If words are Tommy Tiernan's bullets, then jokes are his gunpowder, and his manic, explitive-heavy charisma is the trigger. His easy smile and giddy motions across the stage (he often skips) enable us to “laugh at the things we’re not supposed to laugh at” and his words are true enough to pierce the heart.
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Cracked, the name of Tommy Tiernan’s last stand-up tour in the US, doesn’t really capture the aggressive joke-telling of this Irish comic. Loose, the name of this year’s tour, is much more appropriate. It’s wrong for the right reasons when Tommy’s at his best (tightly wound on a sensitive subject, like God as a selfish fucker, or the following knock-knock joke: “Who’s there?” “Not Mickey’s fucking dad!”). It’s right for the wrong reasons when Tommy ambles between highlights, leaving the audience to chew the cud through some unfortunate dead space. Luckily, there’s very little downtime, and there is a lot of laughter (hyena-like guffaws, up from the root of your soul).
Tommy’s act isn’t the most original (he draws immediate comparison with Dennis Leary), but he does have the saving grace of charisma, and the better grace of some genuinely funny material. It’s not your mother’s humor though: Tommy makes it clear early on that he (like all the Irish) uses “a fundamental darkness” to tell his jokes, and points out that when he first went to a shooting range, he was perturbed to only fire on targets. It’s a happy person he wants.
Well, if words are to be his bullets, then jokes are his gunpowder, and his manic, explitive-heavy charisma is the trigger. His easy smile and giddy motions across the stage (he often skips) enable us to “laugh at the things we’re not supposed to laugh at” and his words are true enough to pierce the heart. As for his jokes, they’re not all winners, but Tommy changes clips fast enough to get away from the blanks and back to his powder keg of material. Everyday observations, mixed with that sarcastic cynicism: “Have a nice day, they say. I don’t want that kind of pressure. I’ll have the kind of day I want.”
Among other things, Mr. Tiernan has a reputation for stirring up trouble with his religious material. Maybe I’m too jaded to tell, but I found him to be going a little too easy on the Church: save for the obligatory pedophiliac preacher joke, and a few remarks about what Jesus would really look like (Danny DeVito-ish), it was pretty light stuff. Plus, Tommy’s delivery sort of abnegates any serious implications he might try to make during his act; early on, he points out that “I’d hate you to think that I know something about something.... These are just words.”
They are just words, and, for the majority of the show, fairly funny ones. This may be a slightly diluted form of the Tommy I’ve heard talk of, but it’s still a set worth seeing. Laughter’s healthy for you, so consider Loose a Get-Out-Of-Gym-Free card, good for burning a heck of a lot of calories in the most enjoyable way.
[Aaron Riccio]
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Actor's Playhouse Theater (100 7th Avenue South)
Tickets (212-239-6200): $20.00-$35.00
Performances: Wednesday-Saturday @ 8:00; Saturday @ 11:00PM
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Macbeth
by Aaron Riccio
The energy is robust and the pacing brisk, both necessary for the free theatergoer’s attention span, and the visual effects only solidify an already top-notch production. A successful fusion of various theatrical styles on one of the classic greats, this Macbeth is not to be missed.
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(6/25) Macbeth, when produced in scope and with a full ensemble, is a bloody Shakespearian play. Soldiers die en masse, chaos reigns, and power corrupts, absolutely. The Public Theater’s outdoor version, at the Delacourt Theater, is not only well served by the enormity of the space and the backdrop of mighty nature itself, but by Moisés Kaufman’s highly aesthetic approach. Here, corpses parade across the stage like a stricter version of Sweeny Todd, and 1940s sound effects collide with harsh modern lighting to rapidly contrast Macbeth’s guilt-ridden psychosis with the all-too-cruel world itself.
If you reap what you sow—and Macbeth’s tragic downfall is surely a measure of his overzealous attention to prophecy—then it’s no surprise that Kaufman’s adaptation is so delicately beautiful, nor that that the beauty cannot be sustained. His costuming—straying from classic trims to, by the final act, a modern tux—makes no sense, but looks stunning, and the makeup—particularly that of the Weird sisters—is compelling. The blocking of certain scenes—notably the banquet where Banquo “haunts” Macbeth and the famous “double, double, toil and trouble” cauldron scene—is arresting, and at least the comedic bits, like the Porter’s out-of-place monologue, are aimed at the audience, where such throwaway distractions work best. The set does more for effect than the rest of the show itself—the flimsiness actually works in its favor, a castle even more in decay than the missing chunks and scattered rubble belie.
Where Kaufman loses the beauty is in the second act, where scenes start to grow melodramatic and rushed, and actors like Lady Macbeth (Jennifer Ehle, who shone in the first act) don’t seem up to their “out damn spot” speeches. The acting is, on the whole, very consistent, and Liev Schreiber, as Macbeth, almost underplays the role, though I find myself agreeing with his wry and dry portrayal (especially since this leaves Schreiber with somewhere to go in the second act). By the climactic showdown between Macduff (the fiery Sterling K. Brown) and Macbeth, Kaufman is back on track; I just hope the slight imbalance is ironed out by the opening.
This production of Macbeth has nothing to be ashamed of: even in that mid-act slump, the cast still slings its phrases more naturally than most actors perform contemporary works. The energy is robust and the pacing brisk, both necessary for the free theatergoer’s attention span, and the visual effects only solidify an already top-notch production. A successful fusion of various theatrical styles on one of the classic greats, this Macbeth is not to be missed.
[Aaron Riccio]
-------------------------------------------------------
(6/25) Macbeth, when produced in scope and with a full ensemble, is a bloody Shakespearian play. Soldiers die en masse, chaos reigns, and power corrupts, absolutely. The Public Theater’s outdoor version, at the Delacourt Theater, is not only well served by the enormity of the space and the backdrop of mighty nature itself, but by Moisés Kaufman’s highly aesthetic approach. Here, corpses parade across the stage like a stricter version of Sweeny Todd, and 1940s sound effects collide with harsh modern lighting to rapidly contrast Macbeth’s guilt-ridden psychosis with the all-too-cruel world itself.
If you reap what you sow—and Macbeth’s tragic downfall is surely a measure of his overzealous attention to prophecy—then it’s no surprise that Kaufman’s adaptation is so delicately beautiful, nor that that the beauty cannot be sustained. His costuming—straying from classic trims to, by the final act, a modern tux—makes no sense, but looks stunning, and the makeup—particularly that of the Weird sisters—is compelling. The blocking of certain scenes—notably the banquet where Banquo “haunts” Macbeth and the famous “double, double, toil and trouble” cauldron scene—is arresting, and at least the comedic bits, like the Porter’s out-of-place monologue, are aimed at the audience, where such throwaway distractions work best. The set does more for effect than the rest of the show itself—the flimsiness actually works in its favor, a castle even more in decay than the missing chunks and scattered rubble belie.
Where Kaufman loses the beauty is in the second act, where scenes start to grow melodramatic and rushed, and actors like Lady Macbeth (Jennifer Ehle, who shone in the first act) don’t seem up to their “out damn spot” speeches. The acting is, on the whole, very consistent, and Liev Schreiber, as Macbeth, almost underplays the role, though I find myself agreeing with his wry and dry portrayal (especially since this leaves Schreiber with somewhere to go in the second act). By the climactic showdown between Macduff (the fiery Sterling K. Brown) and Macbeth, Kaufman is back on track; I just hope the slight imbalance is ironed out by the opening.
This production of Macbeth has nothing to be ashamed of: even in that mid-act slump, the cast still slings its phrases more naturally than most actors perform contemporary works. The energy is robust and the pacing brisk, both necessary for the free theatergoer’s attention span, and the visual effects only solidify an already top-notch production. A successful fusion of various theatrical styles on one of the classic greats, this Macbeth is not to be missed.
[Aaron Riccio]
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Pig Farm
by Aaron Riccio
What Pig Farm misses in cleverness, it makes up for in crudeness--the most lascivious, delightful kind. The kind that makes you wonder how you ever watched a political satire without such "hams" before.
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(6/20) Pig Farm is a ridiculous comedy. That’s not exaggeration: Greg Kotis writes like a man freefalling through the sky while being devoured on the inside by piranhas even as his fingers spontaneously combust like fireworks on the fourth. And that’s ignoring both the surreal ending (pigs may not fly, but they might as well) and the farcical shifts in plot. Pig Farm isn’t near as good as Urinetown—much as director John Rando tries to carry that tune through to a straight show, with a bunch of lyrical blocking. But what it misses in cleverness, it makes up for in crudeness (and really, it’s a filthy, filthy play)--the most lascivious, delightful kind. The kind that makes you wonder how you ever watched a political satire without such "hams" before.
The plot, so much as there is one, is an expanded anti-government riff that stems, at least in invective and straightforwardness, from Kotis’s little-seen Eat the Taste. There is a pig farm, somewhere in America, that represents the economic plight of all pig farms, and through that, the economic plight of all mankind. For all their suffering, Tom and Tina have taken in a juvenile delinquent, Tim—a reminder not just of the free labor of a work-release program, but of Tina’s desire to have a child of her own. To make things harder (as if counting approximately 15,000 pigs wasn’t hard enough), a g-man named Teddy is expected at any moment, which means Tom’s got to dump the sludge before the rain comes and makes everything into mud. So it goes.
If these characters played it straight, this would be a terrible play. But Tom’s a violent drunk, Tina’s a baby- (and therefore sex-) crazed woman, Tim’s determined to prove himself a man, even though he’s clearly still a boy, and Teddy is one heck of a ham (and Dennis O’Hare busts his comedic chops). As the straight(est) man, Tom, John Ellison Conlee really serves as a foil for his boyish competitor, Tim, played by the exuberant and beautifully reckless Logan Marshall-Green. Green has consistently been the best thing of his last several productions (including Dog Sees God, and TV’s The O.C.), and his limitless energy seems to have raised everybody’s else’s spirits too, particuarly the fiery Katie Finneran, who might just have theater’s best and most accurate deadpan.
The art direction here—Scott Pask’s overwhelming staircase to the hidden second floor and Brian MacDevitt’s illumination of the unseen chaos out the window—also deserves note. Not only does it allow for some spectacular stunt/comic devices, but it keeps the focus on this one little slice of Americana, and our particular struggle with the adversity of age, government, and circumstance. Kotis doesn’t get eloquent about it—in fact, the majority of his script garners laughs from repeating lines—but he’s direct, and he’s honest, and most importantly, he’s funny.
[Aaron Riccio]
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(6/20) Pig Farm is a ridiculous comedy. That’s not exaggeration: Greg Kotis writes like a man freefalling through the sky while being devoured on the inside by piranhas even as his fingers spontaneously combust like fireworks on the fourth. And that’s ignoring both the surreal ending (pigs may not fly, but they might as well) and the farcical shifts in plot. Pig Farm isn’t near as good as Urinetown—much as director John Rando tries to carry that tune through to a straight show, with a bunch of lyrical blocking. But what it misses in cleverness, it makes up for in crudeness (and really, it’s a filthy, filthy play)--the most lascivious, delightful kind. The kind that makes you wonder how you ever watched a political satire without such "hams" before.
The plot, so much as there is one, is an expanded anti-government riff that stems, at least in invective and straightforwardness, from Kotis’s little-seen Eat the Taste. There is a pig farm, somewhere in America, that represents the economic plight of all pig farms, and through that, the economic plight of all mankind. For all their suffering, Tom and Tina have taken in a juvenile delinquent, Tim—a reminder not just of the free labor of a work-release program, but of Tina’s desire to have a child of her own. To make things harder (as if counting approximately 15,000 pigs wasn’t hard enough), a g-man named Teddy is expected at any moment, which means Tom’s got to dump the sludge before the rain comes and makes everything into mud. So it goes.
If these characters played it straight, this would be a terrible play. But Tom’s a violent drunk, Tina’s a baby- (and therefore sex-) crazed woman, Tim’s determined to prove himself a man, even though he’s clearly still a boy, and Teddy is one heck of a ham (and Dennis O’Hare busts his comedic chops). As the straight(est) man, Tom, John Ellison Conlee really serves as a foil for his boyish competitor, Tim, played by the exuberant and beautifully reckless Logan Marshall-Green. Green has consistently been the best thing of his last several productions (including Dog Sees God, and TV’s The O.C.), and his limitless energy seems to have raised everybody’s else’s spirits too, particuarly the fiery Katie Finneran, who might just have theater’s best and most accurate deadpan.
The art direction here—Scott Pask’s overwhelming staircase to the hidden second floor and Brian MacDevitt’s illumination of the unseen chaos out the window—also deserves note. Not only does it allow for some spectacular stunt/comic devices, but it keeps the focus on this one little slice of Americana, and our particular struggle with the adversity of age, government, and circumstance. Kotis doesn’t get eloquent about it—in fact, the majority of his script garners laughs from repeating lines—but he’s direct, and he’s honest, and most importantly, he’s funny.
[Aaron Riccio]
Monday, June 26, 2006
The Busy World Is Hushed
by Aaron Riccio
The three actors of this tight, witty drama are all great enthusiasts, and their energy is well-tapped by director Mark Brokaw to tell this play of passion (not a Passion play).
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(6/23) For a little over two hours, The Busy World Is Hushed lives up to its title. Not a single cell phone goes off during the performance—it wouldn’t dare. There’s too much life onstage for such a rude interruption, and though I despise theological thinking plays, Keith Bunin never proselytizes—he just uses God as an all-inspiring passion. The three actors of this tight, witty drama are all great enthusiasts (even though Jill Clayburgh is forced to reel it in to play the restrained “bad guy”), and director Mark Brokaw has no problem tapping into all that energy.
So here’s a different sort of passion play: three characters subsumed by different levels of religious zeal, and each for their own reason. Though Bunin’s obviously written a play, there’s no sense of predestination for any of them, and their worlds joyfully, and then tragically, commingle. The first, Hannah (Clayburgh) is the full-on Episcopalian, a minister trying to make the world better, all the while failing to see her own personal hell. Her rival, Thomas, is the traditional rebellious son—wild, agnostic, and self-confident. Brandt, an inhibited but spirited ghostwriter, is the pivotal third, stuck in the middle after being hired to help complete Hannah’s discourse of a newly discovered gospel.
Brandt is in turmoil because his father has an inoperable brain tumor, but he falls in love with Thomas’s world-wizened ways anyway, and begins dating him after some surprising encouragement from Hannah. Then again, perhaps not so surprising, given Hannah’s role as a friendly manipulator who hides her own staggering hurt behind a religious shield. As the play continues, Hannah’s callous chessmanship seems perfectly natural—shouldn’t a mother try to prevent her son from following too far in his suicidal father’s footsteps? And that, perhaps, is the most revelatory moment of The Busy World Is Hushed: how perfectly normal it all seems. These are real characters: you prick them, and they do bleed.
This is truest of Hamish Linklater, who plays Brandt. Though Brant uses the classic loner act to bolster himself—sarcasm and self-deprecation—Linklater finds all the little movements, shifts, or pauses that expose, ever so slightly, all the cracks. We watch him bloom in his relationship with Thomas, and when he finally breaks, it’s like watching all the groundwork come to fruition. As for Thomas, he is such a rebel that in lesser hands, his charisma steals every scene (and thereby ruins the dynamic of the show). As played by Macfarlane, the role instead becomes that of the invaluable player on the court who takes one for the team with an assist rather than a slam-dunk.
One of Bunin’s themes is that notorious contradiction: why would a loving God allow there to be such pain? Wisely, he doesn’t take a stance. He steps back and allows his characters to show both sides, and their balanced treatment does more for religion than a million angry voices. (Bunin’s beautiful, beautiful prose doesn’t hurt his cause: “All souls are forged in pain, and burnished in death.”) The Busy World Is Hushed is one more reason never to sacrifice character for politics, and a reminder that the quiet are often louder than the shrill.
[Aaron Riccio]
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Playwrights Horizons (416 West 42nd Street)
Tickets (212-279-4200): $65.00
Schedule: Tuesday-Saturday @ 8:00; Saturday/Sunday @ 2:30; Sunday @ 7:30
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(6/23) For a little over two hours, The Busy World Is Hushed lives up to its title. Not a single cell phone goes off during the performance—it wouldn’t dare. There’s too much life onstage for such a rude interruption, and though I despise theological thinking plays, Keith Bunin never proselytizes—he just uses God as an all-inspiring passion. The three actors of this tight, witty drama are all great enthusiasts (even though Jill Clayburgh is forced to reel it in to play the restrained “bad guy”), and director Mark Brokaw has no problem tapping into all that energy.
So here’s a different sort of passion play: three characters subsumed by different levels of religious zeal, and each for their own reason. Though Bunin’s obviously written a play, there’s no sense of predestination for any of them, and their worlds joyfully, and then tragically, commingle. The first, Hannah (Clayburgh) is the full-on Episcopalian, a minister trying to make the world better, all the while failing to see her own personal hell. Her rival, Thomas, is the traditional rebellious son—wild, agnostic, and self-confident. Brandt, an inhibited but spirited ghostwriter, is the pivotal third, stuck in the middle after being hired to help complete Hannah’s discourse of a newly discovered gospel.
Brandt is in turmoil because his father has an inoperable brain tumor, but he falls in love with Thomas’s world-wizened ways anyway, and begins dating him after some surprising encouragement from Hannah. Then again, perhaps not so surprising, given Hannah’s role as a friendly manipulator who hides her own staggering hurt behind a religious shield. As the play continues, Hannah’s callous chessmanship seems perfectly natural—shouldn’t a mother try to prevent her son from following too far in his suicidal father’s footsteps? And that, perhaps, is the most revelatory moment of The Busy World Is Hushed: how perfectly normal it all seems. These are real characters: you prick them, and they do bleed.
This is truest of Hamish Linklater, who plays Brandt. Though Brant uses the classic loner act to bolster himself—sarcasm and self-deprecation—Linklater finds all the little movements, shifts, or pauses that expose, ever so slightly, all the cracks. We watch him bloom in his relationship with Thomas, and when he finally breaks, it’s like watching all the groundwork come to fruition. As for Thomas, he is such a rebel that in lesser hands, his charisma steals every scene (and thereby ruins the dynamic of the show). As played by Macfarlane, the role instead becomes that of the invaluable player on the court who takes one for the team with an assist rather than a slam-dunk.
One of Bunin’s themes is that notorious contradiction: why would a loving God allow there to be such pain? Wisely, he doesn’t take a stance. He steps back and allows his characters to show both sides, and their balanced treatment does more for religion than a million angry voices. (Bunin’s beautiful, beautiful prose doesn’t hurt his cause: “All souls are forged in pain, and burnished in death.”) The Busy World Is Hushed is one more reason never to sacrifice character for politics, and a reminder that the quiet are often louder than the shrill.
[Aaron Riccio]
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Playwrights Horizons (416 West 42nd Street)
Tickets (212-279-4200): $65.00
Schedule: Tuesday-Saturday @ 8:00; Saturday/Sunday @ 2:30; Sunday @ 7:30
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
The Happy Idea by Maria Perez-Martinez
Little Miss Maple Leaf McCoy…living in a house with three other unforgettable characters: Angus (old and stubborn), Mrs. B. (Landlord) and Terence Harper (quite a mystery for a while). It is no wonder with names like these, and living in such a quaint little situation that life would seem happy. But as we soon find out, things are never what they seem.
It is no surprise that Maple Leaf (a name the character adopted) sounds a lot like Make-Believe and that she is not the only one in the show who pretends they live in a better world than they actually do. Angus is an old actor, struggling to write his memoirs. A man who claims he has “worked with the best of ‘em”! And Mrs. B.: an old woman whose lost her family and is desperately trying to replace them with her new tenants. Maple Leaf sings in a nightclub and tries her best to believe that she is famous. And Terrence... well he is the least like what he pretends to be.
At one point, Terrence states, “Kindness is just an idea, no one really uses it”. The parallel is immediately present. Happiness as just an idea. It doesn’t really exist at all, nor can you make it appear by pretending your life is one way when it is simply another.
This dark-comedy is cast exceptionally well and is a work of creativity and uniqueness. It speaks to all of us who many times pretend that life is exactly the way we want it to be. But as it seems, life is just one big Happy Idea.
45th Street Theatre
354 W. 45th Street
New York
212-868-4444
It is no surprise that Maple Leaf (a name the character adopted) sounds a lot like Make-Believe and that she is not the only one in the show who pretends they live in a better world than they actually do. Angus is an old actor, struggling to write his memoirs. A man who claims he has “worked with the best of ‘em”! And Mrs. B.: an old woman whose lost her family and is desperately trying to replace them with her new tenants. Maple Leaf sings in a nightclub and tries her best to believe that she is famous. And Terrence... well he is the least like what he pretends to be.
At one point, Terrence states, “Kindness is just an idea, no one really uses it”. The parallel is immediately present. Happiness as just an idea. It doesn’t really exist at all, nor can you make it appear by pretending your life is one way when it is simply another.
This dark-comedy is cast exceptionally well and is a work of creativity and uniqueness. It speaks to all of us who many times pretend that life is exactly the way we want it to be. But as it seems, life is just one big Happy Idea.
45th Street Theatre
354 W. 45th Street
New York
212-868-4444
Nosotras Lo Hacemos Mejor!/We Women Do It Better! By Maria Perez-Martinez
So what exactly do we women do better? Well, according to Roberto Ramos-Perea’s play, Everything! From learning not to live like our parents to knowing how to change when after our mistakes, we women do it better.
This hilarious one-woman show (oddly enough - written by a man), showcases the life of Teresa Allyson Perez (played remarkably by Merel Julia). In a workshop that the audience is attending, Teresa teaches us life’s by using her own life as support. As she says, you have to live everything yourself. Everything Teresa talks about and teaches about, comes from experiences within her own life and she can therefore, teach us what not to do. And by us, it’s mainly women I’m talking about.
Still, while the show is geared toward women, there are many moments within the show where the men become involved. Teresa talks to them and throws questions at them. She simultaneously tells the women what not to do while showing men what it is that they actually do.
Throughout her life, Teresa reveals how everything around her has had to do with men. As a child, she idolized her father (drunk and abusive as he was) and for most of her life, found herself running into men just like him. Teresa’s lessons (and there are many!) are used in order to show women (and some men) what we look and act like from an outsider’s perspective. Because while it may be Teresa’s life we are watching, every person in that audience related to at least one of her stories, if not more.
But why, how and when are women better? Because they learn from their mistakes, they change their lives with this newfound knowledge and they keep it with them permanently. This show is inspiring, funny and fantastic for any person who would just like to debate why women are better…because we are.
Thalia Spanish Theatre
41-17 Greenpoint Avenue
New York
www.thaliatheatre.org
This hilarious one-woman show (oddly enough - written by a man), showcases the life of Teresa Allyson Perez (played remarkably by Merel Julia). In a workshop that the audience is attending, Teresa teaches us life’s by using her own life as support. As she says, you have to live everything yourself. Everything Teresa talks about and teaches about, comes from experiences within her own life and she can therefore, teach us what not to do. And by us, it’s mainly women I’m talking about.
Still, while the show is geared toward women, there are many moments within the show where the men become involved. Teresa talks to them and throws questions at them. She simultaneously tells the women what not to do while showing men what it is that they actually do.
Throughout her life, Teresa reveals how everything around her has had to do with men. As a child, she idolized her father (drunk and abusive as he was) and for most of her life, found herself running into men just like him. Teresa’s lessons (and there are many!) are used in order to show women (and some men) what we look and act like from an outsider’s perspective. Because while it may be Teresa’s life we are watching, every person in that audience related to at least one of her stories, if not more.
But why, how and when are women better? Because they learn from their mistakes, they change their lives with this newfound knowledge and they keep it with them permanently. This show is inspiring, funny and fantastic for any person who would just like to debate why women are better…because we are.
Thalia Spanish Theatre
41-17 Greenpoint Avenue
New York
www.thaliatheatre.org
Saturday, June 17, 2006
Cherish
Reviewed by: Nicholas Linnehan
Nicu's Spoon, a non for profit theater company, premiered Cherish by Ken Duncum. This melodramatic story of two gay couples trying to raise children is thought-provoking. Duncum's script is overly dramatic and too episodic at times, detracts from the power of the play.
However, Alvaro Sena (Tom) does an excellent job of finding honesty in his portrayal of a man trying to raise a child after his best friend betrays him. He fills his acting, with bravado, passion, and urgency. This makes him a delight to watch!
Despite partially Duncum's flawed script, Cherish will stir your emotions and make you laugh. The content of this play outweighs the manner in which it is being told.
Friday, June 16, 2006
The Gold Standard
by Aaron Riccio
You need more than miles and miles of heart; you need characters too. And Daniel Roberts, with his new play, The Gold Standard has them: four standards revolving around one marvelous eccentric, and the wonderfully poetic dark comedy that follows.
Is like, Daniel Roberts found an engaging character, latched on to him, and rode him all the way home. Is like, the script is full of such clever dialogue that you don’t mind the standard “man steals other man’s girlfriend” plot. Is like, the rhythm of this eccentric Korean poet, this hurdy-gurdy machine of broken words and fortune cookie statements, fuels something so much bigger than itself that The Gold Standard appreciates in value with every minute he’s on stage. In the words of the playwright, is like life is a dream for people like that, but “only problem is world full of alarm clock.” Well, this is the play that lets you stay in that dream.
Short of a horrifically staged fight scene and an all-too tidy resolution to this dark comedy, there’s nothing negative I can say about The Gold Standard. Like the play’s drink of choice, the sea breeze, all the dialogue is loose, sweet, and airy, and despite the play’s violent, bitter—necessary—second act, quite comedic. Somewhere in the midst of John getting the girl of his dreams, Olivia, wooed out from under him by his ultra-smooth former classmate, Krego, it stops being a laughing matter—even more so when we tack on the baggage these characters are holding on to. Somehow, even in the midst of molestation, Roberts keeps the script buoyant, though it takes Yasu Suzuki's spellbinding performance to bring Krego’s drunken meltdown to life.
The effort to maintain a side-plot for the bartender, Malcolm, and his assistant Nomi, is valiant, but doomed to mediocrity. The two serve better as foils, especially since Jordan Charney’s gruff, but lovable bartender is a cliché, and Alie Carey’s sassy, but lovable apprentice isn’t far off from being the same. To that end, director Alex Lippard jumps at every opportunity to get the two offstage so that he can focus on the lovers, and while this does leave a lot of empty space—the emptiest bar in the world—it also makes it clear where the action is taking place. Not that any of it’s ambiguous: if anything, Antony Hagopian (as the loser, John) and Sabine Singh (as the user, Olivia) are so believable that Roberts barely needs to fill in their back-stories.
Even if the plot isn’t exactly surprising, the way it unfolds is—all the while punctuated by the beautiful broken English of Krego: “Too bad dying human don’t look as pretty as dying leaf. Hospital would be colorful place.” Or, “My man Jackson Pollock; he say genius is to madness like flair gun is to atom bomb.” This is the gold standard: a consistent play filled with soft, yet firm, beauty. A play that can only appreciate, and be appreciated.
[Aaron Riccio]
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Irish Arts Center (553 W 51st Street)
Tickets (212-868-4444): $15.00
Performances: Thursday-Saturday @ 8:00
Is like, Daniel Roberts found an engaging character, latched on to him, and rode him all the way home. Is like, the script is full of such clever dialogue that you don’t mind the standard “man steals other man’s girlfriend” plot. Is like, the rhythm of this eccentric Korean poet, this hurdy-gurdy machine of broken words and fortune cookie statements, fuels something so much bigger than itself that The Gold Standard appreciates in value with every minute he’s on stage. In the words of the playwright, is like life is a dream for people like that, but “only problem is world full of alarm clock.” Well, this is the play that lets you stay in that dream.
Short of a horrifically staged fight scene and an all-too tidy resolution to this dark comedy, there’s nothing negative I can say about The Gold Standard. Like the play’s drink of choice, the sea breeze, all the dialogue is loose, sweet, and airy, and despite the play’s violent, bitter—necessary—second act, quite comedic. Somewhere in the midst of John getting the girl of his dreams, Olivia, wooed out from under him by his ultra-smooth former classmate, Krego, it stops being a laughing matter—even more so when we tack on the baggage these characters are holding on to. Somehow, even in the midst of molestation, Roberts keeps the script buoyant, though it takes Yasu Suzuki's spellbinding performance to bring Krego’s drunken meltdown to life.
The effort to maintain a side-plot for the bartender, Malcolm, and his assistant Nomi, is valiant, but doomed to mediocrity. The two serve better as foils, especially since Jordan Charney’s gruff, but lovable bartender is a cliché, and Alie Carey’s sassy, but lovable apprentice isn’t far off from being the same. To that end, director Alex Lippard jumps at every opportunity to get the two offstage so that he can focus on the lovers, and while this does leave a lot of empty space—the emptiest bar in the world—it also makes it clear where the action is taking place. Not that any of it’s ambiguous: if anything, Antony Hagopian (as the loser, John) and Sabine Singh (as the user, Olivia) are so believable that Roberts barely needs to fill in their back-stories.
Even if the plot isn’t exactly surprising, the way it unfolds is—all the while punctuated by the beautiful broken English of Krego: “Too bad dying human don’t look as pretty as dying leaf. Hospital would be colorful place.” Or, “My man Jackson Pollock; he say genius is to madness like flair gun is to atom bomb.” This is the gold standard: a consistent play filled with soft, yet firm, beauty. A play that can only appreciate, and be appreciated.
[Aaron Riccio]
------------------------------------------------
Irish Arts Center (553 W 51st Street)
Tickets (212-868-4444): $15.00
Performances: Thursday-Saturday @ 8:00
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Dead City
by Aaron Riccio
“Yes I said yes I will yes,” reads Joyce’s Ulysses, and it ought to continue with, “see Sheila Callaghan’s new play Dead City.” Callaghan’s work is inspired by Joyce, but not so much in plot as in the telling: a one-day account of Samantha Blossom’s (get it?) life and her fated encounters with Jewel, a starving poet. With a set of earthy revolving walls and a projector screen, director Daniella Topol flings open Callaghan’s already loose words, and for a hundred minutes, the city becomes like an oyster filled with infinite pearls.
Through a series of encounters in various Manhattan locales (like The Strand), Dead City traces the everyday struggle to feel like one exists. The internal creeps into the physical, which is where we see echoes of Joyce (though Callaghan’s beautiful language is her own). One minute, Samantha is catching up with an old friend, the next, that friend is asking about Samantha’s dead son. At a massage parlor, two masseuses are suddenly grilling her about the affair she’s contemplating with her postmodern online beau. Later, her thoughts project across the wall in a multimedia frenzy of stream-of-consciousness, and, in a dream sequence, as animation. For all the surreal tactics and alternative forms of expression—like a flying taxi—none of this seems out of place; Callaghan has created a fluid, lyrical world that riffs on reality as if it were jazz (which, if it’s not, should be).
To accommodate the myriad characters, Dead City presses an ensemble of five to the limit, casting each in at least three roles. Some are clearer than others (like the endlessly talented Rebecca Hart), and some are more versatile (like Alfredo Narciso), but the whole ensemble reeks of talent. Outside the ensemble, Elizabeth Norment (Samantha) centers and uncenters the show with her brilliant mental oscillations, while April Matthis (Jewel) grows more genuine by the minute.
Save for a humorous funeral, there’s nothing dead in Dead City; this sweeping production revitalizes an art form that prefers to imitate. This is the real McCoy, illusions and all, and like Ulysses, should soon fit the oxymoronic bill of a modern classic.
[Aaron Riccio]
Through a series of encounters in various Manhattan locales (like The Strand), Dead City traces the everyday struggle to feel like one exists. The internal creeps into the physical, which is where we see echoes of Joyce (though Callaghan’s beautiful language is her own). One minute, Samantha is catching up with an old friend, the next, that friend is asking about Samantha’s dead son. At a massage parlor, two masseuses are suddenly grilling her about the affair she’s contemplating with her postmodern online beau. Later, her thoughts project across the wall in a multimedia frenzy of stream-of-consciousness, and, in a dream sequence, as animation. For all the surreal tactics and alternative forms of expression—like a flying taxi—none of this seems out of place; Callaghan has created a fluid, lyrical world that riffs on reality as if it were jazz (which, if it’s not, should be).
To accommodate the myriad characters, Dead City presses an ensemble of five to the limit, casting each in at least three roles. Some are clearer than others (like the endlessly talented Rebecca Hart), and some are more versatile (like Alfredo Narciso), but the whole ensemble reeks of talent. Outside the ensemble, Elizabeth Norment (Samantha) centers and uncenters the show with her brilliant mental oscillations, while April Matthis (Jewel) grows more genuine by the minute.
Save for a humorous funeral, there’s nothing dead in Dead City; this sweeping production revitalizes an art form that prefers to imitate. This is the real McCoy, illusions and all, and like Ulysses, should soon fit the oxymoronic bill of a modern classic.
[Aaron Riccio]
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Dead City by Maria Perez-Martinez
Oftentimes, when you talk to a married man, he’ll tell you that the one thing he hates most about his wife is when she asks him, “What are you thinking?” Women seem to be just fascinated with knowing the every thought and dream of the ones we love. Why? Because we think and dream A LOT ourselves. And if you don’t want to take my word for it, then Dead City is a show you must see.
Following the character of Samantha (portrayed stunningly by Elizabeth Norment) throughout the course of one day, we get to see every single one of her thoughts as she grows and changes with every person she encounters. It is obvious from the beginning that Samantha is just one of those people who others never notice. One of those people who are practically invisible their entire lives. But as the play progresses she learns a lesson from one of the most unexpected places – a homely character by the name of Jewel.
Jewel is actually the first person you meet on stage. Played by April Matthis, Jewel seems very different from everyone else in this New York City based life. She is the poet. The outcast. And yet, Samantha understands Jewel’s language perfectly. They are two women lost in this maze that life has thrown at them and together, they learn from one another. Samantha learns that she actually exists (a defining moment for her) and Jewel learns that there are other people in the world besides herself. That there is someone out there who actually understands her.
From beginning to end, we watch as Samantha grows and changes throughout her day (it’s no coincidence that her last name Blossom). She becomes something entirely different from where she started and by the end, she makes herself known. A perfect touch added by the playwright at the finale, is having Samantha end up in the same place she started. But everyone has seen her mind, her thoughts, her past and her future. You almost never want the play to end just to see where she goes next. Dead City (aptly named) is a fantastic show with a superb, multi-talented (multi-roled) cast. A feast for the eyes and mind.
3LD Art and Technology Center
80 Greenwich Street, New York
Open until Saturday, June 24th, 2006
Following the character of Samantha (portrayed stunningly by Elizabeth Norment) throughout the course of one day, we get to see every single one of her thoughts as she grows and changes with every person she encounters. It is obvious from the beginning that Samantha is just one of those people who others never notice. One of those people who are practically invisible their entire lives. But as the play progresses she learns a lesson from one of the most unexpected places – a homely character by the name of Jewel.
Jewel is actually the first person you meet on stage. Played by April Matthis, Jewel seems very different from everyone else in this New York City based life. She is the poet. The outcast. And yet, Samantha understands Jewel’s language perfectly. They are two women lost in this maze that life has thrown at them and together, they learn from one another. Samantha learns that she actually exists (a defining moment for her) and Jewel learns that there are other people in the world besides herself. That there is someone out there who actually understands her.
From beginning to end, we watch as Samantha grows and changes throughout her day (it’s no coincidence that her last name Blossom). She becomes something entirely different from where she started and by the end, she makes herself known. A perfect touch added by the playwright at the finale, is having Samantha end up in the same place she started. But everyone has seen her mind, her thoughts, her past and her future. You almost never want the play to end just to see where she goes next. Dead City (aptly named) is a fantastic show with a superb, multi-talented (multi-roled) cast. A feast for the eyes and mind.
3LD Art and Technology Center
80 Greenwich Street, New York
Open until Saturday, June 24th, 2006
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Hello, Dolly! by Matt Windman
The sexiest possible moment in a musical does not involve nudity, but it does date back to the days of Ziegfeld. It happens when a young or adult woman (think Ruby Keeler) dances with an abundant army of men, or vice versa (think Fred Astaire). As such, is it no surprise that the title song of “Hello, Dolly!” – where Dolly sings with a corps of waiters – has become one of the most beloved scenes in musical theater.
Jerry Herman’s “Hello, Dolly!” which is based on Thorton Wilder’s “The Matchmaker,” is all about embracing life’s possibilities. Allow us to summarize the musical in song: “Before the Parade Passes By,” you must “Put on Your Sunday Clothes,” go “Dancing,” get some “Elegance,” proudly put “Ribbons Down Your Back,” remember that “It Only Takes a Moment” to fall in love, and finally shout “Hello, Dolly!” in happiness.
But in spite of the musical’s popularity, its title role continues to be associated only with Carol Channing. (Barbra Streisand played the role in the film, regrettably). As such, musical theater fans had been guessing for months over who would play Dolly in the Papermill Playhouse’s revival. The choice of Tovah Feldshuh, who is best known to theater audiences as the Israeli Prime Minister of “Golda’s Balcony,” was a big surprise.
It is a relief to report that Feldshuh is fantastic as Dolly Gallagher Levi. Those familiar with the show should be aware that Feldshuh performs the role with an Irish accent, a choice that stresses the Gallagher side over the Levi (i.e. Jewish) one. To be successful, Dolly must be confident, warm and sarcastic. But above all, she is a clown. Feldshuh has made new choices that make authentic eccentricities. And to add icing to the cake, she is a wonderful singer!
As director, Mark S. Hoebee also brings out effective performances from Kate Baldwin as Irene Molloy, Jessica-Snow Wilson as Minnie Fay, Walter Charles as Horace Vandergelder, and Jonathan Rayson as Cornelius. Mia Michaels’ choreography is fine, though her staging of the title song resembles grinding rather than dancing.
The current revival of Jerry Herman’s “Mame,” which opened two weeks ago at the Kennedy Center in Washington, D.C., is enjoyable but half-baked. This revival of “Dolly!” has no known plans to move anywhere, but it is one of Papermill’s best musicals in many years and a crowd-pleasing, smashing success.
Papermill Playhouse, Brookside Drive, Millburn, NJ. 973-376-4343. $19-68. Wed 7:30pm, Thurs 2 & 7:30pm, Fri 8pm, Sat 2 & 8pm, Sun 2 & 7:30pm. Through July 23.
Jerry Herman’s “Hello, Dolly!” which is based on Thorton Wilder’s “The Matchmaker,” is all about embracing life’s possibilities. Allow us to summarize the musical in song: “Before the Parade Passes By,” you must “Put on Your Sunday Clothes,” go “Dancing,” get some “Elegance,” proudly put “Ribbons Down Your Back,” remember that “It Only Takes a Moment” to fall in love, and finally shout “Hello, Dolly!” in happiness.
But in spite of the musical’s popularity, its title role continues to be associated only with Carol Channing. (Barbra Streisand played the role in the film, regrettably). As such, musical theater fans had been guessing for months over who would play Dolly in the Papermill Playhouse’s revival. The choice of Tovah Feldshuh, who is best known to theater audiences as the Israeli Prime Minister of “Golda’s Balcony,” was a big surprise.
It is a relief to report that Feldshuh is fantastic as Dolly Gallagher Levi. Those familiar with the show should be aware that Feldshuh performs the role with an Irish accent, a choice that stresses the Gallagher side over the Levi (i.e. Jewish) one. To be successful, Dolly must be confident, warm and sarcastic. But above all, she is a clown. Feldshuh has made new choices that make authentic eccentricities. And to add icing to the cake, she is a wonderful singer!
As director, Mark S. Hoebee also brings out effective performances from Kate Baldwin as Irene Molloy, Jessica-Snow Wilson as Minnie Fay, Walter Charles as Horace Vandergelder, and Jonathan Rayson as Cornelius. Mia Michaels’ choreography is fine, though her staging of the title song resembles grinding rather than dancing.
The current revival of Jerry Herman’s “Mame,” which opened two weeks ago at the Kennedy Center in Washington, D.C., is enjoyable but half-baked. This revival of “Dolly!” has no known plans to move anywhere, but it is one of Papermill’s best musicals in many years and a crowd-pleasing, smashing success.
Papermill Playhouse, Brookside Drive, Millburn, NJ. 973-376-4343. $19-68. Wed 7:30pm, Thurs 2 & 7:30pm, Fri 8pm, Sat 2 & 8pm, Sun 2 & 7:30pm. Through July 23.
Arabian Night
by Aaron Riccio
The nice thing about the modern fairytale is that even when it’s not particularly affecting, the presentation’s always worth the price of admission. I thought this about Devil Land; I feel the same about Arabian Night, The Play Company’s import from prolific German playwright Roland Schimmelpfennig. The script, which bounces back and forth between the thoughts of five mysteriously drawn-together tenants on a hot and magical night, comes across largely as wordplay—more a narrative trick than a necessity. Furthermore, Schimmelpfennig’s disparate blend of comedic drama often causes the one to obscure the other (as if the revolving narrative wasn’t already dizzying enough). And yet, while some might object to the sudden twist that places one character inside a bottle of brandy, and another in the middle of an Arabian desert, others might allow themselves to be entertained by the stupefying absurdity of it—a circus of the uncanny.
Would that Schimmelpfennig’s script made more of the premise, or that his endless devices actually worked their way to a resolution. Because they don’t, the play ends up with a limited scope (which is how I feel about other Schimmelpfennig works, like The Woman Before) and a mostly dispassionate set of characters running in circles through the circus’s three rings. So far as this big top imagery goes, director Trip Cullman makes for a brilliant ringleader, and the imaginative leaps of the script force him to be innovative (whereas with Dog Sees God, he was simply stilted and mundane).
Boxed in on three sides by the audience, Louisa Thompson’s three-dimensional, multi-leveled set is an amalgam of various parts of the apartment complex, each bleeding into the other, a bit like the Pompidou building. The scope of the stage succeeds where the script does not, and makes everything seem so much more important than it is. It also allows for some nifty physical feats, like a climactic chase through the hallways. In addition, thanks largely to Lenore Doxsee’s spot-on lighting, the performers also take on a larger-than-life presence, important for the jigsaw-like scenes that overlap one another. (In particular, Brandon Miller, who plays the bookish, doomed Peter Karpati, becomes arresting once he takes on a greenish glow and has an echo added to his voice.)
As I said before, Cullman’s orchestration of all the different tiers of action and design brings out his Broadway potential, even as Schimmelpfennig’s script persists in slowing down all the action. The cast needs to pick up their cues—that’s true—but even if they did this sixty-five-minute show in fifty-five, there’d still be a lot of dead space. For all the boundary-pushing narrative, Schimmelpfennig is careful not to take his idea where it needs to be: five truly overlapping narratives, filled with real missed connections, rather than neatly shelved moments.
A real fairytale has a moral—most often a warning—but Arabian Night seems determined to do without, intent on deconstructing itself. Allow me to supply one: all that glitters is golden, but you can’t take it with you.
[Aaron Riccio]
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East Thirteenth Street Theater (136 East 13th Street)
Tickets (212-279-4200): $35.00
Performances: Monday-Saturday @ 8:00 / Saturday @ 2:00
Would that Schimmelpfennig’s script made more of the premise, or that his endless devices actually worked their way to a resolution. Because they don’t, the play ends up with a limited scope (which is how I feel about other Schimmelpfennig works, like The Woman Before) and a mostly dispassionate set of characters running in circles through the circus’s three rings. So far as this big top imagery goes, director Trip Cullman makes for a brilliant ringleader, and the imaginative leaps of the script force him to be innovative (whereas with Dog Sees God, he was simply stilted and mundane).
Boxed in on three sides by the audience, Louisa Thompson’s three-dimensional, multi-leveled set is an amalgam of various parts of the apartment complex, each bleeding into the other, a bit like the Pompidou building. The scope of the stage succeeds where the script does not, and makes everything seem so much more important than it is. It also allows for some nifty physical feats, like a climactic chase through the hallways. In addition, thanks largely to Lenore Doxsee’s spot-on lighting, the performers also take on a larger-than-life presence, important for the jigsaw-like scenes that overlap one another. (In particular, Brandon Miller, who plays the bookish, doomed Peter Karpati, becomes arresting once he takes on a greenish glow and has an echo added to his voice.)
As I said before, Cullman’s orchestration of all the different tiers of action and design brings out his Broadway potential, even as Schimmelpfennig’s script persists in slowing down all the action. The cast needs to pick up their cues—that’s true—but even if they did this sixty-five-minute show in fifty-five, there’d still be a lot of dead space. For all the boundary-pushing narrative, Schimmelpfennig is careful not to take his idea where it needs to be: five truly overlapping narratives, filled with real missed connections, rather than neatly shelved moments.
A real fairytale has a moral—most often a warning—but Arabian Night seems determined to do without, intent on deconstructing itself. Allow me to supply one: all that glitters is golden, but you can’t take it with you.
[Aaron Riccio]
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East Thirteenth Street Theater (136 East 13th Street)
Tickets (212-279-4200): $35.00
Performances: Monday-Saturday @ 8:00 / Saturday @ 2:00
Sunday, June 11, 2006
The Exonerated
Reviewed by: Nicholas Linnehan
The Exonerated, written by Jessica Blank and Erik Jensen, depicts the tales of 6 real life people sentenced to death row and are later found innocent. This show has the potential to be powerful. Unfortunately, Hope Productions delivers a mediocre version.
The casts performances are flat and lack emotional investment, leaving one to wonder about the connection to their work. However Kimberly Nicole and Melvin P. Huffnagle are exceptional as their work is vibrant and full.
This production was well-intentioned as it benefits the real survivors of death row. It was a noble effort that fell short of being a great piece of theater.
The Exonerated
Reviewed by: Nicholas Linnehan
The Exonerated, written by Jessica Blank and Erik Jensen, depicts the tales af 6 real life people sentenced to death row and are later found innocent. This show has the potential to be powerful. Unfortunately, Hope Productions delivers a mediocre version.
The casts performances are flat and lack emotional investment, leaving one to wonder about the connection to their work. However Kimberly Nicole and Melvin P. Huffnagle are exceptional as their work is vibrant and full.
This production was well-intentioned as it benefits the real survivors of death row. It was a noble effort that fell short of being a great piece of theater.
Security
by Aaron Riccio
Eight funny one acts. One unfunny theme. That's an odd amalgam of farce and rhetoric, but the evening's saucy, charming, and, most importantly, hip.
Security isn’t a play: it’s a collection of playful riffs on a theme—perfect for such an intangible ideal. The majority of these are political farces (an easy topic), from the elusive double-talk of government to gun control to the circus of world affairs. Two focus on the off-again-on-again rights of women, from the smarmy Victorian work of marital blackmail (“The Proposal”) to the sexually liberated American woman today (“100 Years War”). There are also pure character pieces: the gun-toting elderly couple of P. Seth Bauer’s “Killing Squirrels in Sleep Hollow,” the type of inadvertent racists who, nervous that there’s a robber downstairs, take the time to point out that “You don’t know he’s a Mexican. He could be black.”
For the thinkers, there’s a brilliant monologue, much like the recent Thom Paine, that dismantles the barrier between audience and action (“Don’t Quit”). For me, this quietly effective piece—written by C. Denby Swanson, coyly performed by Don Carter, and gracefully directed by Matthew Cowart—was the highlight of the evening . . . and that was before I was targeted by Mr. Carter. Also of note, Paul Siefken’s “Circus Berzerkus,” a hip-hop exploitation of the Bush Administration, buoyantly staged by Shana Gold and entertainingly emceed by K-Rove himself (Allesandro Colla).
You won’t find a better comedic value anywhere in the city, though to be fair, the acting is not always up to par with the writing. But even at its worst, Security (which will premiere another eight shorts in the fall) remains unflaggingly entertaining. The topic is a universal one, and even when the presentation is compressed and contrived, as in Kat Mc Camy’s “Safety Off,” there’s still enough truth to help us feel connected. The evening's only odd decision is to stage both Brian Dykstra’s “Bells and Whistles” and Neil Olson’s “Zahara.” Both deal with various government agencies working over and around one another, and the closeness in theme makes Dykstra’s incredibly flat, even though it has more characters and wordplay. Olson’s script, set in a featureless airport holding cell, observes the finicky nature of a government that one day uses innocents to smuggle weapons to friendly terrorists (e.g., anti-Iranian ones), only to arrest them for treason the next.
At about fifteen minutes each, the one-acts don’t run long enough to feel played out (if anything, they feel rushed). The Drilling CompaNY’s mission is to provide a springboard, and they succeed doubly, helping both to launch the careers of many talented artists as well as to provoke the thoughts of the audience.
[Aaron Riccio]
-----------------------------------------------------------
78th Street Theater Lab (236 West 78th Street)
Tickets (212-414-7717): $18.00
Performances: Wednesday – Saturday @ 7:30 / Sunday @ 3:00
Security isn’t a play: it’s a collection of playful riffs on a theme—perfect for such an intangible ideal. The majority of these are political farces (an easy topic), from the elusive double-talk of government to gun control to the circus of world affairs. Two focus on the off-again-on-again rights of women, from the smarmy Victorian work of marital blackmail (“The Proposal”) to the sexually liberated American woman today (“100 Years War”). There are also pure character pieces: the gun-toting elderly couple of P. Seth Bauer’s “Killing Squirrels in Sleep Hollow,” the type of inadvertent racists who, nervous that there’s a robber downstairs, take the time to point out that “You don’t know he’s a Mexican. He could be black.”
For the thinkers, there’s a brilliant monologue, much like the recent Thom Paine, that dismantles the barrier between audience and action (“Don’t Quit”). For me, this quietly effective piece—written by C. Denby Swanson, coyly performed by Don Carter, and gracefully directed by Matthew Cowart—was the highlight of the evening . . . and that was before I was targeted by Mr. Carter. Also of note, Paul Siefken’s “Circus Berzerkus,” a hip-hop exploitation of the Bush Administration, buoyantly staged by Shana Gold and entertainingly emceed by K-Rove himself (Allesandro Colla).
You won’t find a better comedic value anywhere in the city, though to be fair, the acting is not always up to par with the writing. But even at its worst, Security (which will premiere another eight shorts in the fall) remains unflaggingly entertaining. The topic is a universal one, and even when the presentation is compressed and contrived, as in Kat Mc Camy’s “Safety Off,” there’s still enough truth to help us feel connected. The evening's only odd decision is to stage both Brian Dykstra’s “Bells and Whistles” and Neil Olson’s “Zahara.” Both deal with various government agencies working over and around one another, and the closeness in theme makes Dykstra’s incredibly flat, even though it has more characters and wordplay. Olson’s script, set in a featureless airport holding cell, observes the finicky nature of a government that one day uses innocents to smuggle weapons to friendly terrorists (e.g., anti-Iranian ones), only to arrest them for treason the next.
At about fifteen minutes each, the one-acts don’t run long enough to feel played out (if anything, they feel rushed). The Drilling CompaNY’s mission is to provide a springboard, and they succeed doubly, helping both to launch the careers of many talented artists as well as to provoke the thoughts of the audience.
[Aaron Riccio]
-----------------------------------------------------------
78th Street Theater Lab (236 West 78th Street)
Tickets (212-414-7717): $18.00
Performances: Wednesday – Saturday @ 7:30 / Sunday @ 3:00
Saturday, June 10, 2006
I Have Loved Strangers
Reviewed by: Nicholas Linnehan
Laura Flanagan (Emily) adds to a strong ensemble by delivering a profound performance as the complex terrorist trying to fight the resistance. She also brings much-needed humor into this intensely serious play. Equally compelling is Jennifer Ruby Smith (Ruthie) who plays the wife of one of "prophets". Her character struggles with her ability to trust in her husband’s gift. She delivers well with her ability to show the inner struggle of the woman. Both these women fill their characters with honesty and vibrant energy that engages the audience.
While this play does not offer any definitive answers to the questions it raises (how could it?). It provokes one to think, question, and contemplate. While it may take an audience member a while to "digest" the poignancy of this piece, it is definitely worth seeing and thinking about. It is a shame that few plays today tend to do this, which makes I Have Loved Strangers a great piece of theater!
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Sister by Maria Perez-Martinez
When it comes to the word “sister” in Mario Fratti’s play by the same name, there are many meanings that can be derived from the show. First, and most obvious, is the allusion to the character Rosanna who is herself a sister and daughter. But after a while, when you begin to wonder why the play would be named after someone who doesn’t appear in most of the first act, you begin to wonder why else this title would be chosen. That is when the second definition of “sister” arises: sister – as in Nun – as in a woman who is extremely pure and virtuous. This definition fits so perfectly within the play.
The story focuses on a small family of three – a brother, a sister and a mother. Each with their own issues and questions about life and most importantly, about love. The women in the play want to better understand men – why they betray, why they can easily move from one woman to the next without care. The young man in the play also wants to understand the opposite sex better: why women choose to be disobedient and why they don’t always strive to make their men happy.
What it all boils down to eventually is man’s betrayal and whether or not a woman actually needs a man to survive. Sometimes it seems as if a woman’s entire life is based around the existence of man in it. But this play shows a family who all agree to decide that life is about more than needing a husband or a father. It is about appreciating the family you do have and loving the people who stand by you no matter what.
The great cast of Sister (Eleanor Ruth, Brian Voelcker and Shân Willis) do a wonderful job portraying three totally different people locked together within this family. The show raises many questions about love and the opposite sex that makes sure your experience does not end at the curtain call. You are left with so much to think about and so much to question yourself. The plot itself is very entertaining (with a twist you never see coming) and highly inquisitive. If only everything could make us think about so much.
La MaMa e.t.c
74A E. Fourth Street, New York
www.lamama.org
The story focuses on a small family of three – a brother, a sister and a mother. Each with their own issues and questions about life and most importantly, about love. The women in the play want to better understand men – why they betray, why they can easily move from one woman to the next without care. The young man in the play also wants to understand the opposite sex better: why women choose to be disobedient and why they don’t always strive to make their men happy.
What it all boils down to eventually is man’s betrayal and whether or not a woman actually needs a man to survive. Sometimes it seems as if a woman’s entire life is based around the existence of man in it. But this play shows a family who all agree to decide that life is about more than needing a husband or a father. It is about appreciating the family you do have and loving the people who stand by you no matter what.
The great cast of Sister (Eleanor Ruth, Brian Voelcker and Shân Willis) do a wonderful job portraying three totally different people locked together within this family. The show raises many questions about love and the opposite sex that makes sure your experience does not end at the curtain call. You are left with so much to think about and so much to question yourself. The plot itself is very entertaining (with a twist you never see coming) and highly inquisitive. If only everything could make us think about so much.
La MaMa e.t.c
74A E. Fourth Street, New York
www.lamama.org
Thursday, June 01, 2006
The History Boys
by Aaron Riccio
The show becomes much like a class: a broad study in a wide variety of theatrical forms, well-presented by talented teachers, and a potpourri of quotes and snippets, none of which move the heart ever so much as the teacher would like to believe.
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As a comedy, The History Boys is simply brill. It’s an ace work that demonstrates the profound ridiculousness of high school, especially the extra preparatory classes for college. Although it’s a British import, things are pretty much the same there as here, save for a few lexical issues, and it’s good that they’ve implanted the whole cast, since they’re bazzin’. The problem is, The History Boys is not presented as a comedy—at least, not entirely. There’s a niggling undertone of dramatics, involving a beloved but eccentric teacher, who has the slight habit of molesting his children, often while riding them home on his motorcycle.
Though it’s easy to believe that Hector (Richard Griffith) has a passion for pure teaching—he dislikes the idea of his students using the information he’s teaching them to pass their upcoming college exams—it’s hard to see him in that other light, and harder still to see everyone so breezily accepting that. “I wonder if we’ll be scarred for life,” remarks one student (who actually turns out—though it’s presented comically—to be scarred for life). Says the other, glibly, “I certainly hope so. Maybe I’ll turn out like Proust.” These attempts to make a dark subject funny go awry because while at first they draw the shocked laughs of the Durang class, the abrupt return to reality makes one wonder what’s actually so funny about it.
Another problem with Alan Bennett’s play, at least for the under-40 crowd, is his source material. Hector’s class draws from all forms of knowledge, and the showtunes the class sings, the movies they recreate scenes from, or, in particular, a French skit the class performs (hard to follow if you don’t know a romance language), make certain scenes inaccessible. It also makes the show seem snarky. This attitude isn't helped by the way Bennett opens each of the two acts with scenes set in the future, nor the all-too-clever manner in which the actors address the audience. One teacher, Mrs. Lintott, even goes so far as to say that up until now, she has not had the opportunity to address the audience. Witty, yes. Relevant, no. It's an excuse to add meta-drama to the list of genres The History Boys takes on, and it’s just out of place.
It's not fair, though, to say that something in The History Boys is out of place, for after all, Bennett has made his play so broad that it can conceivably cover anything (and so broad that it's flat and repetitive). The classroom scenes all come to resemble one another, with educated humor, and the only accurate thing that’s really said about history, which also applies to the show itself, is that it’s all “just one fucking thing after another.” So there’s a brief comment about when it becomes okay to discuss the Holocaust. And there’s another side-plot, the sum total of one monologue long, that observes how an athletic student doesn’t really need intelligence. And look, look! Over there! It’s a love story that would be tragic (between the effeminate Posner and the anything-goes Dakin) if, you know, anything were ever made of it. And, ultimately, nothing ever is made of it in The History Boys. The show becomes much like Hector’s class: a broad study in a wide variety of theatrical forms, well-presented by talented teachers, and a potpourri of quotes and snippets, none of which move the heart ever so much as Hector would like to believe.
The History Boys is an outstanding performance piece, with everything from philosophy to cabaret, and it smoothly jibes together to show a lot of disparate views (though, to be fair, it takes almost three hours to do so). But after class is dismissed, a lot of what’s been said turns out to be a lot of bunk, and to be fair, perhaps you’re better off playing hooky, where you might at least learn something useful.
~[Aaron Riccio]~
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As a comedy, The History Boys is simply brill. It’s an ace work that demonstrates the profound ridiculousness of high school, especially the extra preparatory classes for college. Although it’s a British import, things are pretty much the same there as here, save for a few lexical issues, and it’s good that they’ve implanted the whole cast, since they’re bazzin’. The problem is, The History Boys is not presented as a comedy—at least, not entirely. There’s a niggling undertone of dramatics, involving a beloved but eccentric teacher, who has the slight habit of molesting his children, often while riding them home on his motorcycle.
Though it’s easy to believe that Hector (Richard Griffith) has a passion for pure teaching—he dislikes the idea of his students using the information he’s teaching them to pass their upcoming college exams—it’s hard to see him in that other light, and harder still to see everyone so breezily accepting that. “I wonder if we’ll be scarred for life,” remarks one student (who actually turns out—though it’s presented comically—to be scarred for life). Says the other, glibly, “I certainly hope so. Maybe I’ll turn out like Proust.” These attempts to make a dark subject funny go awry because while at first they draw the shocked laughs of the Durang class, the abrupt return to reality makes one wonder what’s actually so funny about it.
Another problem with Alan Bennett’s play, at least for the under-40 crowd, is his source material. Hector’s class draws from all forms of knowledge, and the showtunes the class sings, the movies they recreate scenes from, or, in particular, a French skit the class performs (hard to follow if you don’t know a romance language), make certain scenes inaccessible. It also makes the show seem snarky. This attitude isn't helped by the way Bennett opens each of the two acts with scenes set in the future, nor the all-too-clever manner in which the actors address the audience. One teacher, Mrs. Lintott, even goes so far as to say that up until now, she has not had the opportunity to address the audience. Witty, yes. Relevant, no. It's an excuse to add meta-drama to the list of genres The History Boys takes on, and it’s just out of place.
It's not fair, though, to say that something in The History Boys is out of place, for after all, Bennett has made his play so broad that it can conceivably cover anything (and so broad that it's flat and repetitive). The classroom scenes all come to resemble one another, with educated humor, and the only accurate thing that’s really said about history, which also applies to the show itself, is that it’s all “just one fucking thing after another.” So there’s a brief comment about when it becomes okay to discuss the Holocaust. And there’s another side-plot, the sum total of one monologue long, that observes how an athletic student doesn’t really need intelligence. And look, look! Over there! It’s a love story that would be tragic (between the effeminate Posner and the anything-goes Dakin) if, you know, anything were ever made of it. And, ultimately, nothing ever is made of it in The History Boys. The show becomes much like Hector’s class: a broad study in a wide variety of theatrical forms, well-presented by talented teachers, and a potpourri of quotes and snippets, none of which move the heart ever so much as Hector would like to believe.
The History Boys is an outstanding performance piece, with everything from philosophy to cabaret, and it smoothly jibes together to show a lot of disparate views (though, to be fair, it takes almost three hours to do so). But after class is dismissed, a lot of what’s been said turns out to be a lot of bunk, and to be fair, perhaps you’re better off playing hooky, where you might at least learn something useful.
~[Aaron Riccio]~
Saturday, May 27, 2006
Young Playwrights Festival/Marathon 2006, by Matt Windman
The one-act play is a delicate creature. It must tell a captivating story with nonstop momentum, feature interesting characters and display a vibrant theatricality – all in about ten to thirty minutes. One-act festivals where short plays are featured by different writers are prominent in the summertime when most Off-Broadway theaters lack commercial tenants. Let’s look at the pros and cons of two such events: “Young Playwrights Festival XXIV” and “Marathon 2006.”
Founded by Stephen Sondheim, Young Playwrights Festival is the only professional theater company dedicated to producing the work of playwrights under the age of 18. It is an invaluable enterprise, encouraging novices to write and develop their dramatic skills. And I really wish that I could recommend this showcase of one-acts by three female teenagers. But at $35 a ticket, they are still not ready for Off-Broadway.
The most successful of the three offerings is “Suicide Club” by Miriam Eichenbaum, which studies at three girls at a Catholic high school who have attempted to commit suicide. They slowly confront their demons till they are ready to embrace life by graduation day. The play’s problem lies in how it attempts to tackle too many characters and scenes, leading to superficiality.
On the other hand, Ensemble Studio Theatre’s Marathon is considered to be New York’s preeminent forum for new one-acts, showcasing the work of professionals like Horton Foote, Christopher Durang, and David Mamet. “Marathon 2006” features eleven premieres in three separate evenings. I attended the first series earlier this week, which features one-acts by David Ives, Anton Dudley, Amy Fox and Lloyd Suh.
Though the evening offered smart writing and good production values, it was more of a writers’ workshop than a coherent evening of theater. The best of the four offerings was “The Other Woman” by David Ives, who is well-known for his absurdist one-acts like “Variations on the Death of Trotsky.” Here, Ives attempts to create an erotic thriller about a man who has an affair with his wife’s altar ego, who appears when she is sleepwalking.
The only one-act evenings that become memorable are those connected by a single playwright or theme such as Neil Simon’s “Plaza Suite,” where three one-acts take place in the same hotel room. Still, events like Young Playwrights Festival and Marathon offer an important resource where playwrights can develop work and audiences can take a look at raw product.
Young Playwrights Festival XXIV, Playwrights Horizons, 416 West 42nd Street, 212-279-4200, $35. Schedule varies. Through Saturday.
Marathon 2006, Ensemble Studio Theatre, 549 West 52nd Street, 212-352-3101, $18. Schedule varies. Through June 25.
Founded by Stephen Sondheim, Young Playwrights Festival is the only professional theater company dedicated to producing the work of playwrights under the age of 18. It is an invaluable enterprise, encouraging novices to write and develop their dramatic skills. And I really wish that I could recommend this showcase of one-acts by three female teenagers. But at $35 a ticket, they are still not ready for Off-Broadway.
The most successful of the three offerings is “Suicide Club” by Miriam Eichenbaum, which studies at three girls at a Catholic high school who have attempted to commit suicide. They slowly confront their demons till they are ready to embrace life by graduation day. The play’s problem lies in how it attempts to tackle too many characters and scenes, leading to superficiality.
On the other hand, Ensemble Studio Theatre’s Marathon is considered to be New York’s preeminent forum for new one-acts, showcasing the work of professionals like Horton Foote, Christopher Durang, and David Mamet. “Marathon 2006” features eleven premieres in three separate evenings. I attended the first series earlier this week, which features one-acts by David Ives, Anton Dudley, Amy Fox and Lloyd Suh.
Though the evening offered smart writing and good production values, it was more of a writers’ workshop than a coherent evening of theater. The best of the four offerings was “The Other Woman” by David Ives, who is well-known for his absurdist one-acts like “Variations on the Death of Trotsky.” Here, Ives attempts to create an erotic thriller about a man who has an affair with his wife’s altar ego, who appears when she is sleepwalking.
The only one-act evenings that become memorable are those connected by a single playwright or theme such as Neil Simon’s “Plaza Suite,” where three one-acts take place in the same hotel room. Still, events like Young Playwrights Festival and Marathon offer an important resource where playwrights can develop work and audiences can take a look at raw product.
Young Playwrights Festival XXIV, Playwrights Horizons, 416 West 42nd Street, 212-279-4200, $35. Schedule varies. Through Saturday.
Marathon 2006, Ensemble Studio Theatre, 549 West 52nd Street, 212-352-3101, $18. Schedule varies. Through June 25.
Dark Yellow
by Aaron Riccio
Julia Jordan’s Dark Yellow is a natural, fluid drama sandwiched between the elements of something noir and something sinister. Thankfully, the two ends are thin-crust, and the middle is stuffed full of extra meat, so the play balances itself out like a hearty double-decker, and winds up being a savory morsel of theater. The opening is so crisp that it dilutes some of the surprise flavor for the bulk of the show, and the ending is too ambiguous to be satisfying, but that center . . . oh, that center!
Jordan begins by teasing the taste buds, as a man and woman fidget their way through the opening act of a one-night stand: small talk. This is difficult, since the two have chosen to remain nameless and impersonal, and awkward, since they’re already in her house. To prepare themselves for meaningless sex, they play a meaningless game (“Tell me something I don’t know”), although nothing is ever meaningless, is it? A gun, a dead son, and the truth come into play—all of which are dangerous things—and that’s not even counting the revenge motif looming over everything. (Given the extremely small stage, it would be hard for anything not to loom.)
The deceptive banter, under the excellent direction of Nick Sandow, is compelling, and the two talented actors (Elias Koteas and Tina Benko) manage to make the awkward situation charming. Slowly, the power shifts, and while the superb Benko (“Jen”) continues to ground the show, Koteas (“Bob”) grows unhinged, more and more feverish in his verbal perambulations.
Ironically, for all Bob’s creepiness, the show never achieves the chilling immediacy of the pitch-black opening monologue (which I dislike, as it gives far too much information away). Jordan seems to be operating in two different theatrical styles, and while they never really collide, they don’t compliment the other either. The suspense is uncorked at the first startling gunshot, and for the next eighty-five minutes, Jordan has to skate on thin ice (which, as far as dramatic tension goes, ends up being for the best). Marvel at her craft that she keeps us all so interested in her characters and their needs, despite the somewhat obvious secret.
Dark Yellow succeeds by clinging to character rather than potboiler thrills, allowing their nuances to shock us, rather than their overt statements. It’s the little things, as they say, and Jordan has a lot of little things.
~ [Aaron Riccio] ~
----------------------------------------
Studio Dante (257 W 29th Street)
Tickets (212-868-4444): $35.00
Performances: Wed. – Sat. @ 8:00
Jordan begins by teasing the taste buds, as a man and woman fidget their way through the opening act of a one-night stand: small talk. This is difficult, since the two have chosen to remain nameless and impersonal, and awkward, since they’re already in her house. To prepare themselves for meaningless sex, they play a meaningless game (“Tell me something I don’t know”), although nothing is ever meaningless, is it? A gun, a dead son, and the truth come into play—all of which are dangerous things—and that’s not even counting the revenge motif looming over everything. (Given the extremely small stage, it would be hard for anything not to loom.)
The deceptive banter, under the excellent direction of Nick Sandow, is compelling, and the two talented actors (Elias Koteas and Tina Benko) manage to make the awkward situation charming. Slowly, the power shifts, and while the superb Benko (“Jen”) continues to ground the show, Koteas (“Bob”) grows unhinged, more and more feverish in his verbal perambulations.
Ironically, for all Bob’s creepiness, the show never achieves the chilling immediacy of the pitch-black opening monologue (which I dislike, as it gives far too much information away). Jordan seems to be operating in two different theatrical styles, and while they never really collide, they don’t compliment the other either. The suspense is uncorked at the first startling gunshot, and for the next eighty-five minutes, Jordan has to skate on thin ice (which, as far as dramatic tension goes, ends up being for the best). Marvel at her craft that she keeps us all so interested in her characters and their needs, despite the somewhat obvious secret.
Dark Yellow succeeds by clinging to character rather than potboiler thrills, allowing their nuances to shock us, rather than their overt statements. It’s the little things, as they say, and Jordan has a lot of little things.
~ [Aaron Riccio] ~
----------------------------------------
Studio Dante (257 W 29th Street)
Tickets (212-868-4444): $35.00
Performances: Wed. – Sat. @ 8:00
Friday, May 26, 2006
Columbinus, by Matt Windman
How can we make sense of a massacre? For the American theater, the answer has always been to create a compelling narrative that explores the tragedy in a sensitive but demanding manner. But unlike classics such as “The Diary of Anne Frank” or “The Crucible,” the impulse for today’s playwrights has been to drop the drop the narrative, forget the fourth wall, and create documentary-style scene studies.
“Columbinus,” which opened this week at New York Theatre Workshop, examines the timing, terror, tears and teens that led to the shocking Columbine High School shootings on April 20, 1999 in which two male students murdered 12 students and one teacher. It has already inspired a number of films like Gus Van Sant’s “Elephant” and Michael Moore’s “Bowling for Columbine,” as well as numerous “I was there” testimonial books.
Described as a “theatrical discussion” based on extensive interviews, “Columbinus” features eight young actors who take on multiple roles in a manner similar to contemporary plays like “The Laramie Project” and “Twilight Los Angeles.” Rather than tell a straightforward story, the authors (the United States Theatre Project) aim to expose how the high school politics of social status unknowingly inspired deadly results.
Act One studies the collaborative identity of the student body, as seen in “Saved by the Bell” fashioned stereotypes like the hot blonde, jock, overachiever, and so on. The frustrations of the misunderstood loners – Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold – then grow to a dangerous boiling point. In a brilliant montage set to “Bitter Sweet Symphony” by The Verve, the boys finally don black trench coats while other characters are too consumed with their own problems to take notice.
Half of Act Two exposes Eric and Dylan’s fears while they await their “Judgment Day.” Then it gets gruesome... Thanks to the show’s sound design, the theater reverberates each time a gun shot is sounded. We are then left with some expository dialogue from “parents,” and then the actors rip off their disguises and thank us for listening.
“Columbinus,” was a last-minute replacement for New York Theatre Workshop after its controversial decision to “postpone” the one-woman drama “Rachel Corrie,” about the American girl who was killed by bulldozers as she protested for Palestine. It is certainly not perfect, but “Columbinus” gives off a youthful vitality that makes it a breathtaking and cathartic piece of ensemble theatre.
New York Theatre Workshop, 79 East 4th Street, 212-239-6200, $15-55. Tues 7pm, Wed-Fri 8pm, Sat 3 & 8pm, Sun 2 & 7pm. Through June 11.
“Columbinus,” which opened this week at New York Theatre Workshop, examines the timing, terror, tears and teens that led to the shocking Columbine High School shootings on April 20, 1999 in which two male students murdered 12 students and one teacher. It has already inspired a number of films like Gus Van Sant’s “Elephant” and Michael Moore’s “Bowling for Columbine,” as well as numerous “I was there” testimonial books.
Described as a “theatrical discussion” based on extensive interviews, “Columbinus” features eight young actors who take on multiple roles in a manner similar to contemporary plays like “The Laramie Project” and “Twilight Los Angeles.” Rather than tell a straightforward story, the authors (the United States Theatre Project) aim to expose how the high school politics of social status unknowingly inspired deadly results.
Act One studies the collaborative identity of the student body, as seen in “Saved by the Bell” fashioned stereotypes like the hot blonde, jock, overachiever, and so on. The frustrations of the misunderstood loners – Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold – then grow to a dangerous boiling point. In a brilliant montage set to “Bitter Sweet Symphony” by The Verve, the boys finally don black trench coats while other characters are too consumed with their own problems to take notice.
Half of Act Two exposes Eric and Dylan’s fears while they await their “Judgment Day.” Then it gets gruesome... Thanks to the show’s sound design, the theater reverberates each time a gun shot is sounded. We are then left with some expository dialogue from “parents,” and then the actors rip off their disguises and thank us for listening.
“Columbinus,” was a last-minute replacement for New York Theatre Workshop after its controversial decision to “postpone” the one-woman drama “Rachel Corrie,” about the American girl who was killed by bulldozers as she protested for Palestine. It is certainly not perfect, but “Columbinus” gives off a youthful vitality that makes it a breathtaking and cathartic piece of ensemble theatre.
New York Theatre Workshop, 79 East 4th Street, 212-239-6200, $15-55. Tues 7pm, Wed-Fri 8pm, Sat 3 & 8pm, Sun 2 & 7pm. Through June 11.
Monday, May 22, 2006
Faith Healer
by Aaron Riccio
"The other two performances are as dazzling as they are claustrophobic, both contained to a tiny sliver of a light on a scant portion of stage. Ala Sweeny Todd, Jonathan Kent’s direction boils everything to an immediate, undistracted performance, and both Cherry Jones and Ian McDiarmid rise up to meet the demands of their characters."
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Brien Friel’s play, Faith Healer, is not about hope. It’s about hopelessness: three companions, Frank (the faith healer), Grace (his wife), and Teddy (his promoter), who are alone and adrift, even after the twenty-odd years they have spent together. There are very real things that they want—Frank (to be needed), Grace (to be acknowledged), and Teddy (to be loved)—but these things are forever out of reach, even when they are right beside them. The play’s structure, four scene-long monologues (each essentially a one-act play), is therefore quite fitting: together, these stories complete their history, but each appears separately, dismally, and alone. In the end, we realize there is one thing worse than hopelessness: hopeless hope.
As far as the monologues go, it’s a little hard to sit through 130 plus minutes of them, and harder still given the tacit lifelessness of the faith healer’s bookending role. Ralph Fiennes is a talented and engaging actor, but his charisma withers with Frank, a man intent on moping from one illumined portion of a barren stage to another. He’s flat and ethereal, prone to lapsing into a Gaelic gibberish (like Joyce), and in voice and posture, a man who is forever withdrawing into himself. When he speaks of his former miracles, those rarified occasions, it is with a certain level of dramatic flair and wild gesticulation, but this brightness merely reveals him as a shadow. He haunts the stage, monotonous and slight, (as in the film Spider), and the stage, in turn, swallows him up.
The other two performances are as dazzling as they are claustrophobic, both contained to a tiny sliver of a light on a scant portion of stage. Ala Sweeny Todd, Jonathan Kent’s direction boils everything to an immediate, undistracted performance, and both Cherry Jones and Ian McDiarmid rise up to meet the demands of their characters. McDiarmid has the easier role, since as the cockney manager, Teddy, he’s already a likeable rascal, filled with anecdotes and the buoyant flair of a man born on the stage. McDiarmid’s voice is so textured, so intricate, that it’s hard to believe this man also played Palpatine in the Star Wars films, but here he is, telling a tale of unrequited love—how he’s pined for Grace—and the dark underbelly of passion, i.e., what happens when the magic dies.
Cherry Jones, however, is the real center of this play: her Grace is more emotionally raw and connected to feeling than either of the men. She is a great justifier, and attempts to rationalize her own love, even though she knows love is unexplainable. Ms. Jones takes us through all the highs and lows of the relationship, from those great miracles to the disturbing stillborn birth of their child, before dissolving into the hysterics of a woman who realizes, finally, that she will never really exist to the only man she lives for. She’s getting stronger, she says, just before going under for the last time, and that’s just one more of the brilliant lies Faith Healer gives us.
Give that these three act the hell out of this play, the script is still remarkably hard to grasp. One goes about digesting things in nuggets, but the play continues even as the audience struggles to finish with the line before. The most enjoyable part of the evening ends up being the slight-of-hand scene changes, which occur, like magic, in the time it takes a curtain to slide from one end of the stage to the other.
Watching Faith Healer is an exercise: at first in endurance, and then in indulgence. There are so many elliptical asides that the focused realism contributes more to a distracting than an understanding. It’s hard to recommend this play, but I find myself drawn to something in it anyway. Or perhaps that’s just a form of hopeless hope itself: searching for meaning where there is none.
--------------------------------------
Brien Friel’s play, Faith Healer, is not about hope. It’s about hopelessness: three companions, Frank (the faith healer), Grace (his wife), and Teddy (his promoter), who are alone and adrift, even after the twenty-odd years they have spent together. There are very real things that they want—Frank (to be needed), Grace (to be acknowledged), and Teddy (to be loved)—but these things are forever out of reach, even when they are right beside them. The play’s structure, four scene-long monologues (each essentially a one-act play), is therefore quite fitting: together, these stories complete their history, but each appears separately, dismally, and alone. In the end, we realize there is one thing worse than hopelessness: hopeless hope.
As far as the monologues go, it’s a little hard to sit through 130 plus minutes of them, and harder still given the tacit lifelessness of the faith healer’s bookending role. Ralph Fiennes is a talented and engaging actor, but his charisma withers with Frank, a man intent on moping from one illumined portion of a barren stage to another. He’s flat and ethereal, prone to lapsing into a Gaelic gibberish (like Joyce), and in voice and posture, a man who is forever withdrawing into himself. When he speaks of his former miracles, those rarified occasions, it is with a certain level of dramatic flair and wild gesticulation, but this brightness merely reveals him as a shadow. He haunts the stage, monotonous and slight, (as in the film Spider), and the stage, in turn, swallows him up.
The other two performances are as dazzling as they are claustrophobic, both contained to a tiny sliver of a light on a scant portion of stage. Ala Sweeny Todd, Jonathan Kent’s direction boils everything to an immediate, undistracted performance, and both Cherry Jones and Ian McDiarmid rise up to meet the demands of their characters. McDiarmid has the easier role, since as the cockney manager, Teddy, he’s already a likeable rascal, filled with anecdotes and the buoyant flair of a man born on the stage. McDiarmid’s voice is so textured, so intricate, that it’s hard to believe this man also played Palpatine in the Star Wars films, but here he is, telling a tale of unrequited love—how he’s pined for Grace—and the dark underbelly of passion, i.e., what happens when the magic dies.
Cherry Jones, however, is the real center of this play: her Grace is more emotionally raw and connected to feeling than either of the men. She is a great justifier, and attempts to rationalize her own love, even though she knows love is unexplainable. Ms. Jones takes us through all the highs and lows of the relationship, from those great miracles to the disturbing stillborn birth of their child, before dissolving into the hysterics of a woman who realizes, finally, that she will never really exist to the only man she lives for. She’s getting stronger, she says, just before going under for the last time, and that’s just one more of the brilliant lies Faith Healer gives us.
Give that these three act the hell out of this play, the script is still remarkably hard to grasp. One goes about digesting things in nuggets, but the play continues even as the audience struggles to finish with the line before. The most enjoyable part of the evening ends up being the slight-of-hand scene changes, which occur, like magic, in the time it takes a curtain to slide from one end of the stage to the other.
Watching Faith Healer is an exercise: at first in endurance, and then in indulgence. There are so many elliptical asides that the focused realism contributes more to a distracting than an understanding. It’s hard to recommend this play, but I find myself drawn to something in it anyway. Or perhaps that’s just a form of hopeless hope itself: searching for meaning where there is none.
Sunday, May 21, 2006
Worth
by Aaron Riccio
You can have your cake and eat it too. That is, if your cake is family drama and your idea of eating is getting to watch some exotic dancing (or perhaps that’s just the frosting). Worth has convincing acting, though it’s a bit overwrought, and a nice script that, although basic, lives in something very real. Okay, so if you have your cake and eat it too, it won’t be fit for a queen—but a Ho-Ho can be satisfying too.
Suzanne Lee hasn’t written the classiest play, but it is one of the most unambiguous. Stereotype and situation keep things black and white, and director Marc Parees lingers, indulgently, in those moments of exaggeration. (Because they’re fun; because sometimes it takes an Ebonics-speaking Vietnamese stripper to speak the truth.) The quieter moments are occasionally stilted, or unmotivated, but they remain real: a symptom, perhaps, of America today.
Worth opens with karaoke at a funeral, an easy opportunity to illustrate Edward Lee’s pathos. This broken-English speaking father (odd, since he’s also an executive) bravely attempts to sing, before he chokes up at memories of his wife. His daughter, Joanna, comforts him (an easy opportunity to exploit the generational gap), and a widow, Sunny Pak, aims to do the same. The twist is that Pak’s intentions are pure, and Edward’s—once he loses his job and reneges on his daughter’s Ivy-League tuition—become twisted. He pretends to love her, as she turns out to be rich, and the daughter, who can’t stand the father’s lies, takes up stripping, as all good girls gone wild do. These three illustrate the ambiguous value system we have, the shady ethical brokering we do within it, and ultimately, the titular “worth” of a life, love, and lie.
The acting is fine, but not especially flattering. Jenn Pae (Joanna’s cousin, Grace) has a flimsy role to throw herself into that exposes nothing of her own life (despite her intimate stripping), but passes judgment on everyone else’s and Constance Boardman remains so much the dutiful widow/matriarch that only in the last scene does she have the opportunity to really live. Hana Moon, who plays the daughter, has the most range, and it’s through her interactions with the others that they seem less cardboard-ish. On the other hand, Ben Wang, who plays the father, is often unintelligible, and even when he’s clear, his emotions are often all over the map. He sits around in a bathrobe flipping idly through Playboy, even as he calls for his daughter, and then acts surprised when she catches him in the kitchen with the magazine. It’s as if he has no expectations; and that makes him a very limited actor.
For the most part, Marc Parees does well with the script: Lee Savage’s sliding-door set neatly shuffles the scenes, compartmentalizing and tidying up all the loose ends. The production is extremely clear, but it keeps a lot bottled up, and gets sloppy when props start crossing the neatly arranged boundaries. (This would work as an artistic choice if it seemed intentional). It may not be classy, but life isn’t, and hey: there’s a live strip show. In all seriousness, modern plays could use more stripping: when you bare it all, there’s no room left to hide anything.
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Urban Stages (259 West 30th Street)
Tickets (212-868-4444): $18.00
Performances: Monday, Wednesday-Saturday @ 8:00; Sunday @ 7:00 [END 6/3]
Suzanne Lee hasn’t written the classiest play, but it is one of the most unambiguous. Stereotype and situation keep things black and white, and director Marc Parees lingers, indulgently, in those moments of exaggeration. (Because they’re fun; because sometimes it takes an Ebonics-speaking Vietnamese stripper to speak the truth.) The quieter moments are occasionally stilted, or unmotivated, but they remain real: a symptom, perhaps, of America today.
Worth opens with karaoke at a funeral, an easy opportunity to illustrate Edward Lee’s pathos. This broken-English speaking father (odd, since he’s also an executive) bravely attempts to sing, before he chokes up at memories of his wife. His daughter, Joanna, comforts him (an easy opportunity to exploit the generational gap), and a widow, Sunny Pak, aims to do the same. The twist is that Pak’s intentions are pure, and Edward’s—once he loses his job and reneges on his daughter’s Ivy-League tuition—become twisted. He pretends to love her, as she turns out to be rich, and the daughter, who can’t stand the father’s lies, takes up stripping, as all good girls gone wild do. These three illustrate the ambiguous value system we have, the shady ethical brokering we do within it, and ultimately, the titular “worth” of a life, love, and lie.
The acting is fine, but not especially flattering. Jenn Pae (Joanna’s cousin, Grace) has a flimsy role to throw herself into that exposes nothing of her own life (despite her intimate stripping), but passes judgment on everyone else’s and Constance Boardman remains so much the dutiful widow/matriarch that only in the last scene does she have the opportunity to really live. Hana Moon, who plays the daughter, has the most range, and it’s through her interactions with the others that they seem less cardboard-ish. On the other hand, Ben Wang, who plays the father, is often unintelligible, and even when he’s clear, his emotions are often all over the map. He sits around in a bathrobe flipping idly through Playboy, even as he calls for his daughter, and then acts surprised when she catches him in the kitchen with the magazine. It’s as if he has no expectations; and that makes him a very limited actor.
For the most part, Marc Parees does well with the script: Lee Savage’s sliding-door set neatly shuffles the scenes, compartmentalizing and tidying up all the loose ends. The production is extremely clear, but it keeps a lot bottled up, and gets sloppy when props start crossing the neatly arranged boundaries. (This would work as an artistic choice if it seemed intentional). It may not be classy, but life isn’t, and hey: there’s a live strip show. In all seriousness, modern plays could use more stripping: when you bare it all, there’s no room left to hide anything.
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Urban Stages (259 West 30th Street)
Tickets (212-868-4444): $18.00
Performances: Monday, Wednesday-Saturday @ 8:00; Sunday @ 7:00 [END 6/3]
Review: Sock Puppet Showgirls
by Eric Miles Glover
In 1995, the GOP controlled the 104th Congress in both the House of Representatives and the Senate for the first time since 1953. Michael Jordan returned to the Chicago Bulls, and the prosecution delivered its opening statement in the trial against O.J. Simpson. Ginger Rogers died, both UPN and the WB Television Network initiated operations, and Showgirls—Showgirls!—the NC-17-rated film full of “adult” overtones and themes—was released to universal acclaim (from teenaged males, who, according to network television news reports at the time, stole copies of the film from video rental stores to see girl-next-door “Jessie” bare her intimate parts).
Showgirls, like Mommie Dearest, Night of the Living Dead, Office Space, and Pink Flamingoes, has achieved cult status and is aired—due to the advance in digital censorship—on VH1, with “animated” undergarments that veil once-visible female anatomies. Sock Puppet Showgirls, one of the attractions at FringeNYC Festival 2004, returns with an engagement at Ace of Clubs in SoHo. About agitated outsider Nomi Malone, who climbs the sordid Las Vegas il-legitimate entertainment circuit ladder from humble beginnings as an inexperienced stripper to superstardom as a dancer—showgirl!—Sock Puppet Showgirls lampoons the film and, though faithful to its source material, uses comedic license when appropriate with oh-so delicious reckless abandon.
“Nomi Malone is what Las Vegas is all about!” and sock puppet smut is what Sock Puppet Showgirls delivers. During the puppet show, sock puppet Nomi: (a) befriends sock puppet Lamb Chop; (b) engages in lascivious sock puppet behaviors with sock puppets Cristal—like the champagne—and her beau, Zack; (c) exhibits her sock puppet temperamental side (“I AM NOT A WHORE!”); (d) flashes her sock puppet breasts and intimate parts alongside sock puppet dancers—showgirls!—Big Bird and Elmo; (e) pole-dances; (f) shows sock puppet aggression toward sock puppet DRRS (or Date Raping Rock Star); and—to the satisfaction of the jam-packed audience—(g) throws sock puppet Cristal down that long and unforgettable flight of stairs. Complete with choreographed sock puppet production numbers and sexual favors, Sock Puppet Showgirls—unsuitable for children (and prudes!)—guarantees a raucous, tasteless, and vulgar excursion for Showgirls addicts, sock puppet enthusiasts, and people in search of sidesplitting excitement.
In 2004, MGM released the Showgirls V.I.P. Edition (do not ask!), which includes a “Greatest Film Ever Made” featurette, a “how-to” lap-dance tutorial, and a “Pin the Pasties on the Showgirl” game. Given the sock puppet innovation and theatrical achievement of Sock Puppet Showgirls, it behooves MGM to re-release the V.I.P. Edition with sock puppet Nomis—accessories, costumes, and temperamental sides included—among its goodies.
Click here for information about Sock Puppet Showgirls performances.
Review: On the Town
by Eric Miles Glover
“The gifted actors reject custom to generate an On the Town that caters to them and, like the George Wolfe production from 1998, re-presents the multi-ethnic place ‘New York, New York,’ was before and during the 1940s and is at present.”
Read entire review:
Rosetta LeNoire (1911-2002) founded Amas Musical Theater as a multi-ethnic and nonprofit performing arts organization in 1969. It is devoted to celebrating the perspectives of persons from underrepresented groups and persons of color—the recent Amas benefit production re-presented Damn Yankees in the Negro Leagues—and developing new American musical theater, which includes Bubbling Brown Sugar, Little Ham, Lone Star Love, and Zanna!
In addition, Amas is devoted to encouraging teenaged talent. All the teenaged actors, dancers, singers, and triple threats in the current production—On the Town—participate in the Amas training program, where participants receive instruction from performing arts professionals to prepare for performances in an important work from the American musical theater canon. One of the gems from that canon, On the Town follows three servicemen who, granted 24-hour leave, seek love before returning to an uncertain future during the Second World War. Presented at the intimate Hudson Guild Theater, the production is outstanding.
Leonard Bernstein afforded On the Town an incredible score of saccharine ballads and succulent melodies that keep fingers snapping and feet tapping. He and wordsmiths Comden and Green created the delightful numbers “I Can Cook To,” “New York, New York,” “Some Other Time,” and “Ya Got Me” among other ones. Each contributed to intricate patterns of musical sound and rime that the actors hone with ease. During each beat, jut, pulse, and song, the actors beat, jut, pulse, and sing to life—with all the eccentricities the book and score allow—the characters Bernstein, Comden and Green, and Jerome Robbins created.
Damion Anthon, Delbert Moore, and Desmond Nicholson are affecting and comical as the three servicemen. Each acts, dances, and sings with passion, and reveals proper doses of charisma, naïveté, and sass. Moore is entertaining as Chip. His facial expressions and over-the-top movements prove his comic abilities and nature.
Stephanie Christie delivers an incredible performance as an aggressive and go-getting-no-holds-barred-no-nonsense taxicab driver who abducts Chip—with unadulterated intentions, of course!—and wins his affection. She captivates each time she sings—so much so that she whets the audience appetite—and enthralls with her comic timing. She is amazing.
Amanda Moreau is sophisticated as anthropologist Claire DeLoone (the role Comden created in the original 1944 production) and Jason Depont is riotous as her over-the-top and queer—the word has several definitions!—fiancée. Moreau and Nicholson (in the Green role) shine during their hilarious show of adult humor and camp at a museum exhibit about prehistoric man.
As minor characters, Lisette Ffolkes is comical as Flossie, the eternal complainant, and Rashia Burrell is perfect as her simpleton girlfriend. Christina Matthews is side-splitting as an old woman. Akil Noel is hilarious in Jack-of-all-Trades roles, and Denise Sillman is a hoot as an inebriated and “relations”-deprived music teacher. Leslie Ruiz, an intelligent dancer full of pizzazz and spirit, makes an impression, and accolades and praises for all the actors and the entire production are endless.
Monica Celeste Johnson has created original dances that—complete with extended arms, extended right legs, and no-longer-pedestrian movements—evoke Robbins. Her choreographic achievement is at its height during “Times Square Ballet,” where she channels the riches, subtleties, and textures of the music to create the expressive movements the actors execute.
In the program, director Christopher Scott writes that On the Town allows the teenaged actors to learn about another time period as well as live it, and “live it” the actors have done under his expert direction.
As the large part of the American musical theater canon does not celebrate multi-ethnic perspectives, it is ironic that On the Town—with dance, drama, and song not intended for people from multi-ethnic backgrounds to perform—is the canonical work chosen. Whatever hesitation about “ethnic” representation and re-presentation in the American musical theater the viewer carries, however, the gifted actors reject custom to generate an On the Town that caters to them and, like the George Wolfe production from 1998, re-presents the multi-ethnic place “New York, New York,” was before and during the 1940s and is at present.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Review: The Woman Before
by Eric Miles Glover
Claudia and Frank are vacating an apartment—stuffing belongings and memories in boxes—when the woman Frank loved decades ago reappears. She—the woman before—wants to start anew with him. Claudia and he are married, however, and raised an angst-obsessed teenage son, Andi. Despite the circumstances, Frank entertains starting anew with the woman. He experiences second thoughts, however, when Andi near kills her and sets into motion an unexpected series of shocking events.
Presented as part of Stadttheater New York and produced under the auspices of German Theater Abroad and HERE Arts Center, The Woman Before exposes (ab)normal human states of mind. Though The Woman Before seems like an average episode in the lives of Andi, Claudia, and Frank, the script undergoes several changes when the woman before reappears. After Claudia confronts Frank about the woman, for example, that same dialogue is re-presented with nuance, and this is the device that Roland Schimmelpfenning uses to add weight to the comedic drama. Each time the actors re-present dialogue, the re-presented dialogue is infused with the fire absent from the original line reading. Each time the actors re-present dialogue, the characters become more and more human, and the re-presented dialogue pares the artifice to expose the damage underneath the once impenetrable skins that Andi, Claudia, and Frank created for emotional protection. Each time, the viewer gleans invaluable insight about the characters he did not learn the first time around. He recognizes the magnitude of what seemed like the simplest decision (jilting the woman before for the established home life). Using aural and visual devices, The Woman Before exposes, with humorous effect, the damaged critical consciousnesses that Andi, Claudia, and Frank use to make choices that lead to destruction.
Director Daniel Fish has done excellent work highlighting the heart and humor in the Grand Guignolesque drama, and his actors find genuineness in the characters and win compassion from the viewer.
One consummate work of total theater, The Woman Before is an intense lesson in consequence that proves bad things happen to normal people and good things affect abnormal results.
Click here for information about The Woman Before performances.
Monday, May 15, 2006
Harvey Finklestein’s Sock Puppet Showgirls - Review by Liza White
Let’s face it you’ve been waiting for a reason to rent the 90’s cult hit Showgirls…a tasteless blend of bad acting, bad writing, and bad dancing. You could fire up the DVD player and spend a few hours watching Elizabeth Berkley go ballistic, only to get kicked out of your apartment by your roommate for watching such rubbish. Or you could (and should) head over to Ace of Clubs for the best most deliciously raunchy theatrical parody in New York, Harvey Finklestein’s Sock Puppet Showgirls.
Get to the show early to treat yourself to a menu of specialty Showgirls cocktails like Sex in the Pool, Iced Nipple, Las Vegas Iced Tea, and Nomi Between the Sheets. Once you are good and liquored up, sit back to enjoy the brashness that only sock puppets can provide (sorry Avenue Q, there are some new offensive puppets in town).
Harvey Finklestein’s Sock Puppet Showgirls follow the same basic (and I do mean basic) plot of the original movie. The ambitious dancer, Nomi, claws (and strips) her way to the top of the Vegas showgirl circuit. The puppets, wonderfully manipulated, add new flare to this age old story. Ever seen a sock puppet pole dance? You will. And you will be delighted as your childhood friend Lambchop makes her adult debut. Hmmm it’s almost like when Elizabeth Berkley of childhood classic Saved by the Bell bared all for her adult debut in Showgirls. Harvey Finklestein’s Sock Puppet Showgirls reminds us that eventually all socks become dirty.
Harvey Finklestein’s Sock Puppet Showgirls runs every Saturday at 8 PM beginning May 13 at Ace of Clubs (9 Great Jones Street – inside Acme). Tickets are $15, available at 212-352-3101 or TheaterMania.com.
Get to the show early to treat yourself to a menu of specialty Showgirls cocktails like Sex in the Pool, Iced Nipple, Las Vegas Iced Tea, and Nomi Between the Sheets. Once you are good and liquored up, sit back to enjoy the brashness that only sock puppets can provide (sorry Avenue Q, there are some new offensive puppets in town).
Harvey Finklestein’s Sock Puppet Showgirls follow the same basic (and I do mean basic) plot of the original movie. The ambitious dancer, Nomi, claws (and strips) her way to the top of the Vegas showgirl circuit. The puppets, wonderfully manipulated, add new flare to this age old story. Ever seen a sock puppet pole dance? You will. And you will be delighted as your childhood friend Lambchop makes her adult debut. Hmmm it’s almost like when Elizabeth Berkley of childhood classic Saved by the Bell bared all for her adult debut in Showgirls. Harvey Finklestein’s Sock Puppet Showgirls reminds us that eventually all socks become dirty.
Harvey Finklestein’s Sock Puppet Showgirls runs every Saturday at 8 PM beginning May 13 at Ace of Clubs (9 Great Jones Street – inside Acme). Tickets are $15, available at 212-352-3101 or TheaterMania.com.
Saturday, May 13, 2006
3Graces’ Spring Shorts 2006 Review by Elizabeth Devlin
“Seven short plays tell relatable, human stories from a woman’s perspective, and the production provides uproarious comedy side-by-side with thought-provoking, and sometimes disturbing insight.”
An evening of short plays is often a mixed bag. The 3Graces Theater Co. however, has produced solid block of entertaining and thought-provoking pieces, where some works shine and all entertain.
Pieces that stood out included Remind Me Again by Sharyn Rothestein, I Think You Think I Love You by Kelly Younger and Roller Coaster by Kayla Cagan. In Remind Me Again, Elizabeth Bunnell’s character Miranda is deeply affected by a stranger’s attempt to kiss her randomly on the street. Asking questions such as what is the difference between harassment and flirting and the line between feeling flattered and feeling violated, this piece made me laugh so hard my stomach hurt. Chelsea Silverman and Annie McGovern are hysterical as Miranda’s coworkers who try to convince her that this “invasion” was a perfectly normal and non-threatening act. One of the best lines in the show comes when they try and convince Miranda that she is totally safe during the day: “Rapists are like hedge-hogs – nocturnal.”
I Think You Think I Love You, Nitra Guttierez performs what amounts to a 10-minute monologue as she relays her actions and feelings as she deals with the death of her mother – and her sister’s insistence that Mom’s ashes be spread with Henry the cat’s. She carries it off with true aplomb and is both touching, honest and true as she pours her heart out to a complete stranger.
Roller Coaster is the most disturbing piece of the evening, as a brother and sister walk on an emotional tightrope to communicate. The sister, played eerily and wonderfully by Catherine McNelis, has obvious violence/familial issues and a love for her brother crosses many lines.
The entire evening was entertaining, and all the actors involved brought talent and insight to their roles. 3Graces is definitely a theatre company to keep an eye on, for if they consistently produce works as solid as these, they cannot let you down.
Spring Shorts 2006 runs Saturday, 5/13 at 3pm and 8pm, and on Sunday 5/14 at 3pm at the Milagro Theater at CVS Cultural & Educational Center at 107 Suffolk Street, NYC.
An evening of short plays is often a mixed bag. The 3Graces Theater Co. however, has produced solid block of entertaining and thought-provoking pieces, where some works shine and all entertain.
Pieces that stood out included Remind Me Again by Sharyn Rothestein, I Think You Think I Love You by Kelly Younger and Roller Coaster by Kayla Cagan. In Remind Me Again, Elizabeth Bunnell’s character Miranda is deeply affected by a stranger’s attempt to kiss her randomly on the street. Asking questions such as what is the difference between harassment and flirting and the line between feeling flattered and feeling violated, this piece made me laugh so hard my stomach hurt. Chelsea Silverman and Annie McGovern are hysterical as Miranda’s coworkers who try to convince her that this “invasion” was a perfectly normal and non-threatening act. One of the best lines in the show comes when they try and convince Miranda that she is totally safe during the day: “Rapists are like hedge-hogs – nocturnal.”
I Think You Think I Love You, Nitra Guttierez performs what amounts to a 10-minute monologue as she relays her actions and feelings as she deals with the death of her mother – and her sister’s insistence that Mom’s ashes be spread with Henry the cat’s. She carries it off with true aplomb and is both touching, honest and true as she pours her heart out to a complete stranger.
Roller Coaster is the most disturbing piece of the evening, as a brother and sister walk on an emotional tightrope to communicate. The sister, played eerily and wonderfully by Catherine McNelis, has obvious violence/familial issues and a love for her brother crosses many lines.
The entire evening was entertaining, and all the actors involved brought talent and insight to their roles. 3Graces is definitely a theatre company to keep an eye on, for if they consistently produce works as solid as these, they cannot let you down.
Spring Shorts 2006 runs Saturday, 5/13 at 3pm and 8pm, and on Sunday 5/14 at 3pm at the Milagro Theater at CVS Cultural & Educational Center at 107 Suffolk Street, NYC.
Friday, May 12, 2006
Bone Portraits
by Aaron Riccio
. . . the explanation and exploration of science gives way to a kind of theatrical magic rarely seen (especially off-off-Broadway), and the scenic and lighting design of Justin Townsend and Peter Ksander often speaks for itself (as does Gregory King’s multimedia film.)
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“You’ll notice I’ve compressed time a bit here,” says a very jocular Thomas Edison (the excellent Gian-Murray Gianino), the inventor cum sideshow narrator cum ringleader of Bone Portraits, a fantastically theatric new play. Edison pauses for a moment, adjusting a minute wrinkle on his bright red jacket. “Or maybe you won’t.” Another beat. “Kids these days,” he says, dismissively, walking behind a homemade proscenium (of ghost-white curtains), as he reveals more about the x-ray’s accidental birth and consequences.
It’s a lovely bit of meta-narrative, filled with knowing asides to the audience. Fitting, too, since there are moments where Deborah Stein’s carnival of a script is more confusing than a hall of mirrors, and you won’t know what’s going on. No matter: the incredibly talented director, Lear deBessonet, throws so many visual bones your way that you won’t care. “I’m a scientist and a showman,” Edison says (which explains why the show’s antics are so digestible). “Back then, there wasn’t that much of a difference between the two.”
Bone Portraits is ambitious to the point of overindulgence, but it’s never redundant, and every moment onstage crackles with electricity (sometimes literally). The many storylines grow jumbled and confusing and characters are hard to keep track of since the ensemble is triple-cast. But there’s so much magic onstage that the lack of cohesion is hardly a problem: the explanation and exploration of science gives way to a kind of theatrical magic rarely seen (especially off-off-Broadway), and the scenic and lighting design of Justin Townsend and Peter Ksander often speaks for itself (as does Gregory King’s multimedia film.)
Bone Portraits uses its loose frame to jump between gothic experimentation and vaudevillian sketch comedy. One scene, where the ensemble re-enacts the daily news, is so much like watching good improv that it explains the actors’ co-creator status. A bit much? Sure, but deliciously so. The only real shortcoming is the romantic plot. It’s hard enough to mix comedy and horror: love seems like a third wheel (especially when you forget who’s who). It’s also just not as interesting as watching a character suddenly break into song, or a tap dance.
There’s the sad tale of Clarence Dally (Adam Green), who died of a “mysterious” bone disease after constantly taking x-ray photographs for his employer, Edison. There are the humorous monologues of Nana (Miriam Silverman), an old woman who suggests the ladies wear “lead underwear” to protect against those “men with the x-ray glasses.” There’s desperation in Marie Curie (Jessica Wortham)’s attempt to reach her husband through a séance. There’s a Greek pathos to Roentgen (Michael Crane), inventor of the x-ray, when Edison uses his idea to seek money rather than the people’s good. Bone Portrait’s little bit of everything might not come together with the cohesion of the bones in our body, but it has a contortionist’s flexibility. Remember: these are just portraits—the very briefest glimpses of the soul.
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Walkerspace (46 Walker Street)
Tickets (212-352-3101): $18.00
Wed. – Sun. @ 8:00 / (also) Saturday @ 3:00 [Closes May 20]
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“You’ll notice I’ve compressed time a bit here,” says a very jocular Thomas Edison (the excellent Gian-Murray Gianino), the inventor cum sideshow narrator cum ringleader of Bone Portraits, a fantastically theatric new play. Edison pauses for a moment, adjusting a minute wrinkle on his bright red jacket. “Or maybe you won’t.” Another beat. “Kids these days,” he says, dismissively, walking behind a homemade proscenium (of ghost-white curtains), as he reveals more about the x-ray’s accidental birth and consequences.
It’s a lovely bit of meta-narrative, filled with knowing asides to the audience. Fitting, too, since there are moments where Deborah Stein’s carnival of a script is more confusing than a hall of mirrors, and you won’t know what’s going on. No matter: the incredibly talented director, Lear deBessonet, throws so many visual bones your way that you won’t care. “I’m a scientist and a showman,” Edison says (which explains why the show’s antics are so digestible). “Back then, there wasn’t that much of a difference between the two.”
Bone Portraits is ambitious to the point of overindulgence, but it’s never redundant, and every moment onstage crackles with electricity (sometimes literally). The many storylines grow jumbled and confusing and characters are hard to keep track of since the ensemble is triple-cast. But there’s so much magic onstage that the lack of cohesion is hardly a problem: the explanation and exploration of science gives way to a kind of theatrical magic rarely seen (especially off-off-Broadway), and the scenic and lighting design of Justin Townsend and Peter Ksander often speaks for itself (as does Gregory King’s multimedia film.)
Bone Portraits uses its loose frame to jump between gothic experimentation and vaudevillian sketch comedy. One scene, where the ensemble re-enacts the daily news, is so much like watching good improv that it explains the actors’ co-creator status. A bit much? Sure, but deliciously so. The only real shortcoming is the romantic plot. It’s hard enough to mix comedy and horror: love seems like a third wheel (especially when you forget who’s who). It’s also just not as interesting as watching a character suddenly break into song, or a tap dance.
There’s the sad tale of Clarence Dally (Adam Green), who died of a “mysterious” bone disease after constantly taking x-ray photographs for his employer, Edison. There are the humorous monologues of Nana (Miriam Silverman), an old woman who suggests the ladies wear “lead underwear” to protect against those “men with the x-ray glasses.” There’s desperation in Marie Curie (Jessica Wortham)’s attempt to reach her husband through a séance. There’s a Greek pathos to Roentgen (Michael Crane), inventor of the x-ray, when Edison uses his idea to seek money rather than the people’s good. Bone Portrait’s little bit of everything might not come together with the cohesion of the bones in our body, but it has a contortionist’s flexibility. Remember: these are just portraits—the very briefest glimpses of the soul.
-------------------------------------------------
Walkerspace (46 Walker Street)
Tickets (212-352-3101): $18.00
Wed. – Sun. @ 8:00 / (also) Saturday @ 3:00 [Closes May 20]
Back of the Throat - a review by Liza White
For those not interested in filling your face with popcorn while watching United 93 in a crowded movie theater, Back of the Throat, now in an extended run at the Flea Theater, provides a topical and entertaining look at how a terrorist attack conjures up fear, racism, and the loss of civil liberties.
Yussef El Guindi’s brilliantly woven play, directed stylishly by Jim Simpson, begins as an innocent interrogation of Khaled (Adeel Akhtar), an Arab-American writer, after an unnamed terrorist attack in the United States. The play takes a sickly turn when the two homeland security officers discover Khaled owns questionable books and ordinary porn. As I own some of the same books in question and maybe even porno or two, will a day come when I too could be accused of terrorism? How do our belongings define us and how do these definitions change according to the color of our skin? As an actor, Akhtar captures beautifully the pride of being American, the fear of being the hunted, and the intelligence of a man who sees both sides of an issue.
Unfortunately for Akhtar, his level of acting is not mimicked by the bulk of the cast. Much of the play comes off as an excersise for the actors to practice regional accents. Their accents gave a sophomoric quality to the sophisticated script. Jason Guy who uses a fake Southern accent to play Bartlett, one of the homeland security officers, sounds like he is trying to play a dumb Southern stereotype instead of the complex character that is written. But alas the fake Southern accent does not stop there. Erin Roth in an attempt to differentiate her multiple roles falls back on the accent when playing a stripper and again the character’s intricacies become lost. However, not all accents were in vain, Bandar Albuliwi, who plays Asfoor, uses a Middle Eastern accent flawlessly and most poignantly in a monologue about the power of language.
Back of the Throat is the most successful response to the 9/11 attacks that I have seen on the stage. It addresses issues that have been minimally reported on by our press while using comedy to point out our own prejudices and realities.
Back of the Throat is playing at the Flea Theater from May 11 – July 1, Thursday – Saturday at 7 PM. The Flea Theater is located at 41 White Street (between Broadway and Church Streets). Tickets are $20 and may be purchased by calling 212-352-3101 or by visiting www.theatermania.com.
Yussef El Guindi’s brilliantly woven play, directed stylishly by Jim Simpson, begins as an innocent interrogation of Khaled (Adeel Akhtar), an Arab-American writer, after an unnamed terrorist attack in the United States. The play takes a sickly turn when the two homeland security officers discover Khaled owns questionable books and ordinary porn. As I own some of the same books in question and maybe even porno or two, will a day come when I too could be accused of terrorism? How do our belongings define us and how do these definitions change according to the color of our skin? As an actor, Akhtar captures beautifully the pride of being American, the fear of being the hunted, and the intelligence of a man who sees both sides of an issue.
Unfortunately for Akhtar, his level of acting is not mimicked by the bulk of the cast. Much of the play comes off as an excersise for the actors to practice regional accents. Their accents gave a sophomoric quality to the sophisticated script. Jason Guy who uses a fake Southern accent to play Bartlett, one of the homeland security officers, sounds like he is trying to play a dumb Southern stereotype instead of the complex character that is written. But alas the fake Southern accent does not stop there. Erin Roth in an attempt to differentiate her multiple roles falls back on the accent when playing a stripper and again the character’s intricacies become lost. However, not all accents were in vain, Bandar Albuliwi, who plays Asfoor, uses a Middle Eastern accent flawlessly and most poignantly in a monologue about the power of language.
Back of the Throat is the most successful response to the 9/11 attacks that I have seen on the stage. It addresses issues that have been minimally reported on by our press while using comedy to point out our own prejudices and realities.
Back of the Throat is playing at the Flea Theater from May 11 – July 1, Thursday – Saturday at 7 PM. The Flea Theater is located at 41 White Street (between Broadway and Church Streets). Tickets are $20 and may be purchased by calling 212-352-3101 or by visiting www.theatermania.com.
Monday, May 08, 2006
Slipped Disc
by Aaron Riccio
The stronger (or simply more relatable) of the two mainstage Stadttheater* productions, Slipped Disc - A Study of the Upright Walk looks at the inner lives of five office drones. The conclusion, which is also the impetus for the entire show, is that the modern worker is an emasculated creature, one who lives by the will of their whimsical and often cruel boss. Quitting, in the world of Slipped Disc, would accomplish nothing: they'd simply be unemployed (for there is no shortage of labor). And so these five people lap up humiliation after humiliation, all of which is artfully displayed by literal knives in the back or metaphorical displays of pathos that include eating toilet paper (i.e., shit). When they return to their office floor (where they are surrounded on two sides by audience members), they quickly take it out on each other, defining themselves by the cruelties they inflict on others.
For instance, Kretzky (a suave Sanjit De Silva) laughs off every little embarrassment as if it's a joke, and it's a pleasure to watch his smiling facade dissolve as he gloats in one aside about how he'll get his co-workers fired. (The delight is watching this second layer of reality, the one we normally repress, rise to the surface.) Hufschmidt (John Summerour), on the other hand, physically abuses the others, in particular Kruse (a gleefully pathetic Ron Domingo), before he too loses his facade, at one point devolving into a growling dog. Schmitt and Kristensen (Danielle Skraastad and Andrea Ciannavei) play the two women: one confident and belittling, the other hopeful yet hopeless. The contrasts are well illustrated by director Simone Blattner, who artfully makes the action too close for comfort.
Much as this violence is admirable, Blattner has a habit for belaboring certain points. Those uncomfortable moments where a joke has gone on for too long often stretch on (and on) into the artificial. It isn't viscerally uncomfortable, it's just dull. For example, when Kristensen gathers the characters together to air their complaints, the five actors stand there, silent and complacent, as if running out a clock rather than actually having nothing to say. (This is also how the play opens: to sit down, you must walk across the stage, around the immobile actors, and onto an elevated portion of the set.) Ingrid Lausund's script (translated by Henning Bochert) isn't very deep to begin with; attempting to draw a deeper significance out of it, or to make the words (or lack thereof) more resonant doesn't always work. But when it does (mostly if an actor's charisma sustains it), it's effective: Kruse's lengthy acceptance of the fact that Hufschmidt slaps him around for no reason grows more and more pathetic, until we are drowning in pity.
We can easily be any one of these spineless characters (thankfully, none are caricatures), and Slipped Disc does well to remind us that we can more easily talk our way into acceptance of circumstance than out of a situation.
--------------------------------------------
*Stadttheater is a mini-festival going on at the HERE Arts Center through May, featuring talk-backs, symposiums, and staged readings of new works, as well as another play, The Woman Before, also a US premiere.
--------------------------------------------
HERE Arts Center (145 Avenue of the Americas)
Tickets (212-868-4444): $18.00
Performances: Varying evenings at 8:30 (in Repertoire with The Woman Before)
For instance, Kretzky (a suave Sanjit De Silva) laughs off every little embarrassment as if it's a joke, and it's a pleasure to watch his smiling facade dissolve as he gloats in one aside about how he'll get his co-workers fired. (The delight is watching this second layer of reality, the one we normally repress, rise to the surface.) Hufschmidt (John Summerour), on the other hand, physically abuses the others, in particular Kruse (a gleefully pathetic Ron Domingo), before he too loses his facade, at one point devolving into a growling dog. Schmitt and Kristensen (Danielle Skraastad and Andrea Ciannavei) play the two women: one confident and belittling, the other hopeful yet hopeless. The contrasts are well illustrated by director Simone Blattner, who artfully makes the action too close for comfort.
Much as this violence is admirable, Blattner has a habit for belaboring certain points. Those uncomfortable moments where a joke has gone on for too long often stretch on (and on) into the artificial. It isn't viscerally uncomfortable, it's just dull. For example, when Kristensen gathers the characters together to air their complaints, the five actors stand there, silent and complacent, as if running out a clock rather than actually having nothing to say. (This is also how the play opens: to sit down, you must walk across the stage, around the immobile actors, and onto an elevated portion of the set.) Ingrid Lausund's script (translated by Henning Bochert) isn't very deep to begin with; attempting to draw a deeper significance out of it, or to make the words (or lack thereof) more resonant doesn't always work. But when it does (mostly if an actor's charisma sustains it), it's effective: Kruse's lengthy acceptance of the fact that Hufschmidt slaps him around for no reason grows more and more pathetic, until we are drowning in pity.
We can easily be any one of these spineless characters (thankfully, none are caricatures), and Slipped Disc does well to remind us that we can more easily talk our way into acceptance of circumstance than out of a situation.
--------------------------------------------
*Stadttheater is a mini-festival going on at the HERE Arts Center through May, featuring talk-backs, symposiums, and staged readings of new works, as well as another play, The Woman Before, also a US premiere.
--------------------------------------------
HERE Arts Center (145 Avenue of the Americas)
Tickets (212-868-4444): $18.00
Performances: Varying evenings at 8:30 (in Repertoire with The Woman Before)
BLOODY MARY
Holy moly!
BLOODY MARY, an epic account of Mary Tudor's rise to power in sixteenth-century England, features disembowelment, fornication, and a corseted cast of twenty throwing themselves with abandon at Rachel Shukert's uneven script. The first act works itself into a frenzy proving its ability to shock and scandalize (the Catholic school master wears S&M under his tunic! Jimi Hendrix is young Mary's spiritual guide! sex on stage!), but falls somewhere short of the easy, engaging absurdity achieved in the second. An hour in, the show gets where it needs to be, thanks in large part to James Ryan Caldwell's virtuosic and silly performance as Elizabeth, Mary's busty, beloved half-sister. The second act is clever and quick and ridiculous, grounded always by Audrey Lynn Weston's grave Mary, and pausing only to take a few well-aimed shots at the current administration.
BLOODY MARY is a big funny tangle of a play, inspired and frustrating in equal parts. When all is said and done, though, hooray for Third man Productions, a young company not afraid of huge casts and racks of well-made costumes and unnecessary set pieces, and hooray for big risks like this one.
BLOODY MARY: A Comedy of Tragic Proportions runs through Saturday, May 16th. Clemente Soto Velez Ctr (CSV)
107 Suffolk Street
New York, NY 10002
BLOODY MARY, an epic account of Mary Tudor's rise to power in sixteenth-century England, features disembowelment, fornication, and a corseted cast of twenty throwing themselves with abandon at Rachel Shukert's uneven script. The first act works itself into a frenzy proving its ability to shock and scandalize (the Catholic school master wears S&M under his tunic! Jimi Hendrix is young Mary's spiritual guide! sex on stage!), but falls somewhere short of the easy, engaging absurdity achieved in the second. An hour in, the show gets where it needs to be, thanks in large part to James Ryan Caldwell's virtuosic and silly performance as Elizabeth, Mary's busty, beloved half-sister. The second act is clever and quick and ridiculous, grounded always by Audrey Lynn Weston's grave Mary, and pausing only to take a few well-aimed shots at the current administration.
BLOODY MARY is a big funny tangle of a play, inspired and frustrating in equal parts. When all is said and done, though, hooray for Third man Productions, a young company not afraid of huge casts and racks of well-made costumes and unnecessary set pieces, and hooray for big risks like this one.
BLOODY MARY: A Comedy of Tragic Proportions runs through Saturday, May 16th. Clemente Soto Velez Ctr (CSV)
107 Suffolk Street
New York, NY 10002
Saturday, May 06, 2006
The Caine Mutiny Court-Martial
by Aaron Riccio
An exercise in character acting, The Caine Mutiny Court-Martial is a stage version of your weekly Law and Order TV programming. Here you’ll find eleven (mostly) fine male actors (supported by a dozen extras, or for all intensive purposes, “props”) giving long dramatic monologues ranging from naïve guilt to estranged guilt to aggravated guilt . . . the list goes on. Given the utter lack of stage direction or scenic dazzle, the entire production focuses on whoever is sitting center stage in the witness chair, and while it’s dull to watch, the script, just over fifty years old, crackles with some really good theatrical moments. (It goes without saying that, given those negatives, it would have to.)
The trial -- and therein the plot (and therein the problem) -- is a simple matter of whether or not a mutiny has occured on the (fictional) U.S.S. Caine. Was Lt. Stephen Maryk (a mostly silent, yet animated, Joe Sikora) within naval law in his usurpation of Lt. Com. Philip Francis Queeq in the midst of a typhoon-generated crisis? Or was he a disgruntled executive officer looking to finally revenge himself upon a stern yet righteous captain? For the first act, the arguments of the prosecution (the slick, yet often irrationally angry Tim Daly) and the defense's cross-examination of the testimony are the plot itself, and it quickly wears thin, especially as the tactics and statements repeat themselves. (The two exceptions, the jumpy Paul David Story [who plays a dimwitted signalman] and the gleeful Brian Reddy [a pompous psychiatrist, as if there could be no other kind] are justifications for the whole trial-as-narrative-device.)
However, in the second act, the defense has opportunity to question the stellar Zeljko Ivanek (Queeq), and at this point, The Caine Mutiny Court-Martial becomes rather engaging. Operating as both a spotlight for fine performers and a mouthpiece for playwright Herman Wouk’s views on the military (of the late 1940s, at least), the show picks up steam and plows out of the stagnant waters of the first hour. So what if the good stuff is hastily scripted as a denouement in the second scene (which, true to courtroom style, remains a prosecutorial monologue)? At least it got said. If only Jerry Zaks’ stilted direction didn’t seem to build solely for this moment (and this moment only); if only it didn’t take David Schwimmer two hours as the defense to snap out of his lethargy. (There are other ways to express inner turmoil, Mr. Schwimmer, than through boredom.)
So there's substance at the center of The Caine Mutiny Court-Martial, and there are some engaging performances along the way. And if you love a good (yet dull) legal battle, it's a thriller too. No Hollywood surprises though, no suspensions of reality. It's just a trial of some talented actors and the audience's patience.
The trial -- and therein the plot (and therein the problem) -- is a simple matter of whether or not a mutiny has occured on the (fictional) U.S.S. Caine. Was Lt. Stephen Maryk (a mostly silent, yet animated, Joe Sikora) within naval law in his usurpation of Lt. Com. Philip Francis Queeq in the midst of a typhoon-generated crisis? Or was he a disgruntled executive officer looking to finally revenge himself upon a stern yet righteous captain? For the first act, the arguments of the prosecution (the slick, yet often irrationally angry Tim Daly) and the defense's cross-examination of the testimony are the plot itself, and it quickly wears thin, especially as the tactics and statements repeat themselves. (The two exceptions, the jumpy Paul David Story [who plays a dimwitted signalman] and the gleeful Brian Reddy [a pompous psychiatrist, as if there could be no other kind] are justifications for the whole trial-as-narrative-device.)
However, in the second act, the defense has opportunity to question the stellar Zeljko Ivanek (Queeq), and at this point, The Caine Mutiny Court-Martial becomes rather engaging. Operating as both a spotlight for fine performers and a mouthpiece for playwright Herman Wouk’s views on the military (of the late 1940s, at least), the show picks up steam and plows out of the stagnant waters of the first hour. So what if the good stuff is hastily scripted as a denouement in the second scene (which, true to courtroom style, remains a prosecutorial monologue)? At least it got said. If only Jerry Zaks’ stilted direction didn’t seem to build solely for this moment (and this moment only); if only it didn’t take David Schwimmer two hours as the defense to snap out of his lethargy. (There are other ways to express inner turmoil, Mr. Schwimmer, than through boredom.)
So there's substance at the center of The Caine Mutiny Court-Martial, and there are some engaging performances along the way. And if you love a good (yet dull) legal battle, it's a thriller too. No Hollywood surprises though, no suspensions of reality. It's just a trial of some talented actors and the audience's patience.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
THE DROWSY CHAPERONE, Review by Matt Windman
The best love affair on Broadway this year is between a lonely man and the original cast recording of his favorite 1920s musical.
In spite of its awkward title and a red and black logo that resembles a blood clot, “The Drowsy Chaperone” is an absolute treasure for theatergoers who truly cherish the golden age Broadway musical. It was originally created as a wedding present for Bob Martin in 1998, and has since then been developed at a variety of fringe and professional theaters.
The show is a postmodern commentary on musical comedy delivered by “The Man in the Chair” (Bob Martin). Seeking escape from his humdrum life, the devoted fan plays an LP record of the long-forgotten 1928 musical “The Drowsy Chaperone,” and the show suddenly materializes in full form within his tiny apartment. (Please note that “The Drowsy Chaperone” never actually existed in 1928 as a musical.)
The show within a show of “The Drowsy Chaperone” is a ludicrous, old-fashioned tale of a wedding day involving a narcissistic actress (Sutton Foster), flamboyant foreigner (Danny Burstein), aviator, gangsters and more. Though a power outage suddenly stops the recording, The Man in the Chair begs for our patience and manages to save the day.
The bits of slapstick comedy are entertaining and the songs are cute, but it is Bob Martin’s avid enthusiasm and adorable personality that drive the show’s success. One could even think of “The Drowsy Chaperone” as an ordinary musical comedy starring Sutton Foster inside of an extraordinary one-man show starring Bob Martin.
In his debut as a director, Casey Nicholaw deserves credit for making this unusual production move so well. And the cast members of the musical-within-the-musical are brilliantly charming in their purposely one-dimensional roles.
Compared to the current onslaught of terrible programming like “Hot Feet” and “Lestat,” “Drowsy” is a desperately nostalgic wish to revisit a time when musicals were just about fun. This show cannot be missed by anyone who has ever fallen in love with a Broadway musical. More than just brains or courage, “The Drowsy Chaperone” has miles and miles of heart.
Marquis Theatre, 1535 Broadway, 212-307-4100, $25-110. Mon-Tues 8pm, Wed 2 & 8pm, Thurs-Fri 8pm, Sat 2 & 8pm. Open Run.
In spite of its awkward title and a red and black logo that resembles a blood clot, “The Drowsy Chaperone” is an absolute treasure for theatergoers who truly cherish the golden age Broadway musical. It was originally created as a wedding present for Bob Martin in 1998, and has since then been developed at a variety of fringe and professional theaters.
The show is a postmodern commentary on musical comedy delivered by “The Man in the Chair” (Bob Martin). Seeking escape from his humdrum life, the devoted fan plays an LP record of the long-forgotten 1928 musical “The Drowsy Chaperone,” and the show suddenly materializes in full form within his tiny apartment. (Please note that “The Drowsy Chaperone” never actually existed in 1928 as a musical.)
The show within a show of “The Drowsy Chaperone” is a ludicrous, old-fashioned tale of a wedding day involving a narcissistic actress (Sutton Foster), flamboyant foreigner (Danny Burstein), aviator, gangsters and more. Though a power outage suddenly stops the recording, The Man in the Chair begs for our patience and manages to save the day.
The bits of slapstick comedy are entertaining and the songs are cute, but it is Bob Martin’s avid enthusiasm and adorable personality that drive the show’s success. One could even think of “The Drowsy Chaperone” as an ordinary musical comedy starring Sutton Foster inside of an extraordinary one-man show starring Bob Martin.
In his debut as a director, Casey Nicholaw deserves credit for making this unusual production move so well. And the cast members of the musical-within-the-musical are brilliantly charming in their purposely one-dimensional roles.
Compared to the current onslaught of terrible programming like “Hot Feet” and “Lestat,” “Drowsy” is a desperately nostalgic wish to revisit a time when musicals were just about fun. This show cannot be missed by anyone who has ever fallen in love with a Broadway musical. More than just brains or courage, “The Drowsy Chaperone” has miles and miles of heart.
Marquis Theatre, 1535 Broadway, 212-307-4100, $25-110. Mon-Tues 8pm, Wed 2 & 8pm, Thurs-Fri 8pm, Sat 2 & 8pm. Open Run.
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