Earning Their Dough

The New York City Food Riot of 1917 is a culturally fascinating, socially significant, but little known blip on the city's historical radar. Occurring in the same period as World War 1, The Food Riot seems to have slipped quietly through the cracks of its time. As the war raged overseas an increasing number of immigrants fled to America. Give Us Bread examines the ones that migrated to Manhattan and populated the growing neighborhoods on the Lower East Side. Location is everything, and The Anthropologists (actresses Jean Goto, Sonja Sweeney, Jennifer Moses and Katy Rubin) along with artistic director Melissa Fendell Moschitto have chosen an ideal venue for their historical drama. Give Us Bread is staged at the CSV Cultural Center, centrally located in the same Lower East Side neighborhood the play's characters inhabit.

In 1917, with the world at war and immigration bursting at the seams, prices for basic food items such as milk, onions, bread and potatoes were inflating faster than the average worker’s wages. Demand far outweighed supply, forcing pushcart peddlers to raise their prices, first steadily, than sharply until items that once cost .11 suddenly cost .19.

These prices were being gouged from a working class that was 80% female with 90% originating from a foreign country. Men were disappearing from the scene, either abandoning families they could no longer support or dying of illnesses associated with poor factory conditions.

Women who could work toiled in sewing factories from daybreak to sundown while those who couldn’t pawned goods or sold handcrafted arts. Unfortunately, with all the diseases spreading through the tightly packed homes, the distribution of handcrafted items was soon banned, leaving many women with little to no means of income.

“What will I do? What will I do?” widowed Irish mother Elizabeth (Jennifer Griffee) asks herself while rocking manically in her chair. This is the question on all the womens’ minds as the prices continue to climb with each new day.

The immigrant women spotlighted in Give Us Bread include a plucky Asian orphan named Jenny (Jean Goto), the aforementioned Elizabeth (Jennifer Griffee), a fiery Italian, Concetta (Shayna Padovano), Rivka (Katy Rubin), a Jewish woman raising her talented daughter, Hannah (Sonja Sweeney) and Marie Ganz (Jennifer Moses), a character based on the real life anarchist and rebel.

The fresh-off-the-boat women are not proficient in English and are often childlike in their attempts to understand their new world. Still, the actresses play their respective roles with strength and intelligence as they work to overcome language barriers and find a common bond.

However, it is not until Marie Ganz’s rousing call to arms that the women are finally stirred to take a unified course of action. Ganz is clever. She plays on America’s gender stereotypes and sympathies. She garners public support, and in a poignant, powerful moment her character stands front and center on a box while a slide show of real faces from the 1917 Food Riot are projected behind her.

Post performance, Hasia Diner, Professor of American Jewish History at New York University, gave a brief background lecture confirming the validity of the historical moods, attitudes and facts touched upon in the narrative. In fact, every performance is followed by a contribution from a guest author or visiting historian.

With an impressive lineup of knowledgeable lecturers, a website filled with research blogs and a playbill crammed with statistics and timelines, The Anthropologists live up to the meaning of their name. The company has effectively resurrected a lost revolution from New York’s past and given it a chance to shine in such a way that it will never be forgotten again.

Pots and Pans

A bustling, upscale restaurant may be filled with sunlight and laughter, but beneath the patrons' feet is another world they will never know: a dark, grimy, steam-filled cellar where three dishwashers clutch their sponges and wait for their next shipment of dirty, food-stained plates. Morris Panych’s bleak, yet deeply profound comedy, The Dishwashers, focuses on the lives of these three dishwashers: a terminally ill old man named, Moss (John Shuman), a veteran dishwasher and liaison to the world upstairs, Dressler (Tim Donoghue) and a newbie college drop out, Emmett (Jay Stratton).

The men work through the festivities of Christmas, scraping cigarettes out of mashed potatoes, and through the excitement of New Years Eve, hoping that after the ball drops they will find an unfinished flute of champagne in the bus tray.

Charlie Corcoran compliments the mood with a visually capturing set that pulls the viewer into the cellar with the dishwashers. There is no sign of ventilation – not even a ceiling fan – the paint on the wall is peeling and the wooden stairs leading up to the restaurant are moldy and rotted. Emmett’s outfit is too short; the arms barely come past the elbows and the pants end at his knees.

The setup of the room and the condition of their work clothes gives a clear indication of the dishwashers' status, both in life and in the eyes of the restaurant.

Jill Nagle’s lights also add another layer to the story. When the dishwashers are on their lunch break the lights are sharp and piercing, but when they return to work the room dims. Slivers of light seep through the ceiling, casting stripes on the dishwashers' aprons. The result is an image that eerily resembles three inmates toiling away in prison uniforms.

But is their little corner of the world a prison? That is the question bouncing between Emmett and Dressler with a clueless Moss caught in between. Emmett thinks Moss needs to live a little before he dies. Dressler disagrees. Moss was born for this life and he’ll die in this life.

Saddled with emotional problems of his own, Emmett is unsure of his place in the world and wholly susceptible to Dressler’s hard-nosed mentality that anyone who ends up in this cellar will never have the fortitude to work their way out of it.

Dressler is a difficult character to like but a fascinating one to listen to. While Emmett and Moss openly despise their situations, Dressler embraces his. He loves seeing the silverware sparkle in the morning light, even though no one will ever credit him for its shine. “I love this job,” he tells Emmett proudly. “Not because it’s a good job, but because it’s my job.”

Aside from this passionate declaration, Donoghue reveals little about his character’s true nature. He catches himself before the conversation turns personal and throws in a crude joke if he feels the moment getting too chummy. He also shows no remorse for brainwashing Emmett into accepting a life that he is desperate to get out of.

When Dressler first meets Emmett he asks his name. When Emmett tells him Dressler barks, “Wrong! It’s New Guy. You have to earn the right to be called Emmett.” Dressler believes respect is earned by remaining in the cellar, while Emmett feels it lies at the top of the stairs.

The Dishwashers does not lean to one side or the other. There is no heavy-handedness and no clear resolution. Instead, Panych leaves room for the viewer to decide who is at peace with his place in the world and who will always see himself as a prisoner, trapped in a restaurant cellar.

Welcome To The Dollhouse

If you don’t like your reality, create a new one. So believes young Lina (Kendra Mylnechuk, in this performance, Brenda Jean Foley in others) an imaginative young girl who can only cope with her loveless household if she regards her family as toys that “may or may not really exist.” Lina’s “toys” live in a fancy white dollhouse and reside in the idyllic Nantucket – not the one in Massachusetts, she explains – a different one that does not really exist. Written by Amy Fox and directed by Terry Berliner, One Thing I Like To Say Is takes audiences behind dollhouse doors into a reality so cold one can understand why Lina and her older brother, Toby (Brian Gillespie) spent their young lives trying to escape it.

Though presented by the Cockeyed Optimist Theater Company – a company whose mission is to share the “positive essence of being human” the optimism in this tale of broken homes and severed family ties is not immediately clear. But halfway through the production takes a surprising turn, blossoming into a sensitive and touching story about the resiliency of the human spirit to show love even when encumbered by a life where love has never been shown.

Wilson Chin designed the stage to resemble the whimsical interior of a dollhouse, decorated with brightly colored walls and lime green furniture. Even the characters look as if they were plucked from the shelves of a toy store.

Mylnechuk wears a bright pink dress that bounces when she walks. She has wide childlike eyes and a huge smile that refuses to leave her face, even in the worst of times. Gillespie also maintains a happy plastic front. He reveals his character’s insecurities in his nervously wringing hands and wild, unsettled eyes, always searching the room for an escape route.

Within the walls of this life sized dollhouse we meet Toby and Lina’s mother (played by Gillespie in earrings and a pink beaded necklace,) an unfaithful wife and drunk, and their father (played by Mylnechuk with a deep growling voice and reading glasses) also a drunk with a suggestion of violent tendencies. We also meet Lina’s alter ego -- a Scottish butler who dotes on Toby and manufactures happy moments to distract him from running away from home.

Toby is clearly the only ray of sunshine in Lina’s life and when their parents send him to reform school she stands in the center of her playroom, clenches her fists and screams with a deep, primal agony for her brother.

Sixteen years pass before a glimmer of optimism seeps into the lives of these doomed characters. It appears in the form of a lonesome teenager named Kevin (Michael Mattie) the possible biological son of either Lina or Toby. Though the siblings’ lives are hopelessly fractured when he arrives at their doorstep, Toby’s distressed wife, Sam (Jolie Curtsinger) graciously accepts Kevin into her home and more importantly, into her heart.

Sam is arguably the only sane character in this play. She fills the role that Lina wished a fictional Scottish butler could have filled years ago: a person strong enough and kind enough to hold her family together.

Fox’s tight, complex story arc acknowledges the depth of the siblings’ emotional problems but never judges their unusual coping methods. Their reluctance to completely surrender their childhood fantasies is understandable, especially since their shared imaginary games are the only pleasant memory of their past.

But in the spirit of optimism, this is not necessarily a bad thing. After all, what’s so wrong with living in a dream world when the people you love most are living there with you?

Homeless Boneyard

The homeless lie on bare mattresses and rumpled blankets beneath the A/C/E subway lines using cardboard boxes and crates as furniture. Their lives fall somewhere between harsh inescapable reality and whimsical drug induced fantasies filled with ghosts from their past. This pit of despair beckons to an articulate young college professor named Lambert (Clinton Faulkner) who says his heartbreak over a failed relationship has brought him to this place. However, his fellow sufferers believe there is more to his story. Leslie Lee’s bleak drama, The Book of Lambert is a strong, unflinching character study of six souls wasting their lives away in the shadowy corners of a subway station. When the play opens, each character stirs in his or her sleep, eventually stretching to life to reveal the events of the past that have anchored their present. The obstacles range from small faraway memories to unsettled insecurities to the most debilitating – neglect and disapproval from unloving parents.

The first act shows the depths to which each person has sunk while the second half provides some much needed hope, focusing on the characters' determination to break whatever it is that has chained them.

Joresa Blount plays a young pregnant woman named Bonnie who possesses hard edges but also a sympathetic center. She is prickly towards the world but still hopeful about getting back into it.

Sadrina Johnson gives a unique twist to Priscilla, an exotic dancer who has been used up and thrown out. Johnson is over-the-top when indulging in Princilla’s reckless wild side, but finds a poignant note of somber clarity when the fun winds down, forcing Pricilla to face herself.

The elders of the group, Otto and Zinth, are played by impressive stage veterans Arthur French and Gloria Sauvé respectively, each expertly capturing the nuances of a passionless marriage and the futility of enduring a doomed life merely waiting for its end.

And finally, there is Clancy (Howard L. Wieder), a self-professed “obstacle police” who tickets people and objects that obstruct anything from sunlight pouring through a window to boxes blocking cars from driving down the street. Clancy pretends to just be visiting until Lambert furiously and violently confronts him. With the eloquent phrasing of a polished academic he demands, “Tell me about the pain that has rotted your cerebellum and brought you to this homeless boneyard.”

But a poetic vernacular is not the only attribute distinguishing Lambert from the others in his company. His comrades clothe themselves in torn sweaters and unraveling rags, while Lambert is dressed in a stiff white-collared shirt half tucked inside of his slacks with a loosely knotted tie still dangling from his neck. It would appear that this man walked straight from a university classroom to a cardboard box.

Though everyone in the subway station has a story, Lambert’s situation is the only one that begs the question, “Why?” The others ended up in their miserable predicament through understandable means: broken homes, bad choices, and addictions to drugs. But Lambert chose this life, and continues to choose it with each new day. He has the best chance of leaving. The fact that he doesn’t is the tightly wound mystery at the heart of the story.

With this sizeable heaping of heavy subject matter, The Book of Lambert could easily feel as weighty as its characters' troubles. Fortunately, Lee keeps the action fast-paced, colorful, and at times even humorous.

Though the characters' obstacles are large and seemingly unresolvable, the play does conclude with a ray of promise. Those willing to face and conquer their problems have the potential to one day reclaim the lives and return to the light.

Dressed To Impress

Imagine a governor who admits to hating funerals because they darken his wardrobe. Now imagine a governor who will not cancel a party for the Queen of England in a time of political unrest because he just sold South Jersey to pay for his dress. Imagine a governor who refuses to run from an angry mob arguing, “I’m not dressed for walking!” This man is Edward Hyde, also known as Lord Cornbury, the cross-dressing governor of New York and New Jersey who reigned in political office between 1702 and 1707. Hailing from England, Lord Cornbury (David Greenspan) is not the ideal choice for a political office. After accumulating a staggering debt, his advisor, Spinoza Dacosta, (Ken Kliban) begs him to at least consider paying back some of his creditors. Africa, (Ashley Bryant) his beautiful and sassy servant, scolds him for scaring a Dutch pastor’s son (Christian Pedersen) sent to spy on his behavior. He shocks the pious boy by confronting him in a long blue gown and wig of brown curls. “What?” he asks as the boy staggers backwards. “You don’t like blue?”

In his time, Lord Cornbury may not have been a popular politician, but in William M. Hoffman and Anthony Holland’s historical comedy, Cornbury: The Queen’s Governor, his charisma and conviction to his beliefs – wayward as they are – paint him in a more loveable light.

Greenspan has a playful nature and a charming magnetism. He appears to be having fun with his eccentric character, much to the credit of Holland and Hoffman’s witty dialogue, costume designer, Jeffrey Wallach’s exaggerated gowns and set designer, Mark Beard’s unique scenery all of which give him great material to have fun with.

Beard has created some amazing things with cardboard. His set pieces are painted with intricate details and cleverly paired with tangible objects to enhance their realistic appearance. For example, a barmaid picks a real towel off a cardboard bar and pulls a real glass out of a cardboard cabinet. But the finest set piece is the elaborate cardboard boat docked offstage that is later used for one of the best visual gags in the play.

Watching Greenspan glide across the stage draped in outrageous fashion designs also delivers a series of hilarious visuals. Wallach has dressed the flamboyant governor in huge puffy gowns with waistlines supported by baskets tied to each of his hips. His necklines glitter with an overabundance of tiny diamonds, and at one point, Greenspan wears a wig made entirely of flowers.

But despite these eye-popping costumes, the play examines more than just a former governor’s cross-dressing legacy. Cornbury: The Queen’s Governor spotlights a time in New York history that is very pivotal to the city’s evolution, a time when the English ruled much of the land and the Dutch lamented their small piece of the pie.

In a playbill article Hoffman points out that many people do not realize how “Dutch the city of New York was, and still is in some ways,” citing the names of Delancy Street, Van Cortland Park and Staten Island (once Staaten Eylandt) as a few examples.

And for all of Lord Cornbury’s cross-dressing antics he did embrace diversity, and encouraged the growth of a city where many nationalities could peacefully intertwine and thrive. The facts and hearsay surrounding his tumultuous reign as governor may have cast a shadow on the validity of his vision, but there is no ignoring that the New York we inhabit today still retains bits and pieces of the civilization he started centuries ago.

That's The Spirit

There is a grisly side to Christmas, the side everyone suffers through with a forced smile and clenched teeth. Behind the compulsory cheer is always some difficult relative that no one wants to talk to or one traditional family activity that everyone hopes will finally be retired. Between the pressure to make dinner a success and the high expectations for tender, lasting memories, the holidays are ripe for family drama. And family drama is what popular English playwright, Alan Ayckbourn and director Laurie Eliscu deliver in the madcap holiday fare, Season’s Greetings, currently playing at the McGinn/Cazale Theatre.

The story opens in a traditionally decorated living room with a brightly lit tree in the corner, a mountain of presents beneath it and long strings of pine and red ribbon wrapped around the staircase banisters. The orderly Christmas setting provides a perfect backdrop for the disorderly chaos that is bound to ensue when the dysfunctional family and friends convene for the holidays.

Uncle Harvey (Lee Beebout) says he is buying the children guns for Christmas. He then tries to coax the evening’s host, Belinda (Francile Albright) to stop hanging candy canes and watch a shark fight on TV. From upstairs, an unhappy pregnant wife, Pattie (Morgan Reis) screams for her lazy husband, Eddie (Dan Via) to say goodnight to his kids before they forget he exists. Alcoholic aunt, Phyllis (Karin De La Penha) can be heard offstage breaking dishes in the kitchen where she is attempting to cook a lamb without blacking out. Meanwhile, her meek husband, Bernard (Byron Loyd) prepares for an annual puppet show that everyone annually dreads.

Frustrated in her loveless marriage to Neville (James Weatherstone) Belinda throws herself at Clive (Foster Davis), a polite young novelist who graciously accepts an invitation from his doughty secretary, Rachel (Jody Eisenstein) to stay with her family for the holidays. Belinda and Clive have immediate chemistry as implied from the Christmas music that starts to play the moment the two lay eyes on each other.

The stage is set for amusing light comedy but eventually turns into a more serious look at the failed dreams and miserable lives led by each character. As an English playwright, Ayckbourn is mostly known for writing plays that focus on the social structure of the suburban middle class in England. That being said, the observations found in Season’s Greetings about the hysteria of the holidays and the life crises it inspires are universally relatable.

However, there are some noticeable differences: the English celebrate Boxing Day and seem wired to maintain good manners even in the face of open resentment. Within this gathering there are some misunderstandings but no deep, dark secrets. Husbands and wives conduct their marital tiffs in the middle of the living room not caring who sees their dirty laundry being aired.

The story’s dramatic tension comes in wondering what each member of this unpredictable clan will do next. They overreact to small issues and underreact to large ones, making their actions impossible to see coming. Still, nothing could more unpredictable than the story’s final act, which includes a very surprising, unforeseeable twist.

When all is said and done, Season’s Greetings will not leave viewers longing for the holidays. In fact, this is the kind of play that makes you want to skip the holidays altogether and get right to the part where you return to your normal, relative-less lives. However, it does lower the bar of expectations for what a successful family gathering should be. By Season’s Greetings standards, as long as everyone leaves the dinner table in one piece, you have officially survived the holidays.

Company's Coming

Levy lives in a museum of his own creation. Surrounded by keepsakes he has gathered throughout the years and records that he listens to on a ritualistic basis, he has a quiet little existence that is minimal and modest. And then he meets Lillian (Barbara Eda-Young) and her teenage son, Yidl (John Magaro). Lillian Yuralia is a character-driven play written by Barbara Eda-Young and directed by Austin Pendleton that blows the dust off the surface of a man’s life to reveal all the untold stories and quietly dying memories that lie underneath.

Eda-Young’s story, which runs only one hour and fifteen minutes long, crams a host of complexities from three individual lives into a tiny, succinct package that never once says too much or too little.

Lillian and Yidl barge into Levy’s life after they are evicted from their apartment. Moments before they must leave, Lillian overdoses on poison and awakens to hear her son sobbing and Levy (Ben Hammer) pouring a bucket of cold water over her. Panicked, they stumble into his one bedroom apartment against a flurry of objections.

Within moments of their arrival Lillian is vomiting in his bathroom, peeling off her wet gown and drying herself in Levy’s ankle-length robe. Yidl makes a beeline for a shadowy corner where he sits, silently sobbing. Levy stares, barely able to comprehend what has just blown through his door.

Eda-Young is both the star and playwright, which gives her exceptional insight into her flighty, but well-meaning character. She embraces Lillian’s faults without excusing them. Her pain as a mother and ruined woman is evident in her strained, desperate smiles. She steals longing glances at Yidl from across the room, searching for the carefree child she used to know.

Levy senses that something is amiss, which both sobers and baffles him. His guests eventually have a train to catch. He knows their presence is only temporary but what should he do with them in the meantime? Offer them tea? Insist Yidl sit on the chair when he seems determined to remain hunched on the floor?

While Levy tries to asses the situation Lillian gives him her lists of grievances: she fell in love with a man, they had a son, he took care of them, loved them …but he wouldn’t leave his wife. And then he died, too suddenly to provide for them. Yidl read about it in the papers, the truth knocking the words right out of him. In a matter of days he lost his father, his home and everything he knew to be true.

Though Lillian and Yidl’s unraveling relationship is the main focus of the story, it is Levy who provides the bittersweet center. He watches as Lillian brushes the hair off her son’s face, choking on some suppressed emotion. His family was killed in Jewish riots when he was only a teenager. Watching Lillian and Yidl together seems to stir something within him, perhaps because everything they are losing now reminds him of everything he has lost over time.

Levy spends most of Lillian’s visit trying to resist her incessant probing. He says, “I don’t remember,” when asked anything about his past. But when the topic comes to his family he remembers everything: his sister’s bright blue eyes, the sun on his mother’s face as she looked out the window and the games he played with his siblings in a meadow with flowers.

The play’s climatic end comes suddenly and unexpectedly. Until one small, but pivotal moment, it is not clear what kind of terms these new acquaintances will part on. Then something happens, a simple gesture, but enough to alter life’s course and leave the audience with some hope for the characters' futures. Like Lillian Yuralia, this gesture is unassuming and straightforward in its execution but deeply significant and heartrending in the purity of its meaning.

Bohemian Rhapsody

Enter this production with the mindset that it is not a play, but an experience. The weighty drama, HIM is poet/playwright/painter E.E Cummings’ method of showing his estranged daughter, Nancy, the world that prevented him from being her father. That world is the circus. Presented by The Longest Lunch, and equipped with a capable ensemble of actors with a great well of energy to draw from, HIM takes the stage with some built-in obstacles. The biggest obstacle is: Cummings purposely wrote an incomprehensible play because he believed experiencing art is more important than understanding it.

There are two sides to HIM’s plot. One half is a semi-autobiographical account of the way Cummings’ marriage to his first wife, Elaine, dissolved, taking his only child with her. The other half is a circus that the main character of HIM, also named, HIM (Dan Cozzens) has written and proceeds to show to his wife, ME (Elan O’Conner). ME doesn’t understand it. HIM tells her she is not supposed to. “Just watch,” he urges.

The audience would best heed this same advice. Though HIM does have a very human story at its center, the bulk is a vaudeville circus where each skit is just as bizarrely baffling as the one before it. “What was that about?” ME dares to ask after one particularly puzzling piece. “Chaos,” HIM tells her as if it should have been obvious.

Cummings’ dialogue is rich with poetry that Cozzens recites with perfect fluidity. The imagery is vivid and a few select sentences stand out for their simple profoundness (“I held my husband up to the light today and I could see right through him.”) Cummings' level of intense analytical thought is a challenge to sustain for the play’s long running time. This performance ran at three and a half hours with one intermission.

Fortunately, The Longest Lunch makes the most of that one intermission. Hot dogs, popcorn and free cups of soda and water were served, filling the lobby with the familiar sights and smells of a circus.

Despite its burdens as a heavy and lengthy play, Him offers something not often found in modern day theater: a believable recreation of the vaudeville era.

Rather than paint the theater with cheery, bright colors, set designer Kaitlyn Mulligan selected worn and faded hues. The effect is a set that looks used and lived in. One can imagine the stage’s wrinkled red curtain and creaky tired props being dragged across a dusty countryside from one town to the next. The theater even smells like the carnival, largely due to the thick aroma of herbal cigarette smoke that permeates the room.

The female ensemble performers look authentically Burlesque in their top hats, slip dresses, fishnets and garters, tapping in a line like a tawdry group of Rockettes. But the most eerie element is Michael Hochman’s lighting design: dark green and deep purple bathe the performers, giving them a creepy, otherworldly feel.

Whether or not this display ever impressed Cummings’ daughter, Nancy, is not mentioned. There is a scene where Cummings describes the wonder of seeing a child in a crib while the ghost of a young girl paces around the outskirts of the room, appearing to be listening with some sympathy.

But the moment is burst by ME. Does HIM want to be a father or not? That is the reality of the situation and reality, HIM says, kills the bohemian soul. Hopefully, Nancy does understand her poet/painter/playwright father on some level. The Longest Lunch certainly seems to share his mindset. Their production has captured the aspects that Cummings loved most about the circus by recreating the smoky fantasy of vaudeville that clearly touched his soul.

The Write Stuff

On the surface Tom has the kind of problems many writers might wish they had. He has a nice-sized fan base, critical acclaim and a wife so supportive of his talent that she volunteers to pay all the bills so he can spend his days typing. Tom (Kyle Knauf) seems to have the perfect life, but his muse, Norman (Jake Suffian) thinks otherwise. Norman haunts Tom incessantly, voicing all the worries, concerns and crippling doubts that Tom tries to suppress. Timothy Nolan’s play, Not Dark Yet, has more complexities than its blurb and comical portrayal of a cross-dressing muse would have you believe. Like its main character, Tom, the real story lies beneath the surface.

Tom’s doting wife Anne (Elizabeth Bell) is also his pushy publicist and even something of a fiction writer groupie. She wants her husband to be the Next Big Thing – the guy on everyone’s front page who goes on talk shows impressing the world with his literary soul. The central question in the story is whether Tom wants that as well. He is plagued by Norman, who represents his inner torments and deepest fears - the biggest one being that his wife may only love him for his talent.

Knauf plays Tom with a deep, thoughtful center, as someone who likes writing about the truth, but not facing it. Bell is also very convincing as a woman falling out of love with her husband without officially saying so. Instead, Tom tries to pretend they’re both on the same page while Anne reacts coldly to his overtures, trying to shame him back to the keyboard.

Nolan has crafted a story without a clear hero and no obvious answers. He also offers an interesting perspective on writing, particularly in regards to people like Tom who enjoy doing it but not for a career.

The play ends on an open-ended note, though it does not bode well for Tom that Anne recoils at his declaration, “I love you more than words can say.” Without the words you wonder how long Tom will be able to retain that love.

Not Dark Yet is part of the 2008 New York International Fringe Festival.

Pills and Thrills

Kaboom is a far-fetched rollercoaster of crazy, unbridled Fringe Festival fun. But be warned; it tries its hardest to be offensive and would likely be disappointed if you weren’t. Written by Michael Small, who based much of his premise on the fifteen years he spent working for PEOPLE magazine, Kaboom is both a raunchy comedy and a pop culture commentary with the obligatory jabs at Hollywood’s most jabbable celebrities.

But at the heart of this madcap production is a more straightforward story about a barely competent scam artist named Rodney (Ray Wills) and his thoroughly incompetent stooge, Bobo (Jim Barry). Rodney’s latest ploy is to scam people into buying an extremely potent sex pill that may or may not deliver the advertised effects. His plans are foiled when Bobo accidentally sets fire to their secret warehouse destroying all but six of the pills. In order to recoup his losses before a loan repayment is due, Rodney must recruit an array of gullible individuals to help him build a pyramid scam that will generate $300,000 in one day.

These individuals include a bicycle delivery girl desperately seeking instant Idol like fame (Laura Daniel), a world famous Lithuanian kazoo player (John Di Domenico) a closeted gay television host (Tyler Hollinger), and a new-age yoga teacher (Kristen Cerelli) who spends her days meditating on finding a more endowed husband.

In Act One, a series of mishaps, misunderstandings and mistaken identities set the stage for an explosive confrontation in Act Two. Four characters that Rodney has been scamming in four different ways are all about to confront him at exactly the same time. Chaos and farce ensues. Rodney attempts to sooth one individual’s hysteria while hiding two others under the bed and beneath a pile of laundry.

Kaboom is supplied with a wonderfully animated cast, all of whom seem practiced and comfortable in the art of comedy. They have perfect timing for delivering a punchline and waiting patiently for the hilarity to ripple through the audience.

But most importantly, the actors seem to be having a good time with their roles. The production has an infectious energy, and feels very much at home in the New York Fringe Festival.

Kaboom is part of the 2008 New York International Fringe Festival.

A Lot of Nerve

Susan Bernfield is scared of everything. She fears both the uncertainty of life and the unpredictability of the people in it. In her one-woman show, Tiny Feats of Cowardice, she explains the depth of these fears through a musical collage of thematically arranged monologues. A three-person band accompanies Bernfield onstage playing a soundtrack composed by Rachel Peters. Peters' music underscores the moments in Bernfield’s life that are barely noteworthy to us, but deeply paralyzing to her.

In her opening, Bernfield remarks that the themes have been organized in a very specific, purposeful manner. Unfortunately, the topic of the next piece tends to get lost when the transition becomes too frenzied. This is the type of play where the line between reality and fiction is easily blurred, and though Bernfield is playing a timid character, the actress herself appears to be legitimately nervous. She hurries through many of her sentences and at times can not be heard above the band.

But a one-person show could scare even the bravest of souls, and it is evident that Bernfield is proud of herself just for daring to command that spotlight

She plays a twelve-, twenty-, and thirty-year-old version of herself, switching from one personality to the next in a matter of minutes. Her demeanor does not change dramatically as she moves from child to adulthood, but the actress emotes such a youthful energy that it feels right for her character.

This piece has a fast, friendly energy and Bernfield nicely establishes an intimate, informal rapport with her audience. She does apologize beforehand for a 9-11 monologue, and is right to be uncertain. The monologue feels out of place and derails the spunky, upbeat mood that is the heart of her work.

Though Bernfield admits she is excessive in her fears, she touches on little things that have at one time or another plagued us all, from riding a horse (how does it know where it’s going?), to the finality of sealing an envelope. But Bernfield says it best in one of her final monologues: out of all her many fears, the most daunting one of all is exposing her soul on a stage.

Tiny Feats of Cowardice is part of the 2008 New York International Fringe Festival.

Keep The Change

A sleepy southern town receives an alarming wake up call the day Fatlinda Paloka moves in. As the self proclaimed matriarch of an Albanian family she has planted roots in Greenville, Georgia, opening a pizza store with food that is so addictive, the townspeople go through shaky, manic withdrawals when they do not have it. The world is changing for the town of Greenville the same way it is changing for veteran ad man Ray Crother (Brendan Wahlers) as he sits on a bench in Central Park contemplating the depths of his unhappiness.

In Marcy Wallabout’s production of The Resistible Rise of Fatlinda Paloka and Timothy Dowd’s Crother Spyglass we meet characters struggling to find acceptance, both for themselves and for the people around them. The two partnering plays have completely different stories but similar morals at their hearts. They also share something else - the same strengths and weaknesses.

The play’s strongest elements are their relatable, relevant themes that audiences can empathize with and attach themselves to. Their shared downfall is that the characters are not yet strong enough to shoulder the full weight of these themes.

Dowd’s play, Crother Spyglass, opens the evening, introducing the audience to Ray Crothers. Ray is an unhappy man and he takes that unhappiness out on Adam (Timothy McDonough) a young boy with the kind of earnest naiveté you will only find in a recent college grad.

Adam is eager to do his best in his new job as an assistant. However, his eagerness wanes when Ray tells him the job involves performing domestic tasks for their sadistic boss. Ray has allowed this boss to humiliate him on many occasions and looks forward to seeing those humiliations passed on to someone else.

Adam and another ambitious graduate student named, Christine (Erin Leigh Schmoyer) deliver a respectable message about confidence and self worth. Though they are young, they are able to see their CEO’s ridiculous demands for what they are – ridiculous. When Ray threatens them, “you gotta do what the boss says or you’ll get fired,” they look shocked at his audacity rather than afraid for their jobs.

Christine and Adam are nicely drawn supporting characters but Ray remains a question mark throughout. He is the story’s centerpiece and yet he never develops to the point where we understand why he allows himself to be subjected to this behavior. Why has it taken several years for him to see what these kids realized in an instant? Why has it taken him so long to accept that things need to change?

In the following piece, Wallabout’s The Resistible Rise of Fatlinda Paloka, the character’s need to accept change is much more overt. A wave of immigrants has washed into a small southern town led by the boisterous Fatlinda Paloka.

Fatlinda hints at a mysterious past, yet we never get more than a vague sense of what that past is. We also do not get a clear sense of who she is: a colorful character or a heartless witch? Does her family love and respect her drive to succeed or fear and hate her strong personality? And what should we, the viewer, feel towards her? Is she putting drugs in her pizza or merely displaying some superior cooking skills to bridge the cultural gap? Without knowing her true intentions it is hard to know if we should root for her success or hope for her failure.

Dowd and Wallabout’s plays feel like they have a lot to say, but they haven’t allocated their time well enough to say it. In Crother Spyglass more time is needed to get a handle on Ray Crothers’s true personality, and in The Resistible Rise of Fatlinda too much time is spent on sight gags and side stories that distract from the central plot.

The two productions have important social messages that they are trying to deliver. The themes are there and they are good themes, they just need stronger, clearer main characters to embody them.

Say What?

Stomp and Shout an’ Work it All Out is about one of the strangest cases in FBI history. The story takes place between 1964 and 1966 – the two year span that it took for the FBI to decipher the lyrics to the popular rock ‘n’ roll song "Louie Louie" by The Kingsmen. The lyrics presented a problem to government officials, who suspected that the screechy words might be obscene. Unfortunately, lead singer Jack Ely’s voice is too garbled to know for certain. If the lyrics are obscene, they would violate the Interstate Transportation of Obscene Material act, subjecting the singers, producers and everyone involved with the song’s distribution to severe fines and prosecution. Playwright James Carmichael has created a play with several interesting layers. He has captured the feeling of restless uncertainty in an era when the nation was changing and teenagers were starting to realize that their country was more concerned with censoring their music than protecting them from war. Fortunately, there are also some memorable and relatable characters that elevate this play to something more than a timeline of history.

The acting is so real that at times the story feels more like a documentary. Carmichael has a clear sense of who his characters are and what has happened in their past to make them the way they are now. The production features a large ensemble of actors: parents, political figures, federal agents, hippies, teenagers, and other brief, but pivotal roles where various actors use their brief scenes to make a tremendous impact.

One such actor is Khris Lewin, who plays Marv Schlacter, a self-righteous producer that distributed the record. Lewin is an unmovable force, impossible for the FBI to ruffle. But, despite his obnoxious level of confidence, he is the hero of the scene. The FBI investigation is ridiculous, and he is one of the few people unafraid to say so.

Brian D. Coats also has a brief but story-defining moment portraying a down-on-his-luck songwriter, Richard Berry. Coats walks with a limp and slowly buttons a faded musician’s jacket, his movements telling a story of hard times and difficult circumstances.

At the heart of Stomp and Shout an’ Work it All Out is a quieter drama, a fading bond between a hardened father, Ray (Frank Rodriguez) and his feisty teenage daughter (Katrina Foy). Rodriguez plays Ray, the father torn between his duties to the FBI to investigate this song and his responsibilities at home as a single parent. Ray shows a softer side in the dark, smoke-filled interrogation rooms, suggesting that perhaps there is an empathetic human beneath that steel façade. His partner, Chris, (Jeremy Schwartz) tends to frighten his subjects into silence, whereas Ray’s gentle, understanding tone coaxes the information out of them.

It is hard to say whether Stomp and Shout an' Work It All Out is a comedy or a drama. The same elements of the story that make it humorous also make it horrifying. It is amazing to think that during one of the most politically charged times in history the FBI spent two years investigating the origins of a rock ‘n’ roll song.

The popularity of Louie Louie is often credited to its having a catchy rhythm rather than an important message. Fortunately, the same cannot be said about Stomp and Shout an’ Work It All Out. There is certainly a juicy background, as there always is when dealing with political intrigue, but the characters touch your heart, and, in the end, we are left with much more melody.

In 1966, the FBI officially closed the investigation into Louie Louie’s lyrics, concluding that the song is too unintelligible to interpret as obscene or otherwise. So what are those garbled words Jack Ely was screaming into the microphone the day he recorded the song? The world may never know.

Mark His Words

Some people are a jack of all trades but a master of none, while others, like the cast of BeTwixt, BeTween and BeTWAIN, appear to have seamlessly mastered a dizzying assortment of trades. Take, for example, the production's musical director, Danny Ashkenasi. He is also the writer of the play's book, lyrics and music, and is featured throughout the performance as a piano player and performer. BeTwixt, BeTween and BeTWAIN also has a strong multi-talented ensemble in Aaron Piazza, Jennifer Eden, Alexander Gonzales, Rachel Green, Andrea Pinyan and Michael Satow. There seems to be no end to the number of instruments this troupe can play: piano, flute, violin, accordion, oboe, clarinet, triangle, guitar, harmonica, maracas, wooden frogs – even forks and knives.

The ensemble never loses their zest or energy, an incredible feat considering the demands placed on their abilities in this packed night of music. The evening begins with some of Mark Twain’s lighter tales: The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County, A Genuine Mexican Plug, and Blue Jays. Ashkenasi’s musical adaptation of these tales highlights Twain’s humorous eye for life’s small details and people’s unique oddities. He has chosen works with topics that one would never imagine anyone could write a story about, let alone a musical.

The mood turns slightly bleaker in The Californian’s Tale; a mysterious account of a town mad with love over a young woman suspiciously absent from the scene, and Cannibalism in the Cars, a darkly comedic song that Satow delivers with the perfect blend of hilarity and horror. Act one concludes with Life on the Mississippi, a soft, trance-like tribute to the river that has become synonymous with the name Mark Twain.

The second act is a musical adaptation of Twain’s popular travel literature, The Innocents Abroad (or The New Pilgrim’s Progress), chronicling the adventures of tourists as they trek through Europe in search of the Holy Land. Each stop on the tour is told through a series of songs, the most comical being Italy’s Michaelangelo, where the tourists have some fun with their stuffy museum guide asking if everything from Egyptian artifacts to pieces created a million years ago were created by Michaelangelo. Remember Me is another stand-out, addressing the somber moment every bright-eyed tourist encounters when their travels take them to Pompeii.

The length and complexity of each song does give the latter part of the evening a longer, heavier feel, especially given that these are not fluffy commercial jingles, but compact musical stories. But, while some musical interludes may feel weighty and unnecessary, none are uninspired. The actors appear to be having a great deal of fun with their roles. They commit to them without reserve, unafraid to twist their handsome features into ridiculous, ugly expressions.

Rachel Green, in particular, has a funny visual moment where she stands hunched over on a chair, neighing like a lame horse while simultaneously playing a violin, infusing a beautiful classical soundtrack into her own silly scene.

As the backbone of the production, Ashkenasi has an absorbing stage presence. When you have an artist this involved in their work you know you are seeing a fully realized vision that is deeply personal to that artist. There are special moments in beTwixt, beTween, and beTWAIN, outside of the story, where it is fun to watch Ashkenasi close his eyes on the sheet music and play the melody he hears in his head.

Mark Twain may have written the tales, but the collection of tunes belong to Ashkenasi and the six person ensemble of DiPiazza, Eden, Gonzales, Green, Pinyan and Satow, whose combined efforts give this production a fun and energetic life.

Tune In

Boys serenade girls on the sidewalk and girls are charmed, rather than alarmed. The handsomest man in the room will approach the strangest girl on the wall and admire her for being different. A skeptical young woman is won over by the offer of taking a ride in a surrey with fringe on top. This is not a world you live in everyday, which makes it all the more appealing to live in for the moment - a special, fleeting moment - which is the feeling, Rogers & Hammerstein’s musical revue, Grand Night For Singing conveys from its onset. Being in the audience for this play is like watching a comedy with people who laugh right before the punch line of every joke. Three familiar notes could inspire a rippling of gasps. Couples would elbow each other whispering, “here it comes,” just as a singer proceeded into a well known chorus. A Grand Night For Singing had the audience’s full attention from the moment it opened, with a spotlight shining down on Michael Harren, the musical director and pianist.

Director David Fuller creates an evening of nostalgia and enchantment with a bit of modern sass thrown in. The revue features some classic Rogers & Hammerstein songs such as, Shall We Dance, and Oh, What A Beautiful Morning and some lesser known gems that audiences may not have heard before, but will likely find themselves humming every day until they surrender to the need to hear them again. The collection of songs are performed by five talented singers: three women, Kerry Conte, Jessica Greeley and Judith Jarosz, and two men, Mishi Schueller and David Tillistrand.

There are thirty-six songs altogether, some silly, comedic numbers, others somber romantic ballads. The tunes are arranged in a nicely thematic order. A song from the musical, Flower Drum Song about two men telling their girlfriends, Don’t Marry Me, slips effortlessly into a spirited version of South Pacific’s catchy song, I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Out-a My Hair, a zesty little number about a girl emotionally detaching herself from a man who has rattled her confidence.

In an interesting director’s choice, all three female singers team up for I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Out-a My Hair, giving this old classic a delightful, modern feel. In the past, the song has been performed by one woman – the one that was hurt by the man - with a chorus of female voices echoing her sentiments in the background. But when the song is performed by three women in harmony there is more power behind the words. The three female singers blend into one, strong confident voice. The song is no longer about a single woman’s journey to self realization, it is about three feisty girlfriends getting together to commiserate and say, “who needs him?”

Each song tells its own little story and each little story makes you want to see the larger one it has been plucked from. How does the married man who takes one last enjoyable spin with his tap dancing partners adjust to his new life as a husband? Does the boy ever get together with the girl that he is too afraid to take out for a French fried potato and a T-bone steak? Does the troubled young lover ever learn exactly how one solves a problem like Maria?

A Broadway musical in a small Off Off Broadway space offers a rare treat - great songs, great performances and an affordable price. The only thing missing is the decadent scenery with the large mechanical props that rotate on and off the stage. But the five-actor ensemble of A Grand Night For Singing proves, that with beautiful voices, celebrated music and some charming, upbeat acting - who needs all the rest?

Dancing With Wolves

In Chinese Opera there is no scenery other than a table and chair. Stories are told through movement and pantomime. When a new character enters for the first time, it is customary for them to introduce themselves through a poem, and, in the end, everyone recites a valuable lesson. Director and actress Kuang-Yu Fong delivers this disclaimer before Little Red Riding Hood: The Chinese Opera begins. She also tells us that the play will feature a troupe of Beijing and Kun Opera performers who will sing in their native Mandarin but speak in English they only just learned for this show. After delivering this speech, Fong disappears backstage and returns as Little Red.

Little Red Riding Hood: The Chinese Opera, produced by Chinese Theatre Works, re-invents a traditional Western fairy tale in a refreshingly untraditional manner. It features the visual beauty of Chinese Opera with a stunning arrangement of acrobatics and conventional Chinese dance techniques. The Hunter (Hui Zhang) is a martial-arts hero, the Wolf (Zijun Mo) a swift and agile predator and Little Red (Fong), a sweet-faced, sword-wielding warrior.

The fight choreography is fast-paced and dazzling to watch, especially in the theater’s small, intimate space, which is just wide enough to accommodate the actor’s extensive range of movement. Though the floor is made of flat black boards, both Mo and Zhang use it to launch themselves into flips and jumps that reach amazing heights. Zhang manages to twirl several times in the air before landing in a threatening battle stance, his sword poised in an arc above his head.

Wolf is a menacing creature with wide, scowling eyes and a pale white face streaked with thick black stripes. There is a glob of red that starts from his lips and spreads down his chin, giving the impression that he has forgotten to wipe his mouth after his last meal. Upon hearing that Wolf is stalking the roads, Hunter, who has always been afraid of wolves, realizes that now is the time to conquer his fear.

In the meantime, Wolf has set his hungry eyes on Little Red, who skips innocently along the path to her Grandmother’s (Ying Zhang) house. Her Mother (Fanying Meng) has dressed her in a long red cape with flower trim and equipped her with a red-tasseled sword for protection. Referring to Little Red as his “juicy dumpling” Wolf pretends to be a lost and loyal dog to win the girl’s trust. He tricks her into leaving the road to pick flowers, hoping to find an opportunity to eat her in the weeds.

Unfortunately for Wolf, Little Red gives new meaning to the term “fast food.” Every time he is about to pounce on her crouching figure, she springs to her feet in excitement, the tip of her sword accidentally grazing his throat. Wolf decides it will be easier to catch this active young girl unawares at her Grandmother’s house.

With Grandma in peril, Little Red walking naively into a trap, the Hunter prowling the vicinity with his sword, and Wolf bursting in to announce, “I just drop by for dinner,” the scene is set for a climatic confrontation. Mo and Zhang are so dynamic in their own moments that it is easy to imagine the level of spectacular action we will see when their paths cross for this final fight. Both performers deliver on the high expectation.

By the play's end, Hunter learns to conquer his fear, Wolf learns not to eat little girls who are handy with swords, Grandmother learns that it is always good to have a broomstick handy, and Little Red advises us that “A sword means nothing if a person cannot hear a lie from a truth,” wisely adding, “Or tell the difference between a dog and a wolf.”

Love Child

Rachel looks appalled from the moment she opens the door to Wanda’s cramped Louisiana trailer. She is appalled that the trailer is sweltering, appalled that Wanda’s idea of lunch is a slice of American cheese on white bread, but most of all, appalled that the precious baby she hopes to one day call her daughter is in this trailer park woman’s stomach. The stage is set for Jane Anderson’s The Baby Dance, a gripping and heartrending drama that examines the rollercoaster experience of an open adoption and the emotional havoc it wreaks on everyone involved.

There is a lot of dancing in this story. Wanda (Suzie Cho) and her husband, Al (James Michael Farrell) dance around the issue that after four kids they are too poor to support a fifth. Film studio executives Rachel (Maria Riboli) and Richard (John Stanisci) dance around the uncomfortable fact that Al is taking advantage of their situation, especially when he tries to pass off a new Corvette as one of the pre-natal expenses they are obligated to pay.

But at the heart of the story is a dance between two women: Wanda and Rachel, one who always wanted a baby and the other who has more than she ever wanted. Rachel is jittery and appropriately horrified by the conditions her future baby is subjected to.

Riboli is fully believable as a seemingly together woman quickly unraveling in a world far outside her comfort zone. When Wanda offers Rachel a seat at her kitchen table, she slides into it with all the apprehension of easing into an electric chair, fingering her necklace, fanning her face, and wondering whether to cross or uncross her arms.

Wanda’s guard is also up. She has a gracious smile but sharp, distrusting eyes, as if daring Rachel to judge her. Having already raised four children it is awkward for her to have someone looking at the bulge in her belly as if it were a puppy in a window she can’t wait to take home.

Cho and Riboli have a natural chemistry with each other. They fill up the stage with their personalities, drawing you into their world. Watching them, you can feel the scorching sun, taste the cheap, bland food and imagine the neighbor’s wild dogs, which can be heard yapping in the distance.

The Baby Dance is not a sappy, sweet story about the love of a baby changing a person’s life. There are no neat little packages and no promise of a happy ending, even if everything does go as planned. Al taints the entire situation by continuing to use the baby as a bargaining chip and insinuating that he won’t sign away his parental rights until he gets everything he asks for. Richard isn’t sure he wants a baby from such a poor, uneducated family, and at times considers calling the whole thing off just to get these people out of his life.

Anderson’s The Baby Dance is a vivid slice of life, one that shows the complexity of the feelings involved in both adopting a baby and giving one up. The day Wanda goes into labor, harsh words are exchanged, tempers fly, and a happy occasion is marred by everyone’s personal feelings for each other. Somewhere in this mess is an innocent baby coming into a world full of hardship and conflict.

The richer couple spends most of the play being appalled at the poorer one, the poorer couple spends their time distrusting and acting cold towards the richer one, but by the production’s emotionally draining end everyone steps back to look at the situation honestly, and with new eyes. They seem to realize only after it is all over that the one person they are really each appalled with is themself.

Boo

There are many different ways to scare people: a clap of thunder when you least expect it, flashing strobe lights that disorient your vision, or a single flickering bulb in a dimly lit room threatening to plunge you into darkness. The Exchange’s fright fest of short plays titled, The Scariest, utilizes all of these elements to make you jump and squirm uncomfortably in your seat. Bare bulbs hang from the ceiling; plastic drapings serve as walls and at the end of the long wooden stage stands an ominous red door.

Unfortunately, the goose bumps end here. For a series of pieces titled The Scariest, the stories themselves are not really scary. They are, however, sinister, creepy and not for the faint of heart.

In Gary Sunshine’s The Names of Foods, a man describes burning his infant daughter to death. Dan Dietz’s Lobster Boy asks us to imagine the horror of a young boy as he realizes that he has killed the one person in his life he loved the most. In Kristin Newbom’s Revelations, two children’s jackets are pulled from a box, both of them covered with blood and bullet holes.

These stories and images are certainly dark and horrific, but they tap more into the raw human suffering you hear on the news than the gleefully spine-tingling stories you tell around a campfire.

The idea to produce The Scariest came about when The Exchange commissioned several young playwrights to write short horror stories inspired by the work of classic writers Hans Christian Anderson, WW Jacobs, Nathanial Hawthorne and the Book Of Revelation. But you do not need to know these writers’ works to enjoy or understand the adaptations depicted here. In fact, you are better off not reading the originals since The Exchange’s writers put their own unique spins on the stories.

Nathanial Hawthorne’s Rappaccini’s Daughter, rewritten by Laura Schellhardt as The Apothecary’s Daughter, feels the most in line with the evening of creeps and chills that the title promises to serve. It has just the right mix of spine-tingling terror and campfire humor. The story revolves around a lonely apothecary’s daughter (Mandy Siegfried) whose constant exposure to poisonous plants has turned her own skin so toxic that she can kill a fly by blowing on it.

Another fun piece is Liz Duffy Adams' The Uses Of Fear, a sensory piece that toys with your mind. A disembodied voice delivers the entire monologue in the dark, describing a series of scenarios designed to get your paranoia flowing.

The final piece, Revelations, has a lackluster beginning - a writer (Siegfried) is writing about not being able to write - but later picks up as different characters start jumping into her body to help her out. The characters quickly take over, forcing the writer to pull a disturbing story out of the repressed section of her mind. Finally, a “Cleaner” (Joaquin Torres) has to be called in to get all the characters out, an act that leaves the writer feeling renewed and refreshed.

The Cleaner has a surprisingly comical entrance that is worth withholding for the visual delight it brings. A warm glow fills the room as he unites the characters and audience in song, giving everyone the first uplifting moment they have had all night. It feels as if this man is not only here for the characters, but for the viewer as well. After this evening of macabre works and distressing images you need someone to clear out the shadows and bring in a much needed ray of light.

Shel Shocked

Throughout his life, Shel Silverstein has been able to effortlessly slide between genres, making a name for himself as both a Playboy cartoonist and popular children’s author (The Giving Tree and Where The Sidewalk Ends are his most famous works). He is also a songwriter, author of the Johnny Cash hit, Boy Named Sue, which he once performed alongside Cash. His play, Shel’s Shorts is so named because it contains a string of fourteen short plays written with hilarious wit and vulgarity for the enjoyment of his more mature audiences. Project: Theater fully embraces this hilarity in their production of Shel’s Shorts. They had to. The material is too difficult to survive a half-hearted effort. There are many scene changes, a large ensemble of actor’s and long difficult monologues about strange and ridiculous topics. Silverstein’s dialogue is hard enough to wrap your mind around, let alone your tongue. Actress, Amanda Byron, in particular, seamlessly delivers an unbelievably challenging monologue in her skit, Gone To Take A… that seems to go on forever while twisting and turning in surprising new directions. Throughout the course of the play it was not uncommon to hear the audience applaud both the cleverness of a monologue and the actor’s ability to recite it.

The fun is not only in the words. It is also enjoyable to observe the many different tricks that resourceful scenic designers J.J Bernard and Francois Portier used to create fourteen different sets in a tight, limited space. The most creative invention of all is a bathtub where styrofoam peanuts piled on top of a bathing girl creates the illusion of a bubble bath.

There is not a clear unifying factor tying all fourteen plays together, though the usage of signs is apparent in all but three pieces; Dreamers, Hangnail, and Garbage Bags. Signs, in this collection of plays, stand for rules that some unknown entity sets and then applies to the world, apparently for the world’s own good. The side walls of the theatre reinforce this theme, displaying a collection of small signs from the standard “One Way,” “Keep Left” to the less traditional, “No Shirt, No Service,” and “Real Men Wanted.”

The collection of stories urge us to question a sign before blindly obeying it, even if it turns out that the sign is right after all. For example, a sign reading Do Not Feed The Animal, is most likely referring to a dangerous creature whose mouth you do not want your fingers near. On the other hand, a sign reading Duck, could mean look out above for a low awning, or look out below for a biting bird. Silverstein’s logic would have you believe that the sign only refers to the bird. A sign, he argues, should only tell you something that you can not see for yourself.

In another skit, two friends stare indignantly at an Abandon All Hope sign, yelling, “Just because you tell me to abandon all hope doesn’t mean I’m going to!” Even a sign as well meaning as No Dogs Allowed is challenged by a woman so adamant on having her dog by her side that she covers him in a towel and insists he is a Ringling Brothers Circus performer that goes by the name, “Jojo the Dog-Faced Man.”

Needless to say, Shel’s Shorts is the kind of play that comes with a built-in audience. Silverstein made a long career out of thrilling children with his whimsical stories and adults with plays that are so raunchy the playbill comes with a list of bold-faced warnings. Fortunately, in this off the wall recreation of Shel's work, Project: Theater did more than just stay true to the beloved author’s words; they also stayed true to his spirit.

Assistant Living

If the world gave out awards for multi tasking Angela Madden would take home a blue ribbon. She is a writer, director, performer, producer; co-founder of Phoenix Theatre Ensemble and one of their Board Members. But before she was any of these things she was an assistant, a secretary, and in her own words, a “servant”, to rich C.E.O’s across the nation. Angela Madden’s one woman show, C.E.O and Cinderella, has more than a hint of autobiographical truth to it. Both the actress and character are named Angela, they both have a theatrical background and both have worked in high powered corporations before devoting themselves to theatre.

Angela started her career as a modern day Cinderella, performing menial tasks for her boss while eagerly awaiting her own invitation to one of his balls. In the meantime, she is there to serve his dinner. “Give it to the peasants,” her first boss would say, referring to trays of uneaten salmon and tarts that she carried back to the kitchen. At first Angela was delighted with the opportunity to binge on her rich boss’s fancy leftovers. But after four years of carrying trays she grew tired of being a peasant.

How long will it take for Angela to get invited to the ball? When will her Prince Charming come? In real life these questions have less to do with fairy tale endings and more to do with a young woman’s quest for self esteem.

“Make your own ball,” the actress says now, in an interview with United Stages that is featured in the playbill; though it took her years to muster up the ability to follow her own advice.

Angela comes from a very dark past. Her childhood was shattered at an early age, her innocence snatched at the hands of a deviant stepfather. No matter how hard Angela tries to run away from her past she still feels bound to it. At one point she realizes that she dreads walking to work to face her boss the same way she once dreaded coming home from school to face her stepfather.

Angela Madden’s story is one of resilience. She finds ways to carry on, to shed her hurt and make right what someone else made wrong. Standing alone with only a chair and table for props, Angela has very little to hide behind as she divulges disturbing details about her life. Her raw honesty makes the story especially compelling.

Like Cinderella, she spends her days waiting for someone else to whisk her away from her life, hoping a boss will fall in love with her or at least see her as an extended member of his family. Through her adventures in corporate life to her confrontations with her family we see that Angela has not experienced much to give her faith in humanity, and yet she finds beauty in the theater.

Slipping into another character proves to be Angela’s greatest escape. She can’t make a living acting but she never gives it up, even when her employers become more demanding of her time. Her talent is something the C.E.O’s can not take away from her. It is a part of her life that remains separate and untouched from the bad.

There is much more to her one-woman show than simple plot and narrative. Angela has a way of delivering her monologues that makes you feel as if you are watching something very personal. She bares her soul so fully and trustingly that you can’t help but pull yourself out of the story to admire how far the real person has come.

Angela has scaled huge obstacles to turn her childhood dreams of stage stardom into a reality. And though it clearly was not fun or fulfilling at the time; it does seem that managing millions of small details, working long, hectic hours and patiently dealing with demanding and eccentric C.E.O’s has prepared her well for a career in the theatre.