Review: Fools in Loveby Eric Miles Glover

Who knew Shakespeare was as sidesplitting and delicious as he is in an unpretentious and cute re-imagining in Soho? For the Millennium Talent Group, the Bard’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream—a love jones to unrequited affection, fairies, an ass, and actors—triggered a resurrection of speech, oddballs, music, and dress from the 1950s.

Relocated to West Athens, California, Fools in Love née A Midsummer Night’s Dream guarantees an entertaining experience. While vibrant characters inhabit the Shakespeare classic, the often-considered perfect originals are no matches for their present counterparts. Over-the-top, outrageous, and hilarious, the re-imagined characters—from a decade when the on-the-edge United States settled into suburbia—captivate with their stage business and keep each member of its small-but-engrossed audience at the edge of his or her seat.

Oberon, King of the Fairies, lights the fuse that ignites the romp in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. He is re-imagined as a biker dude who wears a leather jacket and an anachronistic LED scrolling belt buckle that screens electronic phrases like “vroom vroom.” The four friends-but-rivals are Coca Cola-slurping, letter sweater-donning, poodle skirt-affecting teenagers at the height of sexual and emotional awakening. Each becomes a unique character with which the audience identifies and sees as a mirror image from an earlier time, if an adult, or from the present, if a child. As a hoarse, pelvis-thrusting Helena, Breeda Wool steals the show with her erratic comic timing and behavior. Her onstage time is what the audience craves. An added quartet of sweet-voiced Doo Woppers sings Top 40 hits from the fifties, including “I Will Follow Him” and “Stop! In the Name of Love,” appropriate overstatements of the action. While the text appears in the original form, the actors improvise and ad-lib as well, adding an artful unruliness to the Shakespeare original that is unpredictable and truthful in its timeless appeal.

One of the best features of the show, audience members are invited to become a part of the action. When becoming fairies or clouds, or helping characters evade each other, the production promises excitement for people of all ages.

Hula hoops, letter sweaters, poodle skirts, the Supremes, and Shakespeare had never before been as magnificent a combination.

Review: The Life and Death of Pier Paolo Pasoliniby Eric Miles Glover

Michel Azama’s The Life and Death of Pier Paolo Pasolini is one of several imports at the Act French Festival in Manhattan, a celebration of French drama. About the career and murder of an Italian cult figure, the mental drama is thought-evoking and chilling.

Giving snapshots of moments from Pasolini’s life, the drama explores a theme the outsider knew all too well: when the immediate population converges with the intent to annihilate one person. Born in 1922, Pasolini was an Italian director who made films about social rebels and outcasts, with inexperienced actors in lead roles. His films and politics, oftentimes the scorn of the Italian government, are what is rumored to have caused his 1975 murder. Did a male prostitute kill him? Did the Italian government? These are questions the drama seeks to answer in 70 minutes. However, since the Pasolini character sometimes narrates events from his life at the proscenium, the theme is sometimes blurred.

Some of the more promising scenes are ones in which Pasolini is indicted in the Italian courtroom. But their potential weight and impact are lessened with the use of a taped recording in the role of the judge. In one scene, an actor erred in his timing with the recording, and then used obvious improvisation—a facial expression, a shrug of the shoulders, and a tilt of the head—to accommodate for a lapse in dialogue. But, all things considered, the drama is strong, showcasing a theme, plot, and ensemble of four actors that hold audience interest.

Arthur Aulisi is an expert actor who, altering his one costume with subtle changes, becomes several characters that cross paths with Pasolini.

Ian Oldaker is Giuseppe Pelosi, the man charged with murdering Pasolini. His acting is ethereal but amazing, and he frightens the audience because his performance is that incredible. What is more, his rapport with Drew Cortese, in the Pasolini role, is raw and believable. Their scenes of sexual unease, frustration, and desire are the best points in the drama.

Using minimal setting and film-like projections, The Life and Death of Pier Paolo Pasolini offers an interesting look at the ups and downs in the life and death of an almost forgotten Italian writer, poet, film director, and creative thinker.

"The Light in the Piazza" by Aaron Riccio

. . . if there’s nothing heart-wrenching about The Light in the Piazza, is that such a terrible thing? What’s wrong with light and breezy love?

Art captures beauty—the beauty of life—and life becomes art. It’s a roundabout passage, perfect for the Vivian Beaumont Theater’s semi-circular stage, and one that’s quite apt for the natural (by which I mean architectural) devices of Florence, c. 1953. Fitting for light and breezy love too, that free-form whirligig of passion that gives a rosy tinge to all the music in The Light in the Piazza. At a time when Broadway is flush with musical spectacles and little substance, it’s nice to finally be romanced like that again, charmed and subtly worked upon by the movements of the heart (and yes, the vocal cords too).

It works, like most of the classic romances (Brigadoon comes to mind), because it takes place in a world that’s half-fantasy and half-real; in this case, Italy, with all the connotations (and a few of the stereotypes, but in good fun). But whereas other romances have cliffhangers between acts and hit the highs and lows of love, The Light in the Piazza features an attack of the warm and fuzzy. There’s a limit to how far one can suspend belief; there’s a point at which The Light is looking dramatically dim.

If you don’t want to tell a depressing story, don’t make one of the romantic leads mildly retarded. (And don’t keep that gun from going off: Chekhov is rolling in his grave.) And while the compression keeps up a lively pace, tension should last longer than a song. As for obstacles: they aren’t absent, they’re just not getting in the way. Quite the opposite! And yet, if there’s nothing heart-wrenching about The Light in the Piazza, is that such a terrible thing? There are plenty of comic elements: misunderstandings, reversals, even a little soft-shoe. What’s wrong with light and breezy love?

While so caught up in its own glow that at times it approaches cloying, Victoria Clark (as Margaret, far better in the second act than the first) and Kelli O’Hara (as Clara, just fantastic throughout, period) keep us grounded, even if that ground is a trampoline, determined to keep us in the clouds. (And it is a lovely view.) However, they’re so damn likable that at times they lose a little humanity: it’s not until they start cracking (Clara’s “Tirade” or Margaret’s “The Beauty Is [Reprise]”) that they fully appreciate. Aaron Lazar (the Italian love interest, Fabrizio) is so cursed: so much the sum of his parts (can’t-a speak-a English so good-a, hopeless romantic, &c.), he can only operate on one of two levels: the shy lover or the suicidal (and knee-slapping) rejected. Chris Sarandon, who plays his father, Signor Naccarelli, gives a far more nuanced performance, though it’s clear his “son” got all the musical talent (not to mention opportunity—almost every song is Clara, Margaret, or Fabrizio, solo or in tandem).

There’s not really a chorus (although there is a pervasive presence of extras on stage to create the illusion of a robust city), nor are there any dance numbers, so the entire show rests on the three main characters. (It doesn’t have to; the whole cast can actually act.) Everyone else is in the periphery: at times, even the magnificent scenery (large Roman columns and Italian architecture) shadows the company. Adam Guettel, who wrote the music and lyrics, isn’t incapable­—his group numbers are marvelous, just few and far between. And you’ve got to admire that two of the songs are done (like much of the Naccarelli family dialogue) entirely in Italian, without subtitles. (The choice to have the signora break character to translate seems like a cop out, and reeks of “meta.”)

The lack of dance is replaced with precise choreography (sometimes enacted by the set). The lack of big musical numbers is replaced by the intimacy, fantastic vocals and presence of the three leads (more impressive given the size of the stage). And the lack of painful drama is replaced by a most buoyant romance (with just enough pinpricks of suffering to remind us that we’re still there). It might have been interesting to see Clara’s mental illness take more precedence, but that’s not the story being told. With The Light in the Piazza, love really does conquer all. And it’s a pleasant change.

Vivian Beaumont Theater: 150 West 65th Street
Tickets: $65-95 (212-239-6200)
Performances: Tuesday-Saturday @ 8:00; Wednesday & Saturday @ 2:00; Sunday @ 3:00

The Light in the Piazza

The lights come down, a spotlight rests in the middle of the stage, a character walks onstage, and the set literally parts for her. You can't help but get excited as her presence is felt all over the theatre. She is Margaret Johnson - played by the extremely talented Victoria Clark. She is the brightest star in The Light in the Piazza.

Margaret Johnson is a well-off mother who is on vacation in Florence with her mentally challenged daughter, Clara. Amid all the chaos of love-struck couples, and confused women, Margaret seems the most composed of them all. It is not until the second act, we find out that Margaret is indeed the most "lost" (both emotionally and geographically).

Victoria Clark's presentation of this confident, yet conflicted character is one you must see to truly feel. Her presence on stage commands your attention and her heartfelt acting leads you on an emotional roller coaster right alongside her.

The Light in the Piazza features entire scenes in Italian which make you feel right at home with the characters. It also boasts a talented cast and a beautiful score. But if you really want to see something original, unique, and completely creative, go to see Victoria Clark as Margaret Johnson. Through her, you will see The Light in the Piazza.

"The Light in the Piazza" by Flora Johnstone

The Light in the Piazza now playing at Lincoln Center’s Vivian Beaumont theatre can be summed up in one word, lovely. From start to finish this piece is engaging and elegant, well performed, directed and designed. At it’s core, this a story about love and letting go. A woman and her daughter travel to Italy on vacation and find much more than they bargained for. When the daughter meets an Italian boy and falls in love, her mother is torn between trying to protect her and allowing her to finally experience her life to the fullest, sadness and all. Victoria Clark (Tony winner) is indeed outstanding as Margaret Johnson. She plays a funny and feisty middle aged woman determined to shield her daughter from hardship. Clark is so riveting in the role she almost seems to be an open vessel in which this character has taken root and is truly able to come alive. It is mesmerizing to watch her transition from uptight American to cultured woman of the world while learning some difficult lessons along the way. Kelli O’Hara plays her daughter Clara, a “special” child (although we never know exactly what is wrong with her). Ms. O’Hara gives a subtle but beautiful performance and is perfectly on point, playing Clara simply but not simple. Aaron Lazar is the newest addition to the cast having recently taken over for Matthew Morrison as Fabrizio, Clara’s love interest. Lazar is sweet, tender and genuine in the role with a strong and passionate voice to match. David Bonanno (in the role usually performed by Michael Berresse) is intriguing as Giuseppe Naccarelli, Fabrizo’s virile older brother with marital problems of this own. Giuseppe is a great lover of women, much to the dismay of his wife Franca. Patti Cohenour and Chris Sarandon who play Fabrizo’s mother and father respectively are comical in the roles of two people who only half understand what is going on around them. The only person who seems out of place in this cast is Sarah Uriarte Berry as Franca Naccarelli (Giuseppe’s wife) who so closely resembles Anita in West Side Story it’s distracting.

The set here is understated and unpretentious with some simple columns and statues. The real charm of the design comes from the warm lighting that is indeed reminiscent of Italy in the fall.

Unassuming and thoughtful musicals like this don’t come around very often, so definitely catch it if you can.

Review: “Balleto Stiletto” by Evan Robert Pohl

Q: What do you get when you combine a batch of talentless dancers with mediocre choreography, then throw in forty yards of lace, a dash of tinsel, and enough high-heeled shoes to make Carrie Bradshaw weak in the knees?
A: No, not a Cher concert. You’ve got "Balletto Stiletto!"

Presented by La MaMa E.T.C, “Balletto Stiletto,” a yuletide-themed story about an overprotective father and his nine unruly daughters, is the East Village’s appalling attempt to bring Dickens and those long-legged Rockettes downtown. A loose interpretation on the Brothers Grimm fairytale “The 12 Dancing Princesses,” Stiletto is an uneasy hybrid—a quirky combination of theatre, dance, and music—and proof that this kind of integration is best left to Japanese car manufacturers.

Stiletto begins at the peak of the holiday shopping rush. Bruno, a successful entrepreneur and father to a harem of naughty offspring, is conflicted: every night he sentences the girls to their room where, under lock and key, they are barred from leaving the house until sunup, but, in the morning, when the King unlocks the deadbolt, he finds his daughters sweaty and exhausted and their shoes worn through to the soles. In response, Bruno, a dense man to say the least, declares whoever can resolve the mystery will marry one of his nine dance-crazed, over-sexed daughters. Many take the King’s challenge only to fail and have their throats slit, à la Quentin Tarantino-like gore, by the cantankerous old man. (What’s a little holiday cheer without some bloodshed, right?). Meanwhile, the girls continue shaking their groove thangs each night at an underground disco in Manhattan, unaware their suitors are being sliced-and-diced by dear old Papi.

As if Christmastime decapitation wasn’t the worst offering from Stiletto, the show goes on to make numerous other egregious errors including a piece choreographed to Beastie Boys’ “Fight For Your Right (To Party),” in which Bruno’s daughters rhythmically thrust to the beat while dancing with bare-chested male dancers. Oh, and if I haven’t yet mentioned, this holiday show is not for the kiddies.

Poor sound mixing, a foray of indecipherable projections, and lousy lighting all contributed to what could have been a rather upbeat and comedic show. The only redeeming quality about Stiletto was the space it inhabited: La MaMa has been blessed with a spectacular theatre complete with a grand, vaulted ceiling, exposed catwalks, and a turn-of-the-century charm; it alone is worth the price of admission. However, come to think of it, towards the end of the show there was a nice bit involving a veil, four ninjas, and a refrigerator box.

Kudos to La MaMa for taking a chance, but they really should leave the holiday spectaculars to Radio City.

Theatre of the World, 74 east 4th Street, December 1st – 18th
For tickets call (212)352-3101 or visit www.TheatreMania.com

"Balletto Stiletto" by Georgia Kirtland

An unusual and stylish dance adaptation of the classic Brothers Grimm fairy tale “The Twelve Dancing Princesses”, Balletto Stiletto at LaMaMa ETC ultimately falls victim to the alluring temptations of modern “experimental” theater, and too many unnecessary media elements spoil the soup.

What has emerged across the artistic board in recent history, as a genre in its own right, is “the update”: the cultural powers-that-be have come to acknowledge that it takes as much technique and imagination to successfully re-create a classic in a new and relevant context as it does to stage an original work. Theatrically, one need only reference the success of Rent (an adaptation of Puccini’s opera, La Boheme) or the irreverent, text chopping techniques of the Wooster Group to know that one can really have some fun with the pre-existing.

Which Balletto Stiletto, at the Annex Theater at La MaMa ETC, sets out just to do; this piece gives an avant-garde facelift to the classic Brothers Grimm fairy tale of “The Twelve Dancing Princesses” – you know, the one where a king petitions would-be suitors to uncover how his daughters manage to sneak out every night and dance their shoes right through…winner takes a wife, loser takes a beheading. In this version, the king’s dominion is now the discount appliance industry of New Jersey; his nine daughters are tutu-ed, doe eyed darlings by day and dance crazed, Dionysian club hoppers by night. The story is relayed mainly (and appropriately) through dance, with some original narrative songs, video projections and a smattering of pre-recorded dialogue as supplement.

Aesthetically, all the different elements stand strongly on their own: Eva Mantell’s projections are playful and delightfully peculiar, Benjamin Marcantoni’s original, synth laden score is delicate and dreamy, and Heidi Latsky (who also appears as a peddling gypsy / narrator of sorts) choreographs, at its strong points, a vibrant and dare-I-even-say cheeky piece – from samurai sword fights to refined solos to full company bump and grind club scenes in eye-blink transitions.

But in combination? Such a simple story doesn’t need so much going on to be good and effective, and Balletto Stiletto ultimately falls victim to the alluring temptations of modern “experimental” theater: too much different and unnecessary media spoils the soup. Some methods, like the use of silhouetted action against a psyche, live interaction with video, and so forth are tastefully executed; had you come to the theatre to admire some clever ideas for staging, your money is well spent. However, as these techniques work together, or as part of a whole: nothing is really the better or more illuminated for its presence, and what comes off is a show that congratulates itself for having the foresight to use such ultramodern means without really understanding how it could be utilized best.

…Not to mention a show that uses such ultramodern themes; the strong feminist overtones that came with the adaptation certainly add an intriguing and culturally pertinent angle - now when the daughters sneak out to bop, there’s a lot more at stake than just blowing off dad. I’m just unsure that the show’s methods of illustrating this point – i.e. recurring “birds flying free” motif - can rise above the level of cliché to be penetrating or heavy hitting. The show would have benefited if less attention had been paid to overly fulfilling this theme, but more paid to some loose ends and unresolved narrative flaws (Why is there a gypsy woman pushing a shopping cart in every scene? Why is the appliance king also a samurai sword wielder? And why does he look younger than all of his nine daughters? ).

In short, Balletto Stiletto, as the name suggests, is high style theatre, and a very eyebrow raising take on the Brothers Grimm, but unfortunately falls a little short of being satisfyingly substantial.

Balletto Stiletto
The Annex Theatre at La MaMa ETC
66 East 4^th Street
December 3 – 18
Thursday – Saturday @ 7:30
Sunday @ 2:30 and 7:30

"Marion Bridge" By Flora Johnstone

It is rare these days to have a completely fulfilling experience at the theatre. Yet Urban Stage’s Marion Bridge comes as close as anything I’ve seen in a long time. This play is beautifully written, masterfully acted and seamlessly directed. Daniel MacIvor does not offer an entirely new story here but his beautifully rich and complex play about three sisters who return to the island of their birth to care for their dying mother manages to capture the humanity of such an experience with immense grace. It is sad yet heartwarming, emotional but above all it is fiercely human. The characters MacIvor offers are undeniably honest yet unapologetically flawed.

Finnerty Steeves shines brightest as Theresa the middle sister looking for some sense of peace in a world full of turmoil. She delicately balances the responsible, prim and proper exterior of a nun with the tenderness of a woman who loves working on a farm and being close to the earth. She eloquently conveys how it gives her life purpose and meaning, making her feel a part of all living things. Henny Russell is truly stellar in her portrayal of Agnes the eldest sister. At first, she plays a desperate woman being pulled down by her past unable to express her feelings of helplessness but the character transitions considerably in the second act as she begins to regain control and take responsibility for her future. Susan Louise O’Conner plays Louise the youngest and admittedly “strange” TV addict. Ms. O’Conner’s quirky Louise daydreams about driving on the open road and about the extreme pleasure it would bring her. She speaks so openly and with such childlike wonder that you can’t help but fall in love with her. Louise remains the one elusive character that you can’t quite figure out and yet O’Conner plays her so truthfully we get the feeling that she secretly likes it that way.

We see that each sister arrives home carrying emotional baggage and painful childhood memories. At first they bicker and fight like they did when they were children but when their mother finally dies, they find in each other a comfort and support that only family can provide. They come to realize despite their differences, they are family and they love each other. The more time they spend together, the more trusting of each other they become, finally opening up and sharing themselves completely, shortcomings and all. In doing so they are able to help each other gain perspective about their past and heal old wounds. By the end of the play they have repaired the previously severed bonds and are ready to embark on the next part of their journey together.

Susan Fenichell direction is simple and understated culminating with a moving scene in which the three sisters travel to their mother’s favorite spot, Marion Bridge to scatter the notes she had written them. The three face the audience and toss the colored scraps of paper into the air letting them gently rain down over the stage.

Marion Bridge brings to mind the old adage, you can never go home again…except this time you can…and in this play anyway, it’s nicer than you remember.

MARION BRIDGE
Urban Stages
259 West 30th Street, between 7th and8th Avenues
Written by Daniel MacIvor
Directed by Susan Fenichell

"The Color Purple," by Matt Windman

Packed with spirit and sentiment, but lacking the craftsmanship and realism of Stephen Spielberg’s film and Alice Walker’s novel, the new Broadway musical of “The Color Purple” is an awkward, unstructured show that does not work effectively onstage.

The story of Celie, a poor black woman in the South over the course of several decades at the turn of the century, demands too many plot devices and a dependence on horror and sentiment. Although its zealous religiosity shines in a handful of soaring gospel numbers, the show’s creators were not able to successfully adapt the saga for the mainstream Broadway stage.

Leading lady LaChanze attempts to make a transformation from appearing fourteen years old in her first scene to being as an old woman in her last. Though she is a fine actress who might even win a Tony for such serious efforts, her performance lacks believability and restraint.

The score, written by three novices to the stage, is derivative, repetitive and distastefully realized. The electric pop sound mixed with rhythm and blues is not appropriate for the story, and demands too many moments of weepy ballad belting. Perhaps a more experienced team such as Stephen Flaherty and Lynn Ahrens (“Ragtime,” “Once on This Island”) could have effectively translated the story into song.

Direct Gary Griffin has added a glossy finish that attempts to hide the musical’s problems, and the official endorsement of Oprah Winfrey will surely boost ticket sales. Still, many may expect and hope for better from a serious Broadway musical than what “The Color Purple” offers.

Broadway Theatre, 1681 Broadway, 212-239-6200, $26.25-101.25. Tues 8pm, Wed 2 & 8pm, Thurs-Fri 8pm, Sat 2 & 8pm, Sun 3pm.

"The Ruby Sunrise" by Aaron Riccio

. . . a few too many ideas, too scattered to be fully encompassed by the limited scope of this play, but still an entertaining piece of work.

The Ruby Sunrise (a new play written by Rinne Groff, playing at The Public Theater) is, at least to some degree, about television. Television, by nature, breaks down an image into data and reproduces it upon our screen. But because the life-sized realism has been compressed to fit a small set, the more information there is, the harder it is for us to process all of it. Our eyes wander across the pixilated dots, and the closer we look for meaning, the more of a blur the whole thing becomes. At the same time, if we’re willing to lean back in our chairs and accept the whole blitzkrieg of particles for what they are, we’ll find something good on. And that’s The Ruby Sunrise: a few too many ideas, too scattered to be fully encompassed by the limited scope of this play, but still an entertaining piece of work.

Also true to the television imagery, The Ruby Sunrise has a way of making the ordinary look far greater than it actually is. While the opening scene, set in a 1927’s boarding house and barn (cum laboratory) has the stuff of genius, the latter scenes, set in a 1952 television studio (with all the baggage of McCarthyism thrown in) have to settle for just looking smart. And through it all, Oskar Eustis’s direction keeps everything moving, smooth as a revolving door. Literally: the set swivels around to maximize the space, even as the actors transition under the dusky mood lighting of a single spotlight (set to a grand orchestral score).

Yet for all the smooth transitions and spot-on send-offs of the television industry (including a final scene that projects the teleplay onto a screen, in real time), there’s something wrong with the picture, and it can’t be fixed by hitting the set. For all the angry outbursts and proselytizing speeches (some of which feel quite contrived), The Ruby Sunrise doesn’t have a heart. Without that, it’s just a glittering gem.

While Marin Ireland (Ruby/Elizabeth—all the actors from the first scene are double-cast as the actors hired to portray them), Jason Butler Harner (playing Tad Rose) and Maggie Siff (Lulu) are all quite passionate and believable, they are brought down by a wide variety of generally unbelievable cohorts. It’s not really the fault of the actors, but Richard Masur’s role is to play a one-dimensional producer, boisterous to the hilt and not much more. Masur gets the most of it, but it’s like wringing blood from a stone (or ruby). Audra Blazer plays a ditz, nothing more, and while she ekes out the laughs, they are of a most shallow and forgettable substance. Meanwhile, Patch Darragh and Anne Scurria (playing the other two double-cast roles) try so hard to distinguish themselves from their Scene 1 versions that they keep lapsing between both. I guess the more people change, the more they really do stay the same, but I doubt that’s the point trying to be made here.

With all this dead weight, including the script’s meandering plots (as if it can’t decide what the story’s to be about—which in fact is what the story’s about), you’d think it’d be easy to change the channel, or tune out. And yet, Ireland, Harner, and Siff are so charismatic, they keep our eyes glued to the set, for better or worse. And it’s not really all bad: it’s just painful to think of all the dramatic promise compromised by a need for meta-fiction and parody.

Still, there’s a compelling thrust: the heartache of desperation. Ruby, a tomboy with big ideas, wants to bring her unique vision to the world—television—only to be beaten to the punch by industry. When she suffers an electrical shock, she screams “My baby!” although the playwright wisely leaves the subject ambiguous: is she literal (her daughter) or metaphorical (her invention)? Lulu—a smart, successful script-editor—is caught in her mother Ruby’s history, and needs to tell her story to be freed from her past. And Tad Rose, the somewhat prototypical under-the-radar writer, needs fame and recognition, only to constantly see his work twisted by the corporatism of television. With a sharp and witty script, Groff valiantly makes these struggles our own. But The Ruby Sunrise can’t stay focused and Groff can’t escape trying to parody the made-for-TV movie... so she winds up making one herself.

The Public Theater: 425 Lafayette Street
Tickets: $50 (212-239-6200)
Performances (Closes 12/04): Tuesday-Saturday @ 8:00
Saturday-Sunday @ 2:00
Sunday @ 7:00

"The Revenger's Tragedy" by Aaron Riccio

There’s so much bounce to the blood-letting that it’s positively upbeat: a farce of a tragedy, really, or perhaps just a literal revenge against the formulaic tragedies.

The Revenger’s Tragedy is Hamlet without the whining. It’s just as poetic, just as full of asides and oddly accented syllables, but straight to the point. No solipsistic soliloquies, just good old bloody fun, eyeballs and all. It’s a brilliant adaptation, nothing less than innovative, and director Jesse Berger (on behalf of his Red Bull Theater) has one more notch in his classical belt.

Here’s how the blood gets flowing: Vindice, our “noble” revenger, disguises himself as a slave, Piato, in order to infiltrate the Duke’s home. He is swiftly contracted to procure the virgin whom Lussurioso, the Duke’s heir, lusts for. Because it’s a comedy, that virtuous woman is Vindice’s sister, Castiza, and the ultimate corruptor, once bribed, is his mother, Gratiana. Even as characters are beheaded and eviscerated, the farce continues: Vindice, as himself, is hired to kill Piato, and at one point is forced to recycle a previous corpse to carry out the façade. The cyclical and meticulous nature of the plotting is melodious, full of unyielding twists and clever ironies and comedic even at its most vile. There’s so much bounce to the blood-letting that it’s positively upbeat: a farce of a tragedy, really, or perhaps just a literal revenge against the formulaic tragedies.

The plot is simple and complex: simple because everybody is their most animalistic (killing or fucking, or both); complex because of all the various scheming going on. It’s not a problem for Berger though: his direction bridges all the chaos, even as scenes collide into each other (the scene changes literally overlap). In this hyperventilating style (never a wasted breath), The Revenger’s Tragedy opens with a choreographed rape, glorious and debauched, with a touch of the Greek chorus thrown in (the players are all masked: the anonymity is sinister). Even as it catapults from there through intrigue and emphatic lust (heads shoved into crotches for punctuation), Berger makes sure the inevitable bloodbath is just as bacchanalian as the constant sexual tension.

The visuals are also very appealing: the minimalist stage plunges far back, and uses every inch for effect. The set itself, made to appear unfinished, focuses attention on the actors and wardrobe (a fetishistic affair of color-coordinated rubber, fur and leather). Up close, the makeup’s a little too much, but on the whole, coupled with the use of modern dance and a sparsely used fusion of background music, the show comes off as trendy and slick.

What’s more, Jesse Berger has directed this as a traditional Jacobean play: actors gleefully ignore the fourth-wall and tempt the audience to sin. This has the double benefit of justifying some of the more cartoonish acting, which now gets by on pure verve. It’s an unnecessary safety: Matthew Rauch (Vindice) and Marc Vietor (Lussurioso) give such impassioned performances, they liven even the ostentatiously poor actors (like Petronia Paley). Rauch lends credibility to his mass-murders and is elegant, if not beatific, in his actions. Vietor’s self-obsession, down to the most nuanced mannerisms, is an exercise in adoration and guilty pleasure. And also of note: Daniel Talbott and Ryan Farley, who play the two younger, scheming, heirs to the throne, Ambitioso and Supervacuo. Think the Three (Two) Stooges, or at least what Larry, Curly and Moe might look like if they dressed like Goths, really tried to kill one another, and were still funny about it.

Yes, that’s right. Revenge, along with all the tongue-tripping fun of the 17th century English plays, is suddenly hip again over at The Culture Project: it’s good to be bad.

45 Below (Red Bull Theater @ The Culture Project): 45 Bleecker Street
Tickets: $15 (212-239-6200)
Performances (Closes 12/18): Wednesday-Saturday @ 8:00; other dates vary

"La Boheme" (MET), By Matt Windman

Before Roger, Mark, Collin, Maureen, and the Life Café hit Broadway and now the big screen; Rodolfo, Marcello, Colline, Musetta, and the Café Momus ruled the opera stage for a full century.

“Rent” is in fact an updated version of “La Boheme,” Puccini’s 1896 opera of romance dipped in tragedy, theatricality, and symphonic musicality. Though a Broadway mounting directed by Baz Luhrmann three years ago lasted only six months, the work is still presented annually by the Metropolitan Opera and New York City Opera.

Just as “Rent” is considered by many to be the epitome of contemporary, rock music-oriented musical theater, “La Boheme” allowed Puccini to be finally viewed in Europe as the long-awaited successor Verdi and new voice of Italian music. Though Jonathan Larson tragically died the night before the first “Rent” preview, Puccini went on to write “Tosca” and “Madama Butterfly.”

The current MET production, which will be presented tomorrow night in addition to upcoming dates in December, is a revival of a spectacular, time-tested vision by auteur Franco Zeffirelli. Chock full of realistic set designs, falling snow, and an unbelievably detailed crowd scene in Act Two, “La Boheme” offers entrance to the original Bohemia, presented as an unbelievable, lost world filled with passionate, heartfelt artists.

Though seeing a show in Italian with subtitles can be shocking for perhaps a teenager weaned on “Rent” and “Wicked,” the experience of something completely different like this will still register as a momentous experience. MET prices can be as steep as $220, but student tickets are available at $25, and general standing tickets go as low as $16.

Metropolitan Opera House, Lincoln Center, between West 62nd and 65th Streets at Columbus and Amsterdam Avenues, tickets start at $16, www.metopera.org. Sat 8pm.

Abigails Party

The exquisite set and hospitable lighting are not the only things captivating audiences at the Acorn Theater on Theater Row. Abigail’s Party revolves around Laurence and Beverly, who are hosting a “get to know you” get together for their new neighbors Tony and Angela. Also in attendance is their neighbor Susan, whose daughter, Abigail, is also having a party. The well written comedy boasts aggressive characters and strong personalities which make for an exciting and humorous night at the theater. Jennifer Jason Leigh stars as Beverly, whose loud attitude, and pushy and belittling demeanor, creates constant conflict and amusing anecdotes which keeps the play moving forward at a quick pace. Overall, a very enjoyable play that kept the audience laughing and entertained.

The New Group presents
Abigail's Party
The Acorn Theater
410 W 42nd street between 9th and 10th ave, Theater Row

"Seascape" by Aaron Riccio

Seascape is a fantastical forum, where whimsy and humor cannot forever hide the subterranean truth of man’s nature.

[This was reviewed on the final night of previews: It is possible the entire show will have changed by the 11/21 premiere. Just not likely.]

Charles and Nancy are old-fashioned grandparents (gentlepeople, for lack of a better word). They’re direct and sensitive and devoid of the bitterly trenchant wit that might be found in other Albee plays: likeable, without any hesitation or guilt. Leslie and Sarah are young, fertile, reckless and dangerous. They are, without a doubt, carpe-ing their diem. Nancy, who fears her time is running short, is envious and desperate of this other couple; Charles dreams of sinking to the bottom of the sea, he’s done enough. And Leslie and Sarah are both great green Gila-monsters that have crawled out of the sea. Welcome to Lincoln Center’s revival of Edward Albee’s 1974 Pulitzer-winning Seascape.

This is a pretty big cultural divide, to say the least, and the only thing Albee gives them in common is his trademark wit and intelligence. Despite the unnatural circumstance, their verbal sparring is quite natural and keeps us from questioning the surreal. It’s didactic symbolism, not deus ex machina, and the absurdity gives the playwright license to pull the gloves off (though it’s still a light touch). Seascape is a fantastical forum, where whimsy and humor cannot forever hide the subterranean truth of man’s nature.

Frances Sternhagen (Nancy) is a gem, and she either has magnificent chemistry with George Grizzard (Charlie) or she’s that good of an actress—I’ve never seen such a loving relationship onstage. With a lyrical voice, she flirts with language and cavorts across the full gamut of emotion as both the strong matriarch and supportive housewife. Meanwhile, Grizzard is a perfect counterbalance, sedentary and staccato with his one-liners, almost as if hibernating. Frederick Weller and Elizabeth Marvel, unfortunately, get sacrificed to Plot. Seascape uses the monster stereotype with Leslie (menacing and naïve), and Weller can’t avoid sounding like a petulant eight-year-old. Marvel gets slightly better treatment, but still comes across more as effect than a character. Still, as tangible obstacles, both actors throw themselves into the role (literally), crawling across the beautiful sand dunes and crags of the beachside set.

The acts themselves are aesthetically pleasing too; each seems to explore either Charlie or Nancy’s perspective. In the first, Charlie’s, arguments range from the theoretical necessity of liver paste at the beach (for if the roasted chicken falls into the sand) to the use of past tense (and never has so much attention been correctly drawn to the hopefully inaccurate statement “you’ve had a good life”). It lazily meanders through a quiet and contemplative expanse filled mostly of imagery and recollection. In the second, Nancy’s, the lizard-people provide a physical pivot, lots of sight gags, and the uneasy humor­ of violent comedy. It’s immediate and far more riveting, and yet the first act, more subtle and poignant, really captures the heart and soul of a time-worn relationship. And in either case, terse Albee-ian rhythms and bravura performances keep the whole thing ticking, unhinged only in the last few moments.

Startling, lucid and entertaining, Seascape is a multi-faceted look at two couples coming to terms with their own mortality and existence. Whether or not you like the liberal use of lizards, these are Big (and unsettling) Ideas, presented with flawless comic timing and personable characters, and it’s one of Albee’s best.

Booth Theater (222 West 45th Street)
Tickets: $80-85 (212-239-6200)
Performances: Tuesday-Saturday @ 8:00; Wednesday/Saturday @ 2:00; Sunday @ 3:00

The Ark, by Matt Windman

Note: Following its opening last Monday night, the new musical “The Ark” at 37 Arts unexpectedly closed on Sunday, November 20.

This Off-Broadway musical would work best as cheesy Sunday school entertainment for children at a bible-themed amusement park. Compared to other flawed Noah musicals like “Children of Eden” and “Two by Two,” "The Ark" easily manages to seem the lesser of the three. Michael McLean and Kevin Kelly’s songs are non-dramatic, corny, and ineffective. Here is a sample lyric: “I hate the rain, it’s driving me insane.”

The audience is addressed by the cast as if we are the animals onboard the ark. The first minute of the show has a delightful, captivating quality as Adrian Zmed recognizes us. But as soon as the music begins to blast and the hollow one-liners fire at us, the ship begins to leak and keeps on sinking.

The show’s religious ideology is so sentimental that it becomes a burden; Noah’s troublesome child, for example, breaks down crying at his father’s feet upon accepting God. The set looks as if it came out of Disney World’s Frontier Land, the lighting is harsh, and the costumes are of a Halloween party quality. And though the eight-person ensemble cast is talented, this ark cannot last 40 days and 40 nights.

37 Arts Theatre, 450 West 37th Street, 212-307-4100, $66.25. Fri 8pm, Sat 2 & 8pm, Sun 2 & 7pm.

Review: THE ARK by Rachel Maier

I saw The Ark on Wednesday night at the 37 Arts Theater. The women in the show were extremely strong, and the most memorable numbers were in fact the ones sung by the women. Marie-France Arcilla sang a rousing gospel song and was one of the, if not the strongest in the cast. The show as a whole was entertaining and enjoyable, but unfortunatly did not leave me humming the score as I left the theater.

Review: Waiting for Godot by Matt Windman

Beckett's modern theater of metaphor continues to resonate into the twenty-first century.

Read full review:
Billed as a 50th anniversary revival, this intimate revival at St. Clement’s Church lacks the fanfare of Mike Nichol’s Lincoln Center production with Steve Martin and Robin Williams in 1988 or even the Classic Stage revival with Christopher Lloyd. The estate of Samuel Beckett, which is notorious for refusing to allow changes to the play’s text, cast of all males, or setting, would probably approve of newcomer Alan Hruska’s very straightforward, surface-oriented direction.

The humor of the play has been neglected, but the melancholy of the play is highlighted significantly through an outstanding ensemble cast led by Sam Coppola. On a bare stage with only the classic tree, complimented by a light sky cyclorama, Beckett's modern theater of metaphor continues to resonate into the twenty-first century.

At Theatre at St. Clement’s, 423 West 46th Street, 212-239-6200, $55. Fri 8pm, Sat 2:30 & 8pm, Sun 3pm.

"Just Happy to Be Here?" and "Skinpoppin", Review by Elizabeth Devlin

Two actors highlight their unique talents in two one-man shows that attack large themes and successfully address them through individual stories in “Just Happy to Be Here?” and “Skinpoppin.,” a double bill produced by ArchProductions and DramaHouse Entertainment, which runs this weekend.

The first piece, “Just Happy to Be Here?” sets the audience up as students observing a psychological study of the effect of 9/11 on African-American males. As the writer and performer, Damien D. Smith’s portrayal of 5 diverse characters, each his own energy and purpose, is a delight to watch. Each character has a sense of urgency, a combination of the nervousness about their pysch-study participation and the desire each character has to tell his story. Damien D. Smith’s ability to transform from one character to another is impressive and evocative of Anna Deveare Smith’s work “Twilight: Los Angeles” in its honest treatment of each character, although it must be noted that Damien Smith’s characters are fictional.

“Skinpoppin”, a work both written and performed by Basil Scrivens, is a much darker work than “Just Happy…” and tells the story of Manchild Jones’ heroin addiction. The story of Skinpoppin is, sadly, less than shocking: a cycle of addiction in a family and in society. Scrivens takes an innovative approach to the tale, however, interrupting the action at times with spoken word poetry and playing a fairly constant jazz-funk soundtrack in the background to evoke the 70’s heroin “shooting galleries” he grew up around. Manchild as a character has a very different energy than any of the characters in “Just Happy…” which provides the main distinction between the two pieces. Smith’s characters are excitable and come across with a sense of urgency; Scrivens’ Manchild lives an empty life and has nothing to be excited or urgent about. His senses have been numbed through two decades of heroin, and this numbness is thoroughly projected throughout the work.

Damien Smith and Basil Scrivens have created realistic and captivating pieces. Smith’s work speaks to a broad audience by questioning our preconceptions of African-American men and showing us that that group is too large and complex to pre-judge. Scrivens shows us in a stark and sometimes painful way the how life can come to mean little more than the next high- and how one can begin to find a way out of the numbness.

Just Happy to Be Here? and Skinpoppin runs
November 17-20 at 8pm and November 19 at 2pm at
The Michael Weller Theatre
311 West 43rd St. 6th Floor
(between 8th & 9th Avenues)
Tickets are $20.
Call 212.545.4127 for tickets and info

Letter from Hannah Snyder-BeckRe: The Ruby Sunrise

Dear Susan:

Did you take a look at the Times today? Front page of the arts section, a review of "Ruby Sunrise" by Charles Isherwood... I have to say, reading his review made me quite upset. There is such good work happening on that stage and to not have that recognized is mind boggling. There is so much crap out there that does not deserve rave reviews yet gets them anyway and then there's a show like "Ruby Sunrise" that comes along only so often that deserves as much praise as it can get, and it gets panned... It's the nature the biz, I suppose, but it's still infuriating.

Reading Isherwood's review made me realize how important it is for those of us just beginning our theater careers to have a voice (or, to at least try to have one).
Thank you for giving us the opportunity.

Best,
Hannah

"Bartleby, the Scrivener" by Aaron Riccio

Adapting a novella for the stage presents many difficulties, but character should not be one of them. (Especially not with Herman Melville, a classic literary portraitist.) Perhaps the playwright, R.L. Lane, simply assumes we are all familiar with the subject material: Bartleby the Scrivener’s sad tale of Wall Street copyists in the mid-nineteenth century. Or perhaps he simply “prefers” the company of more definable characters: the bright and boisterous stereotypes of fellow clerks Turkey, Nippers and Ginger Nut. Either way, Standard, the chief scrivener (and the lead) winds up a mess, Bartleby steals the show, and the theatrical experience is riveting, if not exactly exhilarating.

Gerry Bamman (Standard) should have no trouble finding the subtle anguish of this role (he’s done Chekhov), and yet his character is static and inflexible. Overacting is an understatement here: the problem is that Bamman doesn’t seem to realize he’s playing two different roles. He is Standard the character and Standard the narrator: one must grow, and the other must speak from experience. Instead, Melville’s rich and tortured narrative rolls trippingly off the tongue only to fall flat on its face. The two Standards are so jumbled together, neither has impact, just the atonal pitch of melodrama.

Marco Quaglia, as Bartleby, is a captivating performer and one in complete control of his body. Be it his rigid posture, lethargic shuffle or downcast glare—he fills the stage with discomfort . . . and pleasure. As if he’s some sort of Elephant Man freak-show (there’s a role for Quaglia), the director, Alessandro Fabrizi, bruises him with the perfect blend of illumination and shadow. Then again, Fabrizi also stashes Bartleby behind a wall—this choice, after describing him as a living cadaver who haunts Standard, seems a bit naïve.

And yet, Lane and Fabrizi manage to capture the gloomy essence of Bartleby. Though this is a Cliff Notes version­—straight to the point, and even the stage is spare (but with good effect)—it works. Some scenes even justify what is otherwise a superfluous adaptation. Take for instance the office’s attempt to cheer up Bartleby: their efforts are at first individually comedic, but on the whole become forcefully awkward. They simply don’t understand the man: That’s the point. Fabrizi, who works beautifully with subtle and minimalist elements (note: the awful musical selections are neither), lets this failure linger in the air: a living, breathing, silence.

And while that moment may be repeated (milked is perhaps the word), it never quite becomes boring theater—though neither does it become great theater. No, what it may be, despite an antiquated feel, is real theater: touching yet not exciting, or (since that’s not wholly true) thrilling, but on another level. “Ah Bartleby! Ah Humanity!” That final haunting line is still a dagger to the heart.

Blue Heron Theater
123 East 24th Street
Tickets: $19.00 (212-868-4444)
Wednesday-Saturday @ 8:00; Saturday @ 3:00 (Closing November 27th)