Fever

Loosely based on the play Philoctetes by Sophocles, Fever is a homoerotic, modernized interpretation of the story minus the bow and poisoned arrows. Although it is passionate and uses sound effects that are chilling and inspired, it suffiers from uneven acting, it's way too long and it's very wordy. There are some good ideas, but ultimately the pacing is too slow and the sentiments are too preachy.

Gregory Thornsbury and Rick Lattimer

Photo/Dave McCracken

Reviewed by Cindy Pierre

Fever isn't your garden-variety interpretation of Philoctetes. (There's not even really a garden, considering how rarely Sophocles's ancient play is revived.) Dave McCracken's take on the Greek hero, beefed up with homoerotic overtones and passion, and overdosing on philosophy, is an imaginative and well-intentioned but ultimately overcooked and flawed version of the classic.

Fever has a lot of heart, though. The opening entices the senses with airy sound effects and a large beige carpet meant to represent a sand dune. At once, we're transported to a forgotten, isolated land. Instead of togas, sandals, and armor, McCracken's warriors wear black slacks, T-shirts, and fingerless leather gloves. The men may not look or act like traditional warriors on a battlefield, but Atrox's (Greg Thornsbury) and Virtus's (Rick Lattimer) biker gear suggests strength. As they talk (and talk and talk) about what they plan to do with Bonitas (McCracken's Philoctetes/Latin lover hybrid) when they find him, Thornsbury acts like a cartoonish warrior, his face so full of grimaces and smiles that he looks like Popeye. Lattimer's Virtus employs mental and emotional tactics instead, ready to tackle Bonitas with soft, angelic looks and false earnestness. Together, Virtus and Atrox look like the sort of soldiers you might find at a BDSM party. McCracken's direction has Thornsbury gazing frequently into the audience instead of at Lattimer, which weakens his motivational speeches and duplicitous ways. But Virtus still carries on with Atrox's bidding. At first.

Instead of the regal and commanding figure that he was expecting, Virtus finds that Bonitas has been made quite vulnerable from his pain and living conditions. Bonitas' clothes are tattered and torn, his leg is wrapped in a tourniquet, and hygiene--forget it. Belmonte's Latin accent allows him to bring real strength and emotion to his scenes, but at the same time, threatens to obscure his speech. The more he rages, the less intelligible he is.

The fight choreography, although done in a large, slow-paced manner that suggests that gods are fighting (Think of Clash of the Titans), is more romantic wrestling than epic action. The play is awash in sex--badly acted in some spots--and that makes it hard to take the production seriously. Luckily, every time things drift off course, the fantastically hellish side effects anchor the audience back to the plot. Poor Bonitas paints himself as an immortal cesspool of emotional issues and a filter for amplified negative energy. Alliances are formed, questioned, and then changed, all within the span of a very long Act One.

Act Two, significantly shorter, has the most interesting ideas. We find out that Atrox is responsible for creating religion (a creative idea in and of itself, but executed poorly, more of a bash of Christianity than anything). The comparison between Horus and Jesus and the notion that Bonitas began the Crusades stand out as especially imaginative, but the attack on organized religion should have been introduced in Act One (a lot more time to develop there), and not stuffed into Act Two. McCracken often intersects the mythical world with the real one in dialogue, but doesn't always meld the two well. A lot of trickery and deceit is bandied back and forth until the final, mostly satisfying conclusion.

According to McCracken, Fever is about "the struggle between good and evil for the souls of mankind," but it isn't always clear which character is playing good, evil, or mankind. The audience may want to sympathize with Bonitas one minute, but then switch to Virtus, and back. In so doing, the play utilizes the fickleness of mankind as well, to switch between the two ideals. Fever may be too long, preachy, slow-paced, and overbaked, but it does represent the human condition. If it had taken the shortest and most direct path to achieve that, it would have fared a lot better.
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Through July 5th. Tickets: $25. The Dionysus Theater's L'IL PEACH 270 West 36th Street(at 8th Ave.)New York City, NY 10018
(646) 621-5171, info@GrapevineTickets.com

Cinephilia

Leslye Headland's Cinephilia is filled with charmingly accurate conversations for her young characters, using an exacerbated language that heightens youthful habits in a way that both mocks and idealizes them. But by the time this two-hour piece finally finishes, it feels less like a play exploring quarter-life crises and how we can turn into meta-adults, and more like an example of how well Headland writes dialogue.

Review by Amanda Cooper

There are benefits to twenty-somethings writing plays about twenty-somethings. They certainly know their subjects, and through the powers of observation and personal experience, can write fiercely accurate dialogue. New (and young) playwright Leslye Headland, who penned Cinephilia, writes charmingly accurate conversations for her young characters, giving them an exacerbated use of language that heightens youthful habits in a way that both mocks and idealizes them. But not much happens here, both in the way of action and self-discovery, which ultimately makes Cinephilia less robust of a theater experience: instead, it is part character study, part exercise in film quoting.

The play takes place entirely in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, in an apartment having few creature comforts, and plenty of mess. As the play opens, it's clear from their clothing (or lack thereof) that Arden (Katie Cappiello) and Johnny (Brandon Scott) are in a post-coital physical high. Though these two are physically comfortable with each other, and have known one another for some time, there is a lack of personal connection, or understanding – no matter how hard the neurotic Arden tries.

Through conversations that bounce back and forth between the quoting and enactment of film dialogue, and the probing dead-end attempts by Arden to define their relationship, a slight scenario is sketched out: After sleeping together for years, Arden wants more from the socially inward Johnny, who has met someone else he's planning to move to L.A. with.

About half an hour in, Johnny's roommate Plato (Christian Durso) enters, asking for attention and validation (as non-acting twenty-something actors stuck waitering are wont to do) and providing more possibilities for the film quotes. Natalie (Nila K Leigh), Johnny’s new infatuation, soon follows, but she is oblivious to who Arden is. Headland takes advantage of the awkward scenario, poking at the tension with entertaining results. But by the time this two-hour piece finally finishes, it feels less like a play exploring quarter-life crises and how we can turn into meta-adults, and more like an example of how cleverly Headland can write youthful dialogue.

The performances here are solid, but the two male actors are the ones most comfortable on stage, especially in comparison to Cappiello’s Arden, who can't stand still, or leave her hair alone, for more than thirty seconds. The production quality is high, especially the set – a railroad-style apartment that takes up the entire length of the theater space, pushing the audience into a couple rows all along the border. Also notable is the director, who allows the movement and relationships here to exude angsty, not-quite youth action.

In reading the program, it becomes clear the entire creative team are friends, and mostly friends from NYU undergraduate theater programs. It’s great that they’re all working together, but perhaps this is also why the piece ultimately feels more like an exercise, and a bit insular in nature. As the ending fades, feeling eerily (and purposefully) like the beginning, Cinephilia seems - much like the movie quotes sprinkled about it - to float out as quickly as it floated in.

Don't Worry, Be Jewish

A pair of youngsters struggle with their Jewish identity, hindered and helped by the Devil and King Solomon as they journey on. Although there are some talented singers in the cast, their performances are not enough to save this talky, slow-paced and misguided musical.

Nathan Kay and Kailand Novak

Photo credit: Kampfire Films PR

Review by Cindy Pierre

What do you do when you're not happy with the religion, culture, race, or heritage that you were born into? Do you sit and pout, try to slide by under an assumed identity, or force yourself to accept it? If you're Chaim (Nathan Kay) and Sherianna (Alexa Rose Burger) in Don't Worry, Be Jewish, you sing your way through the issue until you come to a place of acceptance. But choosing the right path won't be easy, especially with the Devil (Kailand Novak) and King Solomon (Michell Sapoff) sitting on their shoulders.

Mark Kleyner's Don't Worry, Be Jewish opens with the actors spread out across a photography studio, primping and posing for wedding photos. However, the mini-microphones not only make them look like they're on a set for a music video or concert, they make them unable to control the volume levels (that are sometimes thundering) during dialogue. As Chaim, Kay establishes himself early as the star of the show, with his slightly hammy personality and good singing voice. He fancies Sherianna, who is about to become a member of the family, a cute strawberry blonde uncomfortable with her own Jewishness.

It's not self-hatred that drives Sherianna's rejection of her roots. Instead, it's her pollyanna- type ideals about living a stress- and heartache-free life by renouncing her heritage. Weighing in is the Devil (a ghastly portrayal that can be attributed more to the directing than Novak), clad in a bright red jacket and over the top cackle, and King Solomon, looking as earnest and as humble as he possibly can in white. Between the predominantly dialogue-driven show (not good for a production calling itself a musical), there are few musical numbers that are memorable, but "What Would Life Be Without The Magic?" stands out as a good one. In addition to the leads, Elina Rakhlin sets herself apart with a hearty, full voice that is mature for her young age.

Sadly, some of the production elements weaken the show greatly. Choreography, light and sound effects are off for most of the performance, and the set is uninspired. About an hour into the show, the plot devolves from trying to entertain to an anti-antisemitism sermon delivered by the Devil, no less. This argument may be germane to the plot, but it seems to be thrown in as a last ditch effort to make the show substantial. It doesn't work.

Don't Worry, Be Jewish may be an ode to Jewish pride, but it's done in a lackluster, ill-executed manner. Kleyner may be celebrating the culture, customs, and music, but the audience needs a heckuva lot more to come to the party.
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Through June 4th. Tickets: $25-$75. http://www.tix.com/ The Promise Theater, 316 East 91st Street, New York, NY

Coming Home

Living Image Arts’s presentation of one-act plays, Coming Home, asks (by way of a byline), “Have you ever come back to a home you don’t remember?” and promises to explore the question with three “poignant, powerful, and funny” plays. The program is not without its twinklings of inspiration, but the lack of sophistication in all three pieces produces a plodding, tedious, and flat evening.

Reviewed by Sarah Krasnow

Coming Home is not without twinklings of inspiration, but on the whole, its lack of sophistication produces a plodding, tedious, and flat evening. The first, "Counting," looks at first like it might add up, using numbers to underscore the characters’ emotions, particularly their loneliness (the piece deals with Wanda, on her way out of jail, and Gianna, on her way in). Wanda storms around the holding cell, her toughness and been-there-done-that attitude – a real veteran of the slammer – terrifying the timid Gianna, who only opens up once Wanda tells her about the counting games she played to pass the time in jail. A friendship buds, and both scared women come out a little stronger, able to plug on.

However, it's hard to follow this, due to Maria Gabriele’s often incomprehensible portrayal of Wanda (strange, since she wrote the play). Sometimes hurling out words in a thuggish dialect and sometimes swaying wistfully like a withered beauty queen, Gabriele's doing too much: a half-hearted try at an accent, lines delivered at maniacal speed, and weird, rap-like speech patterns. Wanda’s suburban mall attire and obsession with Gucci pumps aim to establish her as materialistic with a taste for glamour, but these features aren’t enough to make sense of the more bizarre characteristics bestowed on her in Gabriele’s performance. We understand that Gianna is supposed to fear Wanda’s aggressiveness, but in this case it would make more sense if Gianna simply raised her eyebrows at the histrionic loony sharing her cell. Still, with the exception of a few lapses in logic (one random numbers game produces a profile of Wanda’s husband…how?), “Counting” has potential, at least for Gabriele-as-playwright.

In “Sparrow,” the second and slightly longer play, two Philippine-born friends meet in their native country, one (Tina) having recently returned from New York City, and the other (Cris) having joined a Maoist guerilla group known as the Sparrows. They spend a few minutes summarizing the circumstances of their rendezvous, touch on school day memories, and part having renewed their bond, but with new danger in their lives. Although it offers something fresh in terms of setting and subject (like the amusing story about the butterfly that flew up the teacher’s skirt and never came out), “Sparrow” never blossoms, hindered by the underdeveloped and unconvincing dialogue and worsened by the play’s reliance on little else to move forward. Tina chatters in vague “I dunno’s”; they might represent her New York indifference, but her claim that if only Cris had followed her to Manhattan, the two of them could easily have had fruitful careers as an artist and a poet, makes me wonder if she spent her New York years on hallucinogens. Cris's stories and slogans could have been taken from a propaganda pamphlet – indicative of her lifestyle perhaps, but when was the last time, looking for a good read, you devoured the Little Red Book? (That's about as far as one's interest in this play goes.)

The very title of the final play, “Last Call on Bourbon Street” primes us for a lack of subtlety, but I doubt anything could fully prepare an audience for the storm of exposition that blows in like Katrina’s winds, washing subtext away with the Lower Ninth Ward. Here, each stock character of New Orleans’s seedy side airs his or her post-storm grievances, which sound lifted from that month’s newspaper headlines, and the whole thing proceeds like a grade school current events project presented as a play. As Topsy the prostitute, Amanda Bruton provides a professional air of energy and precision that comes as a monumental relief amidst the halting delivery of lines and dead air (some praise for the drag queen who tries to seduce the insurance investigator).
More than anything, Coming Home will probably direct your thoughts towards going home. See if you remember these plays once you get there.

Reasons To Be Pretty

Reasons To Be Pretty is certainly the laziest of Neil LaBute's three body-image themed plays (also The Shape of Things and Fat Pig). Thomas Sadoski comes across genuinely as Greg, but the other three actors seem to just be working on him, with no regard or care for self. Some awkward, reiterative monologues muddy things further, but as with all of LaBute's work, artifice, made sharp enough, can still be highly entertaining: even blanks pop when they go off.

Photo/Joan Marcus

Reviewed by Aaron Riccio

It's not hard to put yourself in the shoes of Neil LaBute's latest accidental fuck-up of a character, Greg. Just have a few drinks with your best friend (call him Kent), and then, while talking about the undeniably hot chick who just started working the register, slur something about how, yeah, she's hot, your girlfriend of four years isn't pretty like that. It's a shame that Kent's wife, Carly, is not only in the next room, listening, but that her best friend, Steph, happens to be your girlfriend, but that should at least clue you in on why, as the lights rise, you're stuck in a fight you can't win.

Reasons To Be Pretty takes Greg's words at face value; the question the audience has to determine, as Steph calls him out on what she perceives to be the relationship-ending honesty of his words, is whether or not LaBute is capable of writing the truth. The answer: yes, and no. LaBute writes in a sort of hyper-realism, in which the situations are all too genuine, but the dialogue surrounding them is so crisp that it tends to create artificialities that stifle any genuine emotion: protecting the characters with patter. His prolific writing makes him a lazy playwright: the character in the center is real, but everyone else is just acting on him: they feed him pap, exit the stage, and cease to exist.

Reasons To Be Pretty ends up the same: as Greg, Thomas Sadoski is a marvelously human lead. He weathers Hurricane Steph's questions with a justly confused attitude, he tries to win her back with the best intentions, he puts on a happy face (and lets it crack) trying to deal with her new boyfriend and Kent's infidelities, and tries to do the right thing, even though the books he's read don't tell him what that is. However, Alison Pill's rabid rage against him comes out of nowhere: she does brilliantly to give Greg something to react to, and her acting is cool as ice, but it lacks humanity. (She gets some of it back in the second act, but by then, it seems like she's just putting us on.) The same, more so, for Pablo Schreiber's turn as Kent: he acts as if he knows he's the asshole, and he wallows in that, muddying up any truth or clear intent to his actions. He's still acting (I hope: this seems to be a stereotype for him), but it's all focused on Greg; nothing touches him. Surprisingly, LaBute leaves something in the tank for Carly, and Piper Perabo snaps it up, sharply transitioning from a walking punchline ("That's why they call it night," she says. "Because it's dark.") into the sort of woman who is smart enough to know that she's a little stupid, and brave enough to face those feelings.

Perhaps understanding the limitations of the play, Terry Kinney directs to LaBute's strengths: the production is extremely well-oiled, from the swift scene changes to the rapid-fire dialogue, which pops even when it's firing blanks. The set--a room boxed in by Wal-Mart-like storage--is the only ambiguous thing in the play; everything else is sharp and to the point. And that's perhaps what LaBute most needs to work on: Reasons To Be Pretty suffers from the inclusion of four aimless monologues (one per character) that are meant to illuminate, but only reiterate what's already coming across in the scenes. This is that laziness back to haunt LaBute: if he knew how to write more developed characters, perhaps he'd be able to trust them a little more.

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Reasons To Be Pretty (130 min., 1 intermission)
MCC @ Lucille Lortel Theater (121 Christopher Street)
Tickets (212-279-4200): $59.00*
Performances (through 7/5): Tues. & Wed. @ 7 | Thurs. - Sat. @ 8 | Sat. @ 2 | Sun. @ 3
*$20 if you're under 30; sold based on availability at 6:00, day of.

The Site

The arrival of a mysterious, threatening stranger signals the fall of a despotic patriarch in Ivy Production’s The Site, a muddled play about an idiosyncratic family and the unearthing of their buried sins.

Rebecca Lingafelter and Jenny Seastone Stern
Photo/Katy Kelley

Reviewed by Ilena George

Outside of Truxton, AZ, Doctor Harold Roth (Marty Brown), an argyle socks and suspenders-clad “archaeo-geo-physio-bio-neurologist,” is futilely searching for evidence of a rare species of toad capable of surviving underground. In tow is his wife, Faith (Rebecca Lingafelter), a poet who some time ago suffered a break with reality: she still functions, but only communicates in abstract statements and metaphors. Rounding out the team are Sherry (Sarah Claspell), the long-time personal assistant, and Brandon (Bobby Hodgson), the bumbling field assistant prone to fainting spells. Visiting for the weekend is the Roths’ college-aged son, Matt (Ian Merrigan), and his girlfriend Amy (Jenny Seastone Stern) who is meeting his parents for the first time and who has news she needs to share with Matt “in private.”

Playwright and set designer Al Schnupp cleverly plays on the archaeological theme: the audience witnesses the action from above, as though we were archaeologists and the play were the dig site we were uncovering. And the uncovering is a leisurely one. The first half of the play takes its time in introducing the characters; they bicker, they eat breakfast, they bicker some more. Casting a strange shadow over the proceedings is the impending arrival of Ruth Meyers (Aimée Phelan-Deconinck), an unauthorized visitor to the site who claims have an appointment to speak with Doctor Roth.

Although the play gains considerable momentum with Meyers’ arrival (Phelan-Deconinck is very effective at conveying both the seductive appeal and the dangerous threat Meyers poses), The Site is hard to engage with. Despite the variety and dramatic potential of plot points—unplanned pregnancy, grossly unethical scientific practices, an Othello-esque accusation of infidelity—the production meanders, tightening the threads of its storyline too slowly for a compelling narrative tension.

It’s hard to tell what tone the play is taking and in what direction the action is heading. The way characters overreact to mundane things (for instance, Matt brings a gun with him, so his father suggests he patrol the perimeter and “escort” any intruders back to the site) and treat the significantly abnormal as quotidian (the family engages with Faith’s semi-coherent ramblings but don’t seem to address her illness) makes the play seem absurd, even though the production is too sincere for that label.

My difficulty suspending disbelief was also partially due to the overly wrought language, which even the actors stumble over. To illustrate: “Well, get him up, the lazy cuss,” Roth commands, in reference to Brandon being late to work. Roth’s word choices feel forced: Matt tells his father to “speak regular,” and Faith’s half-poetic, half-disturbed ramblings are wholly unnatural. Strange casting choices also make the play a hard sell: few of the characters appear as old or as young as their characters presumably should be.

For each mystery Ruth Meyers lays bare during the story’s climax, the play leaves more questions unanswered. For someone who is so brilliant and has so many hyphens in his specialty, why is Roth’s research so mundane? And why are his crimes even more pedestrian? The production dips a toe into the murky waters of unethical scientific practices, and how far a brilliant scientist should be allowed to go in the name of intellectual pursuit, but fails to really dig in and get its hands dirty.

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The Site by Al Schnupp
Directed by Mark Sitko
Walkerspace (46 Walker Street, between Church and Broadway)
May 18 - June 7, Wednesday - Sunday at 8pm, Monday, May 19 at 8pm.
Tickets $18: www.TheaterMania or 212-352-3101.

Artefacts

Mike Bartlett's new play Artefacts is clever in the best possible way: it turns shallow thoughts into deep observations about character, and pulls apt cultural metaphors out of those depths. By grounding itself in a family drama—a spoiled British girl learns she is half-Iraqi—it avoids the pitfalls of political drama and speaks personally rather than preachingly.

Reviewed by Aaron Riccio

“Show, don’t tell,” goes the old saying about the best writing. It’s a maxim that's important for playwrights, and even more important for political dramas, which too often come across as unimaginative sermons. It’s a pleasure to find that in his excellent play, Artefacts, Mike Bartlett has found a way both to prove and break that rule. The stream-of-consciousness of a typical, selfish teenage girl (Kelly), allows him to tell quite a bit, but what she chooses to tell—what she focuses on—shows us quite a bit about ourselves.

“I just wanted one of those Saturdays, one of those good rainy Saturday afternoons when you lie back, watch a film, call your mates, text a boy, yeah?” It’s an earnest question, one that she delivers directly to the surrounding audience as she paces the carpeted center of the stage. Instead, she finds herself preparing to see Ibrahim, her father, who she has never met, and who—get this—is from Iraq: “So I’m half Iraqi. Shit man.” Slickly directed by James Grieve, her lengthy asides continue through the dialogue, giving us an idea not just of her attention span but of what goes through a young girl’s mind: “Mum asked, do I want to get him a present or something? Do I? No. Like what? He’s come from Iraq. I could probably give him a Mars bar and he’d be amazed. But no. Yeah. Maybe I should.” In this context, especially as performed by the exceptional Lizzy Watts, this telling reinforces the drama: it also, subtly, shows us Kelly’s racist perception of Iraq.

It’s a perception that doesn’t hold up, especially in Peter Polycarpou’s delicate portrayal of Ibrahim—not a heartless monster, but a man torn to pieces by ethics and a problematic lack of class. (He undermines his gift to Kelly, a priceless Mesopotamian pot, when he says he is “killing two birds with one stone”—he is also protecting it from those politicians who would “protect it” by keeping it themselves.) The same goes for Mouna Albakry, who as Ibrahim’s Iraqi wife, Faiza, does not speak a word of English in the play. It's a bold but wise choice, necessary to keep us grounded in Kelly's world, but it's Albakry expressive nature that pulls it off.

Bartlett’s writing is clever in the best possible way, for it turns shallow thoughts into deeper observations about character and pulls apt cultural metaphors out of those depths. For instance, when Kelly is drawn to Iraq by artifacts of her own (years of letters from Ibrahim that her mother had refused to deliver), she nervously confesses to Faiza that she tried to learn Arabic off her iPod, but usually just listened to Kanye West. Her observations about Iraq are telling, too: “I’m looking out the window and it’s weird, cos I’ve got armour and security and I’m travelling through these streets like I’m going to be shot any moment but outside there’s people talking and mums with pushchairs, and people shopping and stuff. You know. There’s traffic jams and traffic lights. It’s amazing. It’s normal.”

This obliviousness is thrust back in her face as she learns that her half-sister, Raya, has been abducted—a thing that is so “normal” in Iraq that the police recommend Ibrahim pay—and that Ibrahim, the ethicist, is questioning the morality of payment ("If ten families in a row do not pay, they will stop"). Some preaching follows—“Maybe all Iraqis are stupid”—but from the perspective of an abandoned daughter, not an ignorant Brit: “As I grew up, when bad things happened I used to hide under the blankets and I’d ask God for my dad to turn up that night and protect me.” (Comparatively, these weren’t even bad things.)

By the end of the play, things come full circle. Three years later, we can see how much has changed—or not—as Kelly leaves her Iraqi past behind: “I’ll go through these glass doors and a woman will offer to help me and I’ll be shopping and I’ll be feeling great. I will feel so fucking normal. Shopping and eating and coffee and out and home. It’ll be bright and it’ll be happy and it’ll be easy. And I won’t need to worry. Just me. Just as I wanted it. Just as it should be.” How’s that for a political slap in the face?

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Artefacts (80 min.)
nabokov @ 59E59: Theater B (59 East 59th Street)
Tickets (212-279-4200): $37.50
Performances (through 6/8): Tues. – Sat. @ 8:15 | Sat. @ 2:15 | Sun. @ 7:15

The Actor's Nightmare & The Real Inspector Hound

This double-bill of one-act comedies explores the realization of dreams and nightmares. An accountant gets thrust onto the stage to replace a sick actor without knowing any of his lines in The Actor's Nightmare, and two theater critics plant themselves into the plot of a murder-mystery play while attending it in The Real Inspector Hound. Although both farces are entertaining, well-directed and well-executed, one's joke goes on too long, and the other not long enough. The Real Inspector Hound is a crowning jewel: funny, clever . . . if you like to laugh, don't miss this production.

Reviewed by Cindy Pierre

One man's dream is another man's nightmare. Maybe you haven't heard that sentiment phrased quite that way before. Does the idiom "one man's garbage is another man's art" ring a bell? If it does, you're well on your way to understanding George Spelvin's (Michael Black) plight in Christopher Durang's The Actor's Nightmare. George, an accountant with limited knowledge of the classics, gets called to stand in for a sick actor in a medley of plays from playwrights ranging from Shakespeare to Noel Coward to Samuel Beckett. Unfortunately, he has no choice but to wing it because he doesn't know his lines. Thankfully, T. Schrieber Studio's cast doesn't suffer the same fate: their production--which could've been confusing not only to George but the audience, too--goes off without a hitch.

The Actor's Nightmare has a sophisticated beginning that unfurls in a classic way, with a bow-tied host and a beautiful vintage set by George Allison. As George arrives on set, briefcase in hand, he looks and acts like an accountant, but as he's surrounded by "actors," it's laughs that start adding up. The cast and crew treat him as if he's been there before, calling him everything but George, and it all seems like a crazy and terrible dream. Christopher Durang's writing demonstrates a flair for comedy that shines with Black's purposefully fumbling and bumbling performance, but the repetition of the gag gets excessive after a few scenes from the various plays. The "nightmare" for George may have some twists and good quips, but ultimately, not even Black's toiling over dialogue and the creative mishmash of phrases is enough to disguise the fact that this joke is running way too long. Still, Black isn't the only one who partakes in the near trickery. As Sarah Siddons, Nan Wray is wonderful, and a big factor for the enjoyment of the piece. She almost makes the extended punchline forgivable. Peter Jensen's ability to shuttle the actors on and off the stage from scene to scene and maintain Black's befuddlement is also impressive. The Actor's Nightmare is well-executed, good fun, but it's only an appetizer to the more satisfying meal.

Tom Stoppard's The Real Inspector Hound is not one man's, but two men's dreams made reality. In it, theater critics Moon (Julian Elfer) and Birdboot (Rick Forstmann) exchange places with the actors in a play they are attending. As the mystery unfolds, the critics carry on witty banter that reveals Moon as a second-string critic standing in for a first stringer named Higgs. Moon's obsession with his status and that of a critic beneath him is so richly entertaining and human that it may inspire you not only to laugh but to reflect on the hierarchy at your own job. But what makes The Real Inspector Hound so good is not just the comedic element, but the chance to get to see people stop being envious of what others are doing and experiencing, and doing it themselves.

When the murder-mystery play within the play opens, someone is already lying dead on the floor of a beautiful study. Like 40s and 50s capers, the play is very telling, and the actors within it are extremely funny. Peter Jensen's direction is again spot-on, maneuvering the cast around and beside the dead body without actually confronting it. Maggie Dashiell plays Cynthia, the object of Birdboot's desire. She's a vision in a beautiful crimson dress, and her overly exaggerated bombshell moves are just right for this part. Birdboot is soon no longer content with ogling her from his seat, and while he gets into the action to interact with the woman of his dreams, Moon jumps into the play to carry out his paranoia about his unsatisfying job. Soon, the scenes are being performed again with the two new members of the cast, with the old ones taking their places in the critics seats. At this point, not only are dreams coming true, but actor's envy has been identified and has been overcome with actor's experience. Both productions use fog effects, but when it's used here, it's like a raging, surly character beating down the door. Fantastic. With a great script, solid direction, and actors with a rightful twinkle in their eyes, The Real Inspector Hound is a triumph.

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Through June 15th. Tickets: $20. 212-352-3101 or http://www.tschreiber.org/. T. Schreiber Studio, 151 West 26th street, 7th floor.

Prisoner of the Crown

The only reason to put on this unevenly written drama is for the corrupt political drama underscored by a government putting one of its own knights on trial for treason. To that end, here's a political parallel for you: you can't run a campaign (or play) on cleverness: you need passion, too. In that regard, Prisoner of the Crown should drop out now.

Photo/Carol Rosegg

Reviewed by Aaron Riccio

Richard F. Stockton's courtroom drama Prisoner of the Crown is filled with so many dubious distinctions about the defendant, Sir Roger Casement, that the play should be a knockout. For example, put to death in 1916, Sir Roger has the "honor" of being the last knight ever to be executed for treason. Due to a literal reading of the letter of the law, he has the syntactical pleasure of being the only man ever "hung by a comma." In his trial, he had firsthand experience with the mudslinging of the government, which used the hint of homosexuality in his "black diaries," forged or not, to bias the jury. But the play suffers from a few other dubious distinctions: Richard T. Herd is credited as a co-author (which could explain the irregularity of the writing), and Ciaran O'Reilly has abandoned his stellar work with realism (Sive, Defender of the Faith), and plunged this work into a jazz-era hokeyness that undermines the thematic structure.

Prisoner of the Crown looks sloppy and misdirected. Whereas a playful show like Chicago has cause to break into song and dance, there's no reason to break the tension of Casement's trial. It's already chopped up enough, with comic asides to the audience from Patrick Fitzgerald and the sudden shifts that turn Philip Goodwin from the man on trial into the lone juror refusing to convict him. And it already looks thrown together, with props being wheeled around slapdash to allow for "scene changes," and Charles Corcoran's set feeling very pub-like--it's got everything but the bar (festive green strands dress the four corners up like St. Patrick's Day). Add in the sad jazz that plays between scenes and you've got an vague, anachronistic show that would rather play than be a play.

As with many Irish plays, I find myself drawn to the villain, that repugnant charmer. John Windsor-Cunningham doesn't disappoint, and his scenes with Ian Stuart are what draw our attention--and our scorn. As prosecutors, the two manipulate evidence and wonderfully undermine the defense; as jurors (all eight actors are at least double-cast in this role), the two push for a "guilty" verdict, and belittle those who disagree, calling any dissenter's sexuality into question. The problem is that while Tim Ruddy, as the defense's Sergeant Sullivan, provides them with a dramatic challenge, the rest of the cast is a bit of a pushover, especially the hero. Philip Goodwin plays him earnestly, but like an erstwhile martyr--that is, like a man already dead--and it's simply not an interesting choice.

Some audiences will no doubt enjoy the history lesson, primed as it is with lines like "No empire can survive the loss of its moral authority" to cast judgment on our current political mudslinging. More likely, audiences will be bored and confused by this unimaginative and unfortunately comic "swift boat" of a play. Here's a political parallel for you: one cannot run a campaign (or a play) on cleverness: you need passion, too.

[See also: Sarah Krasnow's review]

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Prisoner of the Crown (130 min., one intermission)
Irish Repertory Theatre (132 West 22nd Street)
Tickets (212-727-2737): $60.00
Performances (through 7/6): Wed. - Sat. @ 8 | Wed., Sat., Sun. @ 3

Prisoner of the Crown

The good news is, Prisoner of the Crown entertains. Due to the tightness of the writing, it often inspires. Now and then, it moves. However, for the most part, it plays out like a live performance at an Irish history museum, albeit one of unusually high quality.

Photo/Carol Rosegg

Reviewed by Sarah Krasnow

The program for Prisoner of the Crown includes a timeline of major events in the life of the subject, Sir Roger Casement. This historical drama by Richard F. Stockton and Richard T. Herd informs: the question is, does it also entertain, inspire, and move? Satisfying all these requirements puts a lot of strain on the authors of a bio-drama (even Aaron Sorkin had a hard time). The good news is, Prisoner of the Crown entertains. Due to the tightness of the writing, it often inspires. Now and then, it moves. However, for the most part, it plays out like a live performance at an Irish history museum, albeit one of unusually high quality.

Prisoner of the Crown begins with a touch of narration from the endearingly mop-haired Patrick Fitzgerald as an unnamed Welsh sentry. More of his narration pops up now and again, but Stockton and Herd (officially, the play is by Stockton, with “additional material and original concept” by Herd; I’ll credit them both here) know to use it sparingly, as the rolling action and chameleon-like actors need little help in telling this story of an Irish patriot or English traitor, depending on your point of view. Roger Casement was born in Ireland to Irish-born parents in 1864 and was knighted in 1911 by King George V for exposing abuses of colonizing powers in South America and Africa, most famously the horrific treatment of the Congolese by King Leopold’s Belgian troops. It was when he tried his hand at winning Irish independence that Casement got in trouble: during World War I, he attempted to obtain a pledge of German support for a free Ireland and to incite Irish prisoners of war in Germany to an uprising. Caught as he returned to England, he was eventually hanged for treason. To prevent martyrdom, his enemies in the government released alleged diary pages describing his frequent participation in homosexual activities.

The events of Casement’s life as a prisoner unfold swiftly in Prisoner of the Crown, with each performer taking on multiple roles (one as many as seven). We begin with the jurors who have just heard the accused’s case, all in gray suits and glasses. Then lights dim, makeshift tables roll, and the scenes of Casement’s capture, imprisonment, banishment to the foul Cell 4 in the Tower of London, and the rest unfold to the tune of informative dialogue that could have been boring, but isn't, spoken with effortless shifts in English or Irish accent as the actors assume their various characters. Staccato scenes offer peeks at jury deliberation, creating just enough variety in the linear action without turning chronology on its head. Enemies conspire against Casement and friends try to help him, and the jury fills in much of the rest, neatly parsing out the exposition to keep the lecture factor to a minimum (though the use of an echo apparently tries to mimic the sound of speech in a cell, but unfortunately recalls a narrated museum diorama). Scene shifts happen with the dimming of the lights and the playing of a catchy but ominous saxophone-led soundtrack, the actors stepping and swaying in time, distracting us as with song and dance as sleights of hand go on right under our noses.

Scene changes happen literally with a whirl, as the precise cast removes spectacles or unfurls sheets and rotates into position. Indeed, the cast exudes precision and the audience never gets confused as to who is playing whom at what moment, despite all the overlap. The changes are clear yet subtle, but so subtle, in fact, and so brief is each character’s appearance on stage, that really the only critiqueable performance comes from Philip Goodwin as Roger Casement and his lone sympathetic juror. Goodwin plays both these characters with the careful articulateness of a just-minded and educated man, just barely masking the panic his situation engenders. His Casement, though, wallows in a gentle melancholy until his death. Surely the man who braved jungles on two continents and took on the king of Belgium had a tougher side to him.

In Act II, Stockton and Herd move away from the bio-drama motif and let the audience stretch their minds a bit. As the solicitors at Casement’s trial bicker over a technicality in treason law, unresolved for 600 years, and sidestep the issue of the defendant’s “diaries,” we participate, weighing our own notions of what constitutes treason in wartime and considering the difficulties in discounting an irrelevant, probably fabricated, but nonetheless unsavory blot on a defendant’s character. And here we really get to the point this play is meant to drive home: even in wartime, a nation’s laws still stand, whether it’s fighting in World War I, or, say, the Middle East somewhere. Casement’s prosecutor even uses the word “fairytale” in a reference that may fade over time but on this night got a big hoot of recognition from the audience. When Casement is hanged, we expect a blackout as the stool is pulled from his legs, but in a neat tech trick, Goodwin remains there swinging from the noose until the Welsh sentry delivers the closing lines. A play that began mostly with prelection ends with some power.

The Irish Repertory Theatre houses an unusual stage. Stage left lands flush against the wall, with the right corner and edge free, allowing for seats directly in front of the stage and 90 degrees to the side. Such a configuration gives the audience a narrow sightline, and in a production as information-heavy as this one, it’s hard to shake the museum diorama effect (having sat in the side section in the past, I assume those folks felt on the fringes of the museum crowd, getting only the side view of the display). We museum-goers marvel at the quality of the display, the skill with which it was assembled, and the important education it offers us. Still, we are peering at something encased in glass. The uncased impressionist paintings in the next room will probably stick in our memories, and certainly in our hearts, for longer.

The Lone Wolf Series: Spoiled Bea and the cowboy is dying

Although Spoiled Bea, about a former dancer trying to communicate with the outside world after a tragic accident, has vivid and funny moments, Jeanne LaSala is too comfortable in her own skin: her dancing ability supersedes the less-than-cohesive story. Donnetta Lavinia Grays may not be as comfortable a performer as LaSala, but her semi-autobiographical story about a woman's acceptance of her homosexuality, the cowboy is dying, demonstrates great comedic timing, a rich and soulful singing voice, and a strongly narrated story with wonderful concepts.

Reviewed by Cindy Pierre

When you think of people that are known for being isolated, perhaps geeks, dweebs, nerds, and the hygienically-challenged come to mind. Isolation is seldom a coveted circumstance. But despite its negative connotations, qualities such as strength, independence, and endurance are sometimes forged, making it not such a bad thing. Coyote Rep Theatre Company's The Lone Wolf Series: Four Solo Shows about Stepping Away From the Pack, examines solitude from all angles in presentations of two. And while the stories couldn't be more different in Jeanne LaSala's Spoiled Bea and Donnetta Lavinia Grays' the cowboy is dying, they each have their own brand of special.

One can immediately tell that LaSala is a trained dancer, from her frequently clean lines and lithe figure to the way she incorporates dance and movement every and any way she can in Spoiled Bea. Her excessive use of choreography is both artful and problematic, particularly since she plays Bea, a character who has lost the ability to dance. LaSala's comfort with the stage borders on exhibitionism, and her provocative, clingy pants put the nail on that perspective. Every time an opportunity arises to sink your teeth into the plot, she tears into another dance number, but they're not always successful. Some of them are tired, impromptu, and awkward, and are occasionally punctuated by strange sound effects. It is as if the story is a series of hiccups between what is obviously her true passion, and the hiccups themselves are all over the place thematically. She is expressive and capable of showing great emotion, but the focus of the show is often questionable. Bea has suffered a tragic accident that leaves her in a vegetative state and in the long-term care of a doctor that she refers to as "Huntly," and the majority of the show is about how she tries to communicate with him through her imagination of what could have been. "Huntly" (Brian Homer) is physically present as her dance partner, her prop distributor and her doctor, which negates the one-woman show classification. Through a few lines of dialogue that seem to jump out thoughtlessly rather than being carefully crafted, LaSala tells the audience members that they have limitless potential and should do something about it. It's a nice sentiment, but it's not one that's sufficiently explored. Even with all of the hard work displayed, this show aspires, but never quite inspires.

On the other hand, the cowboy is dying is a fine model of a fully-developed story. It is a fusion of a great narrative, heartfelt drama, and original music dressed in soulful vocals. Grays captures our attention from the beginning, with bold claims of being able to start fires and thunderstorms even though her posture suggests uneasiness. However, that uneasiness folds neatly into the development of a socially uncomfortable character trying to find her niche. Unlike Spoiled Bea, cowboy makes better use of the sound clips to progress the plot and support the fluctuating emotions. Under Isaac Byrne's tight direction and her own comic timing, Grays links her dreams of being a preacher to her dreams of being an actor. When she struggles with integrating her lesbianism with her spirituality, her conflict is conveyed through her strong pipes (India Arie, watch out!) and intelligently written script. Grays is not afraid to get emotionally naked onstage either, singing "I know my body works even if you don't know. I know my body works even if you're through with it" to an unrequited love interest. The reasons for her isolation change throughout her life, but they all stem from a social root. She goes from being a outcast because of her connection to God to being confined within herself for fear of acting on her desires, and all of it is very gripping. She creates wonderful characters and anecdotes, and when she likens herself to the Marlboro man, it is not only hilarious, but also painfully tender. The cowboy may be dying, but unlike in the Westerns, we don't watch him go with sorrow. From his death springs the birth of a rising, talented artist.

The Lone Wolf Series is timely because it affirms the human ability to bend beyond expectations without breaking, particularly when there have already been so many trying times such as natural disasters and political uproar in 2008. This season stands in direct contrast to their first season's theme of "community,", but both are needed to fortify society. And if we can learn something about how to achieve progress from a theater show, then it's proven its substance. The Lone Wolf Series is much more than a good way to past the time. It is inspiration and vigor proclamation.
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Through May 25th. Tickets: $18.
http://www.brownpapertickets.com/event/30204
June Havoc Theatre, 312 West 36th Street1st floor, New York, NY 10018

Yellow Moon

The new Scottish play: “Yellow Moon” nails its naïve protagonists to the ground and makes us like it.

BY ELLEN WERNECKE

As it turned out, the in-the-round seating of "Yellow Moon" (now playing at 59E59 as part of the Brits Off Broadway festival) provided the perfect vantage point from which to observe the transformation of the audience during the show. The gestures of the actors competed with the shell-shocked visages of the theatregoers who had not expected to be sealed in a black box with no set to speak of and nothing to look at besides the raw human passions on display. Perhaps the show should come with a warning label, given the stricken faces I saw. Director Guy Hollands works the set and his actors to perfection in this taut drama.

Subtitled "The Ballad of Leila and Lee," the play closes in on two teenagers, a shy Muslim girl (Nalini Chetty) and a ribald would-be Casanova (Andrew Scott-Ramsay) who meet at a supermarket, go to a graveyard and run away together. She feels trapped in her role as a good daughter and good student; he fears the long arm of the law after striking at his mother's boxer boyfriend in self-defense. Together they flee north, planning to look for Lee's long departed father.

The parallel between Leila's obsessive love of tabloid magazines and the larger-than-life adventure on which she finds herself is constructed early on and not entirely to the play's detriment; indeed, there is something mythic and foregone about the way Leila and Lee circle around each other, culminating in a sweet dance they share while trespassing in the Scottish highlands. David Greig's script sags a little in the second half of the show and punches the ending a little bit too hard, but I was never able to take my eyes off the teens in their ignominious quest.

Keith MacPherson and Beth Marshall play all the other characters in the show, and they are excellent, but they don’t have the magnetism the script gives Chetty and Scott-Ramsay to work with. Chetty in particular is probably the closest thing to an actual teenager I’ve seen on stage this year, all stammers and fluttering hands and awkward pauses. It’s a performance that ought to justify the inclusion of this excellent Scottish play in the festival.


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YELLOW MOON runs through May 18 at the Brits Off Broadway Festival at 59E59. For more information, visit 59E59.org.

stretch (a fantasia)

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Stretch (a fantasia)

Poignant and delightfully absurd, Stretch pairs one hell of an actress with a fascinating lead role.

Photo/Jim Baldassare

Reviewed by Claire Epstein

The fluttering click of an IBM Selectric typewriter. The perfect white glare of a spotlight on red velvet curtains. We are deep inside the consciousness of the glamorous, crass, ultra-capable personal secretary to President Nixon. And there she is—we have just met Rose Woods. "If you've never seen Nixon's, you've never seen receipts," she declares with real feeling. "Titled, totaled, signed and all properly done."

During the Watergate investigation, Rose Woods is believed to have erased a crucial 18 1⁄2 minute "stretch" of incriminating tape to protect "the boss." The good news is that you hardly have to know anything more about the Nixon administration to appreciate the delightful absurdity and poignancy of this bizarre play.

Stretch (a fantasia) shifts frequently from Rose's inner monologues to the nursing home where she resides in 2004, to the grungy basement where two teenage guys watch TV and smoke pot. One of the nineteen year-olds is an orderly at the nursing home who develops a strange fascination and a deep respect for "Miss Woods." The stoner scenes are set in a shallow pit center stage. The nursing home scenes and the scenes that occur inside the mind of Rose Woods unfold on the surrounding playing space. And at the back wall, an unconventional five-piece orchestra (two violins, an upright base, a trumpet, and an electric typewriter) is seated on a narrow strip of stage, often hidden by a curtain.

Kristin Griffith embodies the vivacious, middle-aged secretary with the heightened quality of a cabaret performer on the verge of breaking into song. In her dreams, Rose breathlessly narrates her experience of the fantastic kaleidoscopic visions that swirl around her. She dreams that she is Deep Throat skulking around the parking garages of Washington D.C., she dreams that she is an outraged Democrat at a protest rally (surrounded by her filthy hippie friends), she dreams that she is the Secretary (… of State!) wearing practical pumps and meeting with world leaders in foreign countries. While each dream sequence ventures into the realm of the absurd, each also contain a sense of emotional truth that adds depth to Rose's character.

Griffith's portrayal of the gruff, conspiracy-minded old lady in 2004 provides a strong contrast in characterization. This "present-day" Rose is disillusioned with politics. In the run-up to the presidential election, the teenage orderly reads her the newspaper and watches TV news in her room. He listens earnestly to every wisecrack and lecture she gives, trying to figure out who she supports and what she believes in. He is so fascinated with Rose that he watches her sleep when his shift is over. The scenes Rose shares with the retired high school history teacher who keeps trying to befriend her are often comical, tempered with flashes of vulnerability.

Director Emma Griffin does an excellent job of integrating the orchestra with the rest of the production. The music swells and recedes, underscoring the rhythm of Rose’s speech or playing in conversation with the actors. The red curtain between the musicians and the audience is raised and lowered at carefully chosen moments—sometimes revealing only one musician at a time. Composer and conductor Rachel Peters “plays” the IBM Selectric typewriter in costume as a secretary of the 1960s. The rhythmic whir of the keys adds an undercurrent of urgency to the score. This vision of a secretary’s bleak, monotonous existence at the typewriter provides a striking counterpoint to Rose Wood’s romanticized account of her life in the White House.

The best parts of Stretch occur outside the particulars of time and space. The personality of Rose Woods turns out to be a rich source and a fascinating subject, especially with Kristin Griffith bringing such verve and specificity to the lead role. The character’s snappy wit, larger-than-life persona, and captivating dream sequences are the highlights of the performance.

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New Georges: Stretch (a fantasia)
The Living Theater (21 Clinton Street)
Tickets (212-868-4444): $20.00
Performances (through 5/26): Wed. - Mon. @ 8

The Unconquered

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

Photo/Eamonn McGoldrick

Reviewed by Aaron Riccio

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

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

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

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

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

The Wild, Wild Women of Wakki-Nunu!

A borderline has-been actor travels to the tropics to find and turn a secret tribe of Amazons into a successful nature show. This show is part-grindhouse, part Bunny-ranch, part faux-feminist propaganda, sometimes amusing, and entirely silly. Still, the actors have a lot of energy, seem to be enjoying themselves, and occasionally get thrown a nice concept or two. "Be careful what you wish for" may not be thoroughly illustrated here, but Frank Cwiklik takes a good stab at it.

Pictured top row from left are Haley Zale, Jess Beveridge, and Celestine Rae. Photo: Michele Schlossberg.

Reviewed by Cindy Pierre

What do you get when you take a bevy of babes, throw them the sort of jungle wear found in the Bunny Ranch's lingerie catalog, hide them from the world's eyes, and keep them starving for male attention and baby seed? Every man's fantasy, right? Wrong! Frank Cwiklik's The Wild, Wild Women of Wakki-Nunu is a crazy adventure into the world of wet dreams made reality, but it's not all it's cracked up to be, something has-been actor, womanizer, and ne'er do well Jake Manley (Cwiklik) learns pretty quickly.

Wakki-Nunu begins like a night at the movies, with sketchy, grindhouse-like opening credits and images projected on a screen. These images are worthy of smiles on their own, but when they're tied into the rest of the show, it's even funnier, particularly since it's nothing like PBS's Nature, what should have been it's mentor. There's some intriguing man-eating and beating jungle music from the beginning, and the sound effects never let up in supporting the changing ambiance. Carl DiStefano (Kevin Myers) and mentally and socially advanced Amazon Nug (Sarah E. Jacobs) pop out as hosts for the show, and give the audience a preview of their importance to the plot. As Carl's personal Jeeves, Jacobs is smart and wickedly funny, particularly since her vocabulary consists of nothing but exclaiming her master's name in a multitude of ways: Carl! Carl....Carl?

If that doesn't sound crazy enough, the plot gets even harrier when their existence is made known to the world. To save his job and gain a time slot, Manley proposes that they film a nature show based on a tribe of Amazons rumored to live in the jungle. Sidekick and worshipper Cubby Gaines (Patrick Pizzolorusso), ambitious actress and model Bunny Barretta (a fun and charismatic Becky Byers), and tough feminist photographer Stevie Pulaski (Samantha Mason) all pile into a putt-putting airplane to accompany him on his quest. (Mystery-caper names....check.) On the way there, they crash (but don't burn), and are separated into two groups, Manley going one way, and the other three going another way. And that's when the real hijinks begin.

Manley meets the bone-carrying, grunt and growl-favoring Amazons who worship Hickory "Toot" Sweet (Douglas Mackrell) as their god, and do unspeakable things (mostly pleasurable) to him during the day and night. In between ululations, they break out into "tribal movements," which is really just laughable choreography by Sarah E. Jacobs (there is an entertaining and cheeky striptease in Act II which demonstrates how limber and sexual they are). Sweet hopes to do the old switcheroo with Manley by giving up his title as the "King of the Saucy Empire," and make a hasty getaway out of this warped utopia. Bunny, Cubby and Stevie come across Carl, a pampered neighbor of the Amazons whom they want nothing to do with. He's being waited on by Nug, but unlike her counterparts, it's a consensual relationship. He treats her like the unique and intelligent creature that she is, and she helps him out with the odds and ends.

Apart from the rough, S&M type behavior (that some men would covet) and the sometimes questionable hygiene and physical appeal, Sweet's desire to fly the coop is never really supported. The audience can come up with reasons such as boredom and freedom, but the fun world created here doesn't exactly seem like a dungeon unless you consider it a dungeon of too many mistresses. Wakki-Nunu's Amazons are a peculiar breed because they don't exemplify female power or respect. Classical amazons aren't accustomed to worshiping males, even if they consider him a deity. But even that concept has a hole. (Ahem.) Although we're told in the script that they need a god to worship, they don't do much of that either, unless making their bodies available for sex is acceptable as worship.

It's a shame that the staging is so loose: for example, one character throws what's meant to be coffee in another one's face, but it's clearly water. The real McCoy or at least some food coloring would have gone a long way. One concept that is particularly successful is the dating game scene. With decent direction by Cwiklik and an amusing take on likes and dislikes, the cast pulls this one off easily. Still, one line comes close to describing this show succinctly: "You're always reaching too far and falling on your ass." Cwiklik may not have completely fallen on his keister here, but this production could be a whole lot more graceful and nimble.

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Through June 3rd. Tickets: $20. http://www.smarttix.com/.

The Red Room (85 East 4th Street)

New York, NY 10003

Substitution

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

Reviewed by Ilana Novick

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Caucasian Chalk Circle

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

BY ELLEN WERNECKE

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

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

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

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

A Body Without a Head

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

Reviewed by Amy Freeman

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

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

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

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

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

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

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