s like a teenager in the midst of a sudden growth spurt, all arms and legs and energy that he doesn’t quite know what to do with. Calvin’s Mom responds to his babbling with a terse “Who the hell are you? You don’t know anything about my son.” Each time Paul offers some memory of Calvin’s interests or mannerisms, especially if it’s one unknown to Calvin’s Mom, she sees it as a slap in the face, an insult to her own memories of her relationship with her son. She’s intensely guarding her own right to mourn, incensed by the idea that a random man might have had a deep bond with her son, maybe even deeper than hers, and so would presume that he could understand what she’s going through. Grief is precious emotional real estate for her, the one thing that gives her power and identity in a time when she is anything but. In spite of her protests, she continues to find excuses to visit Paul at the school, and occasionally smiles and laughs in his presence, even as she questions the appropriateness of their meetings, the age difference, whether she should be allowed to continue her life when her son cannot.

Interspersed are scenes with two teenagers sitting on a school bus seat, on a platform above the area of the stage where Paul and Calvin’s Mom meet. Both will die in the same field trip accident as Calvin. Even dressed in superhero costumes (a teacher’s attempt to add some fun to the classroom), they seem like recognizable teenagers, playing games of predict the future of their classmates, the girl, Jule (Shana Downeswell) a little wise beyond her years, a little snarky (as many television and movie these days), and the guy, a cute Big Man on Campus Type named Dax (Drandon Espinoza), with a similar build to Paul, a little confused by all of Jewel’s philosophical musings, but loves her like a sister anyway. There fun to eavesdrop on and watch, two teenagers in mermaid fins and wings, being sweet to each other when they think no one else is looking.

As fun as Dax and Jule are to watch, it is less clear what their purpose is in the larger context of the play, and this is Substitution’s main weakness, a loose end in an otherwise insightful play. Is it a peek into what the adults will never know about the moments leading up to the accident? Or is it just a chilling glimpse at teenagers having fun, being so utterly themselves, before impending disaster? Are they supposed to be an innocent and more carefree parallel to the older and grieving Jack and Calvin’s Mom? Both are possibilities, but their scenes are over before their relationship is given a conclusion, or their larger purpose explained. Paul and Calvin’s Mom still have a tentative future at the end, however much the guilt over their potential happiness might weigh them down. The gradual melting of Calvin’s Mom’s reserve does not seem like weakness, as she might worry, or settling for a substitute life with a substitute teacher when her first choice life was taken from her. Instead, it’s a sign of strength and of hope, that even if she will always be hurt, she is not without support, or even a substitute teacher who is a real, first choice friend.

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Substitution is playing at the SoHo Playhouse, 15 Vandam Street. Tickets available at the box office, or through http://www.playwrightsrealm.org/,

The Caucasian Chalk Circle

Brecht’s often overwhelming epic made simpler -- and more harmonious.

BY ELLEN WERNECKE

Even Brecht admirers might have some trouble with “The Caucasian Chalk Circle,” his sprawling, Asian-inspired war play, punctuated by musings on social mores and the abuse of trust in a nation. Hipgnosis eliminates Brecht’s original frame (in which a group of peasants are hearing the story from the Singer) and gives some clarity to the work, although its asides on power and the way people act during war time often overwhelm the narrative.

As narrated by the Singer (Demetrios Bonaros, who also wrote all the music in this staging), a poverty-stricken nation is racked by a coup which puts the Fat Prince (John Castro) in power but leads to a civil war in which civilians are pitted against the Ironshirts (national guard). When the deposed governor’s wife (Ayanna Siverls) flees the town without bothering to pick her baby up off the ground where she left it, the heir to the throne, he is rescued by a palace maid named Grusha (Rachel Tiemann) who makes the treacherous journey north to her brother’s house for shelter. While she waits to be reunited with the soldier she promised herself to (Douglas Scott Streater), Grusha becomes more and more consumed with the baby’s survival, even though Ironshirts are one step behind her and hunting for the royal heir.

Bonaros’ music, performed a cappella alone or with other actors, assist in knitting together what can seem like many disparate scenes. They also contribute to the folk-tale mystique of the piece, which seems to take place outside of any recognized culture or civilization but bears the marks of many. (“The Caucasian Chalk Circle” inspired Charles Mee’s play “Full Circle,” in which he placed the action in 1989 Berlin amidst the falling of the Wall.) The foolhardy postwar declaration of “Now everything will be as it was!” is, of course, a farce, but the journey of Grusha from unwilling participant in the rebellion to her conception of herself as the baby’s true mother holds the ensemble together, particularly with the tenacious performance of Tiemann. Her undoubtedly exhausting journey gives, as a judge says late in the show, “proof of human feeling” out of the morass.

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Through May 11 at the Theatres at 45 Bleecker
Tickets $19, Telecharge.
For more information, visit Hipgnosis Theatre.org.

A Body Without a Head

On the coast somewhere, twelve characters gather to reflect and express their experiences with love—the pain of loss, the sting of betrayal, and the joys of uniting. Inspired by an ancient story, George R. Carr's A Body Without a Head is a collection of poems adapted for the stage. The performance is a beautiful piece of expressionism dedicated to anyone who has ever lost their head to love.

Reviewed by Amy Freeman

The inspiration for George R. Carr's A Body Without a Head, a book of poetry that he has now adapted for the stage, is the ancient story of St. Torpez, who was beheaded by the Romans for converting. His body was placed in a box, which was placed into a boat and then set asea. The boat landed at a port called Heraclea. Upon opening the box, the inhabitants found the torso of Torpez to be as fresh as a living body. Seeing this miracle, the citizens also converted changed their city's name to St. Tropez.

However, beyond a prologue detailing the above story (spoken by the Earth goddess Gaia), the piece does not dwell upon the story. Upon entering the dim, blue gel-lit theater, the audience is greeted with the sound of ocean waves and led to seats by ushers carrying flashlights. After Gaia summarizes the St. Tropez story, the sound of breathing is heard, and a man swims through the audience to the stage. He climbs upon the shore and asks if anybody has ever lost their head to . . . love. Torpez is momentarily forgotten as we ponder the question put before us by a man in swim trunks and goggles.

Odds are, we all have, just like the remaining characters who, moaning, stumble to the shore/stage and flop upon it, as if shipwrecked. Their costumes are by Kevin Carrigan, at Calvin Klein, so the stage picture is very similar to an ad for ck One (which isn't a bad thing). The women are in slinky black slips and the men are shirtless in dark jeans. One would be very lucky to come in from the stormy ocean looking as polished as this cast.

The poems spoken by the cast are augmented by swirly and dreamy choreography and the continual sound of the ocean. The performance is a work of expressionism. The actors are quite good at emoting, tears drip from their eyes throughout the performance, they speak words of loss and love and injustice as though their lives depend upon it. Their movements in response to certain lines are extremely visceral, causing the audience to feel what they feel. When a character, Pollo, looks to his love, Dite, who has betrayed him, one can feel the shame as Dite refuses to look back. The characters take on the pain of St. Torpez at another point, imitating the injuries he suffered in such a way that a the heart drops and the stomach turns.

Other than their deep sense of emotion, not much information is provided on stage about who the characters are, giving them an timeless feel. We can assume that they know each other, and that they are paired off into couples. (The language is abstract and never explicitly states facts.) One character, Ares, has lost his love, Elizabeth, and now curses the country that bore him and ultimately lost him by saying "American soul. I do not know thee. I am of thee. . . But I have lost thee." Elizabeth is separated from the rest of the characters by her costume (a white dress and bridal veil) and the fact that she enters, as if called by Gaia, after the others.

A Body Without A Head is beautiful to watch. It is a performance about experience, not plot. The poems float by and what remains is the emotion of the characters, an emotion most people can relate to, though most would not have the wherewithal to express it so.

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A Body Without a Head (70 Minutes)
Manhattan Theatre Source (177 MacDougal Street)
Tickets (www.theatresource.org): $18.00
Performances (through 5/2): Mon-Fri, 8PM

Yellow Moon

Reviewed by Aaron Riccio

For something so simple -- four chairs, four actors, no lighting cues -- Yellow Moon is pretty complex. Subtitled "The Ballad of Leila and Lee" (though only one of the twenty short scenes is technically a ballad), the play follows the tragic romance formed between delinquent Lee and "Silent" Leila after an act of self-defense goes horribly wrong. It's a familiar story, so David Greig presents it in a mix of narrative voices, the result of which is an often muddled adventure that is defined more by language than acting -- a work of forced poetic perspective. Yellow Moon is less like a ballad than like an elaborate ballet, in which the dancers narrate every step.

So here's the familiar part: the good girl, Leila Suleiman (Nalini Chetty), is secretly naughty, an alienated Muslim girl who finds her reality between the glossy pages of celebrity magazines, and who only feels alive when cutting herself. As for the bad guy, "Stag" Lee Macalinden (Andrew Scott-Ramsay), he's just an awkward boy trying to drink his reputation to match that of the notorious father who abandoned him. The two fall in love (though it's a static sort of love, not an electric one), and, after an accidental death, find themselves at "8. . . the part of the story where Leila and Lee go on the run to the highlands and nearly die." (It's also the part where Greig strains credibility so as to better spin a tall tale.)

And here's what's new: after establishing these standard tropes -- adoration from afar, tense meetings, brief arguments, youthful conflict, and awkward groping -- Greig turns his attention to the interior, making the cast into a chorus of mental synapses that fire off alternating thoughts in response to the onstage action. Hence the inevitable sex scene comes across half as shy fumbling and half as "He puts his hand onto your hip and under your t-shirt, but he's anxious, he moves too fast. He puts his hand up your top but you move it away because you want him to slow down. He puts his hands between your legs but you move it away because you just want him to breathe, calm and slow and then he says: 'Do you want me to finger you?'"

At these moments, Yellow Moon finds an exciting momentum that is almost spellbinding. However, these scenes are constantly broken by reminders that we're watching a play, or worse, by the secondary characters -- like Holly (Beth Marshall), a B-list celebrity who mirrors Leila's obsession, but fails to flesh it out; and Drunk Frank (Keith MacPherson), the groundskeeper with a secret who forcibly befriends the two escapees, but remains a blank albeit gruff slate. These interruptions prevent the play from spiraling into melodrama, but they also tightly cap the emotions of the show. Guy Hollands uncorks things as best he can: he puts the storytellers in the round, forcing them to play out to the audience, and by restricting props, forces the glorified stage directions (mental directions is a better term) to match the physicality of the action -- hence Beth and Keith, while describing Leila and Lee's near-death experience on a frozen pass, must compete with Andrew and Nalini's physical reactions to that imaginary cold.

What you get out of Yellow Moon is really a matter of what you'll get out of Brits off Broadway: it's a chance to sample a foreign style of writing, performed at a top-notch level. Though that style may not be to your taste, as I found, there's still plenty to admire in the attempt.

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Yellow Moon (75 minutes)
Brits Off Broadway @ 59E59: Theater C (59 East 59th Street)
Tickets (212-279-4200): $27.50
Performances (through 5/18): Tues. - Sat. @ 8:30 | Sat. @ 2:30 | Sun. @ 3:30 & 7:30

The Walworth Farce

UK-based writer Enda Walsh is no theatre-newcomer, but his work has rarely been seen in New York. This is a shame; he is a profound writer whose creativity can be shocking. This is also a nearly flawless creative team; from the unendingly layered acting, to the gorgeously dilapidated set, to the probing, tempoed direction. The largest flaw of this show? This is a very limited run (the production is on its way to London).


Review by Amanda Cooper

Woah. If this were to be a one-word review, it would be “woah.” The Walworth Farce, though just a four-character play, is a behemoth of a show in every way. This is a good thing – a positive thing. But it is also a event one should be prepared for before going – this is not some light and airy Broadway musical. And though you may laugh and cry, this is not a play of hope, but one about sorrow and desperation. So, woah.

A London apartment that seems to be crumbling away houses a father and his two sons, both of whom spend the opening of the play placing things and fixing their wardrobes just so. After a few minutes of doing this in silence, the three position themselves and begin, what becomes eerily clear, is some sort of play they are performing for themselves. As they continue (often taking breaks to make minor adjustments, or argue with each other), we learn this play is a daily ritual, and is in fact an embellished re-enactment of a day in this family’s life many years back in Ireland. The boys, Blake and Sean, play a wide assortment of characters that flap about the central character of Dinny, who is played by their father… Dinny. In fact, Blake and Sean also play the five- and seven-year-old sons of Dinny, Blake and Sean.

It's possible these three never leave the house, save for young Sean’s daily outing to the grocery store (where he picks up the same list of items each morning). Yes, the outward dysfunction of this family is mesmerizing, but it is the inward dysfunction, which trickles out in between scenes and within their body language, that is heartbreaking. And at the second act, when a fourth character appears, the dark undercurrents of their family secrets slowly rise to the surface, threatening to overtake the fragile world within the confines of this apartment.

UK-based writer Enda Walsh is no theatre-newcomer, but his work has rarely been seen in New York. This is a shame; he is a profound writer whose creativity can be shocking. This is also a nearly flawless creative team; from the unendingly layered acting performances, to the gorgeously dilapidated set, to the probing, tempoed direction. The largest flaw of this show? This is a very limited run (the production is on its way to London).

The Walworth Farce through May 4. At St. Ann's Warehouse in Brooklyn, 38 Water Street. www.stannswarehouse.org 718 254 8779.

Bordertown

Bordertown is not just a physical place, but a philosophical one. On an appropriately dark and stormy night, nine characters held hostage in a diner are stranded on the border between safety and danger, between life and death, fate and chance. Can they get out alive?

Reviewed by Ilana Novick

Nine people are stranded in a diner on tornado-ravaged night, and the diner becomes a safe haven for a motley crew of small-town characters: the cop, the waitress, the escaped convict, etc. The construct is full of possibilities -- a Breakfast Club scenario where social groups long torn apart finally mix, a chance for long time friends to admit their love, or a Lord of the Flies "everybody tries to kill each other" fest? In this case, Bordertown by Steve Ives tries to be both. The endless conflict keeps the play moving briskly, but also makes it hard to focus on any one storyline. Anything can happen, and that’s part of the problem.

The set is a classic diner, with a huge jukebox, bar counter with plastic pie cases, and a neon sign whose letters slowly burn out until the only ones left are D-I-E. Lights rise on Sedona (Casey Williams), the diner’s cute waitress, who wears tight jeans and boots, likes to play with tarot cards, and has a stream of wisecracks as constant as the coffee she pours, and Wyatt (Claro De Los Reyes) the thoughtful busboy with intense, dark brown eyes who believes in ghosts and was abandoned by his mother as a baby. They fight with George (Michael Bertolini), the sort of boss who screams at his employees to get back to work, even when there's only one customer in the diner, a slight, white-haired man named Hank who insists on asking everyone he sees if they are “him.” It’s a sign that something isn’t quite right in this house of pie and coffee, more so when practically half the town comes in to get out of the rain.

One of these strangers is Little Mick (brightly rendered by Michael Kingsbaker), a mobster’s lackey, keeping with the classic theme with his fedora, sharp suit, and Brooklyn accent. Both coffee and plot are boiling as it's revealed that George isn’t the upstanding restaurant owner he claims to be: he owes a gambling debt to the mob boss, and it’s Little Mick’s job to collect. Mick is hilarious in his attempts to be both street and book smart, quoting Dostoyevsky and referencing Greek mythology just as readily as he threatens to break everyone’s balls.

More danger arrives in the form of Miles (Andrew Schecter) and Otto (Cary Hite), two escaped convicts who hold the diner hostage (as if the tornado weren't enough). Schecter tires to hold all of his nervous energy in check, but his jerky movements, nervous fidgeting with the gun, suggest a criminal on training wheels, interrupting his own threats, swinging the gun aimlessly, always on the verge of tears. In stark contrast, Otto does not speak, but the movements of his eyes, and tightening of his mouth in anger as he wields his gun suggest a reservoir of hidden emotion. There’s also a funny, if tasteless physical sight gag, involving the man who comes to check the meter, and a strange physical condition that results in spontaneous orgasms every time he hears the name Hilary Clinton. Did I mention he’s somehow involved with planting a bomb? Apparently it’s not enough that there’s a tornado, mobster, a hostage taker, and a strange older man.

As in many movies and plays involving near-death experiences in cramped quarters, the fear of death is incentive for people to relieve themselves of their secrets, to answer as quickly as possible all of the questions about whether it was fate that brought them together or just a coincidence, or whether their life was worth anything, whether they will go to heaven or hell. The life stories are told in expository monologues rather than through dialogue, which gives the actors some room to shine individually, a challenge in such a busy plot. The physical staging is another bright spot, and complements the feeling of being trapped, as the cast members elbow each other, while trying to shift their chairs, straining for physical independence, even as their emotions are being held hostage by Miles and his gun.

Soon enough, both the storm outside and the man-made one inside blow over, and the inhabitants are free. Will they still be friends after the chaos of the night? Will Sedona go to Mexico with Otto and Miles? Will one of the town’s cops, who was among the stranded, arrest Little Mick or Otto and Miles? Everyone is intact physically, but the play could have dug deeper to show, or at least raise the question of whether the experience changed them in any way, whether they really did have any revelations, or whether they can just go about their business as usual, invulnerable and jaded, relieved to be alive, but unchanged.

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Bordertown is playing at the 14th Street Theater: 344 East 14th Street, 2nd Floor. Performances are Tuesday-Saturday at 8pm. Tickets are available at theatermania.com or through the 14st Theater Box Office.