Growing Up

A coming-of-age tale often features a defining moment in an adolescent's life that crushes his or her innocence, catapulting the youth into the cruel world of adulthood. Co-written by Nat Bennett and the play's monologist, Sam Rosen, and currently playing at the SoHo Playhouse, Ham Lake is in that genre but with a twist. Rather than focus on an adolescent, Rosen portrays a 22-year-old who is driven to self-examination after a cruel trick by his ex-girlfriend leaves him freezing and stranded in a Minnesota field at Ham Lake. Though this character seems a little old to realize the fun and games of childhood are over, Rosen gives a convincing and very charismatic portrayal of a twenty-something male who has maintained his childlike naïveté a little longer than most people.

Whether Rosen's monologue is autobiographical or pure fiction is never revealed. It is billed as being "so outrageous that it must be true" when it is not outrageous at all but rather completely believable within its context. Rosen's character (never named) is exactly the kind of man who would be attracted to the girl and visa versa. The explosive fights in their relationship seem completely natural given the collision course they are on.

Rosen delivers the monologue with a perfect comic tone and timing. His energy level is contagious, and his childlike enthusiasm is so captivating that you almost hope the tragically immature character he portrays does not grow up into a boring, jaded adulthood. But between the laughs are moments of poignancy, times when Ham Lake feels more like an in-depth character study than a riotous monologue.

The girlfriend, Tanya, and Rosen's character lead sad, empty lives with broken homes, boring jobs, and no real aspirations to change their lot in life. To compensate for their humdrum existence, they have loud, raucous fun when they are together, often ending a night of verbal sparring with passionate sex when it looks as if one may dump the other.

But the laughs wane and then cease altogether when hard facts about the pair's background are revealed. The boy's mother abandoned him when he was a child. His father raised him the best he could, relating to his two sons on a buddy level with camping trips and dirty jokes. Tanya has a 4-year-old daughter, an abusive ex-boyfriend, and a night job serving drinks in a strip club. With their breadth of problems, they each need someone strong to lean on. Leaning on each other only causes them both to collapse.

Adding to the problems is the boy's father. Though he loves his sons, he is unable to relate to them as a parent or role model. He does not even seem aware of the abusive relationship that has defined his son's life until the day he calls from Ham Lake asking for a ride home. When the father shows up in his car, the boy finally tells him everything that has been going on. But it is all ignored by the father, except when he reveals he was once in a similarly abusive relationship. Frustration outweighs humor in this moment, when the opportunity to break a destructive family cycle is lost, possibly forever.

As entertaining as Rosen is in his portrayal of a childish twenty-something, there is no masking with laughs the circumstances that have made him this way. In fact, when the older brother finally tells Rosen's character that he needs to grow up, the younger brother lingers over the words as if hearing them for the first time.

Ham Lake does not conclude neatly with promises of a brighter future and better days ahead. The ending feels heavy, making things seem a little more bleak than when the story began. One can only hope that one day something or someone will come along and push the young man in Rosen's monologue forward before his future becomes as cold and empty as a field at Ham Lake.

Darkness Falls

One fateful day, a 12-year-old girl left her Bronx apartment to buy a notebook at the store. When she found that she did not have enough money, her third-floor neighbor suggested that she call her mother from her apartment. Naïvely, the girl obliged, and soon found herself knocked out and tied to a bed in the boiler room of their building. Desi Moreno-Penson's terrifying play Devil Land, at Urban Stages, is a reimagining of this real-life incident with a supernatural twist. A green monster that the kidnapped girl, Destiny (Paula Ehrenberg), refers to as the Grinch watches over her from within the rusty yellow boiler, scratching at the metal whenever it appears her captors, Americo (Miguel Sierra) and Beatriz (playwright Desi Moreno-Penson), might harm her.

The stage is set to confine both the characters and audience in an uncomfortably small, inescapable space. The boiler room is dark and dreary, with boards covering the windows, a coiled chain in the corner, and a neatly made, flat gray cot. Before the play starts, we hear ominous music that foreshadows doom with every heavy note.

There is an underlying symbolism in everything that happens in Devil's Land, which can help ease the tension if you focus more on that than the reality of the situation. Destiny is more than just a pigtailed girl in peril; she has clairvoyant powers passed down to her from her Taíno ancestors. The Taínos were Indians who inhabitated the Greater Antilles and the Bahamas, and their culture was nearly destroyed under Spanish colonization during the 16th century. Destiny embraces the spirituality that comes with being a member of the clan, never allowing her captors to erode her faith.

Her character represents the enslaved Taínos, who were like innocent children in their trusting of the world and others in it. In this respect, Americo and Beatriz personify those who tortured the Taínos in a violent attempt to change their beliefs. When Destiny asserts that her own spirit cannot be broken, Beatriz decides to kill what she can't convert. The climax involves an internal struggle on Americo's part to go along with this, while Beatriz spirals into a hysterical state, eagerly listing all the gruesome ways she would like to kill the little girl while she lies helplessly on the bed, drugged into a deep sleep.

The three characters who hold this piece together are terrific actors. Sierra has a great moment where he shifts from his realistic portrayal of a man beaten down by life into a fantastical character who moves and talks quite differently. Moreno-Penson is spine-chilling as a mentally unstable, maniacally religious woman capable of snapping at any given moment. And Ehrenberg, an adult actress, is fully convincing as a wide-eyed 12-year-old struggling to make sense of her horrific situation while maintaining a sense of mystery about whether her ability to converse with ghosts and the Grinch is real or a drug-induced delusion.

But at times Devil Land tends to go beyond scary and into the realm of the nightmarishly disturbing. It is hard to find comfort in the fact that a protective green monster is watching over Destiny when we see her chained to the bed, fighting off sexual advances from Americo and physically harmed by Beatriz in a violent scene that ends with a quick fade to black with the lingering sound of a child's terrorized scream.

However, for adults who enjoy a good hair-raising, spine-tingling tale, the technical elements of Devil Land are perfectly crafted, especially the flashes of yellow light and booming thunder that punctuate the story's most frightening moments seconds before we anticipate them happening. With its finely tuned acting, tightly plotted story, and shocking special effect in its final moments, Devil Land has all the ingredients for a petrifying thriller.

The Price of Beans

Life is hard for Jack, an aspiring young artist living on a Brooklyn farm with a mother who insists he stop painting cows and get a real job. To pay the rent, he is sent out to sell the family cow, Guernsey, but when he returns with only a handful of beans to show for the sale, his mother cries in anguish over her naïve, useless son. What she does not realize is that the beans are magic, and in Karl Greenberg and Dave Hill's Jack & the Beanstalk, a contemporary rendition of the classic tale, they grow into a soaring beanstalk that will lead them both into a riotous, rags-to-riches adventure. Jack's mother (Noreen Foster) is not a typical farmhand. She struts onstage in a leopard skin coat, waving a patent leather purse at Jack (Matt Mager) and bemoaning his laziness. She is not alone in her contempt. Guernsey (Drew Honeywell) is also fed up, scoffing at a sleazy bean salesman (Matthew Gandolfo) who promises to show Jack things he has never seen before: "He's never seen money before. Why don't you show him that?"

Honeywell, who plays multiple silly roles in this production, steals scenes adorably in every one. As Guernsey, she is a sassy tap-dancing cow dressed in a black-and-white spotted suit, and as the Goose who lays golden eggs, she looks childishly endearing in a puffy white dress with orange slippers. But as a melodious golden harp, she is seductive and enchanting, especially to the Giant (Ian Sweeney), who gazes fondly upon her in his castle made of clouds.

But far beneath the clouds Jack and his mother have lost their farm. While they spend the night sleeping outside of their repossessed home, the beanstalk grows, shown as a rising shadow behind a screen that extends to the ceiling. When they awake in the morning to find it, Jack is far more impressed than his mother, who regards it as nothing more than a lifetime supply of salad. She chastises Jack for climbing it, telling him only to "be careful" after he has disappeared into the sky.

Hungry, tired, and desperate for an easy way to pay the rent, Jack stumbles into the Giant's castle, where he meets a hyperactive Servant (Gandolfo), a golden Goose, and an angry Giant demanding the blood of an Englishman. Fortunately for Jack, the Servant is desperately trying to establish a vegan household and manages to sneak him out unscathed, not realizing he has kidnapped the Goose.

The next several scenes show the corruption that occurs when one is blessed with an endless supply of golden eggs. Jack's mother finally has the material possessions she craved when they were poor, whereas an Italian-suit-wearing Jack can now support himself without having to lift a finger. And yet, they do not seem entirely convinced their lives are any better than before.

Though this play is filled with fantastical characters, they inhabit an ordinary world with everyday demands that mix cleverly with their fairy-tale conflicts. Jack climbs a beanstalk to solve his financial woes, reclaim the farm, and pay the rent, while the Giant struggles with the Atkins diet and his Servant's tasteless tofu to relieve the stomach pains he endures from eating raw meat. Still, the real obstacles here are not health and finances but the characters' individual struggles to come to terms with their own self-worth.

These conflicts will be most appreciated by teens like Jack, who are often looking to find their place in the world, and adults like the Giant and Jack's mother, who understand the miseries of unpaid rent and indigestion. But Greenberg and Hall compensate by delivering well-aimed jokes exclusively for their younger audience members, such as having the Servant distract the Giant by telling him to change his diaper, which got huge laughs from the young ones.

And so with Manhattan Children's Theater's final play of the 2005-2006 season, the company closes in the same spirit it began—catering to children and adults alike with funny, mature story lines and complex characters who exist as real, relatable people in their whimsical worlds of make-believe.

Saving Grace

We see them in malls and hospitals, on street corners, and mostly on the news, waving their fists at the latest injustice: religious fanatics, lecturing from their pedestals, hoping to sway anyone and everyone they pass to adopt their way of thinking. In Gip Hoppe's comic and heartrending drama, Mercy on the Doorstep, two such fanatics, a rigid pastor, Mark (Mark Rosenthal), and his newly born-again wife, Rena (Jenn Harris), move into the home of Rena's feisty, alcoholic stepmother, Corrine (Laura Esterman). Their intention is to save her soul, but they soon learn that leading a foulmouthed, iron-willed woman to God is by no means an easy task. The play opens in Corrine's living room, which soon becomes Rena and Mark's living room when it is revealed that her late husband left everything to his daughter and son-in-law in return for their assistance in leading him to Jesus. Essentially, this leaves Corrine homeless, but if she gives up her sinful ways and embraces Mark's preachings, they will allow her to continue living in the home. She, of course, balks at the idea, screaming profanities, waving an empty liquor bottle, baiting Mark with insults, and later telling Rena, "My bull---t meter went into red the minute he walked in here."

Surprisingly, given Corrine's dazed condition, that meter is correct. Mark has too many inner demons to be the good Christian man he badly wants to be. Rosenthal has this character down so well that a single glare can hold the same weight as a lengthy monologue. The females exchange loud, cutting words when they are upset, but Rosenthal sits silently in a chair with anger practically steaming from his ears.

Rena is the most sympathetic member of the household, loved by both Mark and Corrine for the same traits they hate in each other. Mark admires her obedience and unconditional loyalty as a wife and Christian, whereas Corrine longs for Rena's wild side. Both are so busy accusing the other of offending Rena the Pious Wife or Rena the Repressed Rebel that neither can see her for who she is: a compassionate, insightful woman capable of loving both her husband and stepmother with the same open heart.

Rena has had bad luck in life: two parents who seemed more intent on partying than raising her, and whom we sense even encouraged her self-destructive behavior. Marrying Mark and embracing Jesus changed her life but not her personality. We see remnants of the old Rena, especially in a funny and telling scene where she hears the seductive Marcy Playground song "Sex and Candy" on the radio and starts innocently dusting to its tempo. After a quick look around to ensure no one is watching, she turns up the volume and throws herself into it, dancing on the table, straddling the banister, and unabashedly indulging in the very behavior she and Mark are trying to beat out of Corrine.

Corrine and Mark's fights often feel like a tug of war over Rena, who watches them try so hard to save each other's souls that they wind up destroying their own. Their fights illustrate the need for conversion, though not necessarily in a religious sense. Everyone needs to change, including Corrine, whom Rena still wants to lead to God not because she fears Corrine is headed for eternal damnation but because she wants to see her stepmother embrace something other than a bottle.

With Mercy on the Doorstep Hoppe has created three very nuanced and believable characters whom audiences can easily invest their emotions in. After seeing their pain and learning about their troubled pasts, we want them to find happiness. Despite their bickering and unwavering confidence in their own beliefs, Corrine, Mark, and Rena are all lost souls who desperately need to be saved, not by religion but by each other.

Good Housekeeping

In 1913, English novelist Rebecca West expressed frustration over being labeled a feminist, saying, "I myself have never been able to find out precisely what feminism is: I only know that people call me a feminist whenever I express sentiments that differentiate me from a doormat." Although women's rights have come a long way since West's time, Doris Baizley's thought-provoking play Mrs. California provides a potent reminder of where they were in 1955, after millions of men, back home from fighting overseas, had forced millions of women out of the work force and back into their homes.

Mrs. California opens in a kitchen, though it is an unusual one equipped with four stoves, refrigerators, counters, and tables that face out into the audience. Soon we learn it is not a kitchen at all but a television studio in the process of filming a contest that pits four Californian housewives against one another to compete for the title of Best Homemaker.

Mrs. San Francisco (Kristen Vaughan) is a beautiful, composed woman who speaks in soft, muted tones and demonstrates a flare for creating artistic meals. Mrs. San Bernardino (India Myone McDonald) is a ruthless competitor who often sneaks on the set at night to sample the other contestants' desserts with her fingers. Mrs. Modesto (Matilda Downey) is adorably different, with thick-rimmed glasses and unruly curly hair. Unlike the others, her smiles never look forced.

The fourth contestant is Dot (Heather E. Cunningham), a former member of WAVES (Women Accepted for Volunteer Emergency Services) who was sharp enough to instantly decode an enemy message that helped save an entire naval convoy from destruction. Dot's best friend and neighbor, Babs (Elizabeth Burke), a talented electrician who once wired fighter jets, accompanies her to the homemaker competition, hoping to reawaken the ambitious, feisty girl she knew during wartime.

To Babs's surprise and disappointment, Dot, like the other contestants, has completely embraced her role as homemaker. She loves setting the table, baking chocolate cake, ironing her husband's shirts, and sewing creative apron patterns. Unfortunately, these activities are not as fun to watch onstage and tend to slow the story's pace when performed in long sequences set to classical music. But they are effective when presented in contrast to the moments where routine is broken and life shines through.

The play is strongest when we catch a glimpse of the complex personalities that lie beneath the judge-charming caricatures these women have created for themselves. Cunningham believably fleshes out Dot's seemingly mindless character through the slow revealing of hidden facets you wouldn't have guessed she possessed. A climactic speech about her "proudest moment" is stirring and strong, especially in the stunned moment when she trembles with the realization that her mother, aunts, and grandmother fought for equality, and here she stands, a competent woman who saved hundreds of soldiers' lives, struggling to earn respect by ironing a shirt. Within her lies a fiery, determined spirit that has been too easily and thoroughly suppressed.

It should be noted that Mrs. California is not denouncing housewives or discouraging marriage and child rearing. In fact, the play's other powerful monologue is spoken by the contest's winner, whose genuine love for her home and family is portrayed as commendable.

While the ideas in this play are focused on the women, the moral is universal: individuals need to look inside themselves the way Dot has, to find who they are outside of the imposed expectations of society and the media. The molds may have changed, but whether young women are encouraged to become happy homemakers, American Idols, or skinny supermodels, it is important to see plays like Mrs. California. They remind us of where we've been, so that in the future we will know for certain where we do not want to go.

Fractured Fairy Tale

Most girls celebrate their 16th birthday with elaborate parties in expensive restaurants with a few hundred of their closest friends. Others, like Princess in Manhattan Children's Theater's production of Last of the Dragons, get tied to a rock, kidnapped by a dragon, and rescued by a daring prince. Written by Kristin Walter and adapted to the stage by Edith Nesbit, this whimsical tale of a young woman's rite of passage breaks storybook conventions to give us a refreshingly unique spin on arranged royal marriage, menacing dragons, and the seemingly helpless young women they prey on. Lisanne Marie plays the story's teenage heroine, Princess, with a charming mix of bubbly energy and surly tomboy competence. She is a likably spunky young girl who does everything from weightlifting to sword thrusts in preparation for her 16th-birthday sacrifice. Her overly doting Nurse (Chelsea Palano) tucks her into bed, attempting to lull her to sleep with a sock-puppet re-enactment of a dragon slaying. Princess rolls her eyes, clearly tired of hearing members of the castle discuss her possible doom with such enthusiasm. Even her father, the King (Chris Alonzo), is eagerly looking forward to the event.

To put his daughter's mind at ease, he recalls the day he slayed a dragon, slashing at its throat while the humongous beast threatened to overcome him. Princess asks, "Where was Mommy?" Shrugging, the King replies, "She was in the cave crying and wailing, of course." No one in the castle seems worried that Princess will not be saved by the Prince, except for, unfortunately, the Prince (David Demato).

Shadowed by a bumbling Valet (B.J. Thorne), he stumbles onstage in a black, ribbed shirt and stiff beige pants as if ready for a day of tennis and tea parties. Frantically studying a collection of books ranging in titles from Dragon Slaying for Dummies to Men Who Slay Dragons and the Women Who Love Them, he seems grossly unprepared for the fateful battle that awaits him.

Fortunately, Princess is handy with a sword, and in a cute twist of fate, she and the scholarly Prince discover that opposites attract. He is a genuinely nice, albeit nerdy, guy who does not mind marrying a girl who can snap him like a twig. Princess, in turn, appreciates his book smarts and amusing anecdotes about the stars. She suggests that after the townspeople close their shutters and lock their doors, he should untie her from the rock, sneak her a sword, and stand by her side while they fight the dragon together.

In a play where none of the characters are what they are expected to be, it is only fitting for the dragon (Alex Rasovar) to emerge from his cave a disheveled-looking creature in green stockings and a baggy coat adorned with colored handkerchiefs and ribbons. He does not wish to fight to the death; he merely wants to be left alone. His deep sadness is revealed in the way his face lights up when Princess tenderly refers to him as "dear." He is listless and lonely because everyone he's ever known has been slain by a prince, making him the last of the dragons.

Like any fairy tale, The Last of the Dragons contains the obligatory morals and lessons for children, but this production's greatest and most utilized strength is its sophisticated sense of humor. The story successfully executes every aspect of comedy, from visual to physical, and it's best displayed by the wisecracking King, perfectly timed jokes, and biting sarcasm. The actors have a strong, believable chemistry, especially the Nurse and Valet, who are hilarious in their portrayal of goofball sidekicks trying to pretend they do not have a life outside of their duties to Princess and the Prince, though their lovelorn looks and makeup-smeared faces would suggest otherwise.

This is a fitting fairy tale for modern times, with a strong heroine who fights her own battles, a kind prince who earns respect without having to fight for it, and a lonely dragon that would rather have a human friend than feast. The latter is sure to come as a great relief for all the young women in the village, who can now plan their 16th-birthday parties without the added worry of being eaten.

West Meets East

There have been many misconceptions about geisha, the most common being that they are a fancy Japanese version of prostitutes. Fortunately, more is now known about these impeccably groomed women, who are, in fact, "professional party guests." In Randall David Cook's compelling and jolting drama, Sake With the Haiku Geisha, playing at the Perry Street Theater, we meet a geisha (Angela Lin) who only speaks in haiku, thus earning the name Haiku Geisha. She spends most of the play nearly hidden by the set's shimmering cloth walls, silently listening to the comedic, touching, and tragic stories of three tourists.

Midway through the play, the set self-destructs, noisily dropping its metal bars to the floor, where they land in a heap of fallen curtains. On an eerily bare stage lit only by an orange light, the Haiku Geisha springs to life. She moves with power and conviction, performing a graceful dance that ends as suddenly as it begins. Facing the audience, she hunches her shoulders, sheds her robe, and stands before us in a starched white shirt and stiff black business skirt. It is here that her heartrending story begins.

However, before we reach this climactic moment where the mysterious geisha boldly bares her soul, we watch her persuade three seemingly perky tourists to slowly reveal theirs. They are members of a "worldwide gathering of teachers" who have traveled to Japan to share their culture with the students, though their host suspects the teachers' praise of his country is insincere. He solicits the aid of the Haiku Geisha to uncover the truth.

An Englishwoman named Charlotte (Emma Bowers) complains that she constantly felt illiterate, everyone criticized her noisy shoes, and all the tea was "green like sewage." A homosexual man from America named Parker (Jeremy Hollingworth) feels alienated by the lack of gay men and the ridicule he endured for being one. The third tourist, a Canadian woman named Brianna (Fiona Gallagher), is appalled at the sight of students saluting a Hitler float. She hits a sensitive nerve, taunting, "How would you like it if I made a float of an atomic bomb?"

With the mention of "atomic bomb," the play's tone instantly changes, marked by the set's collapse, which ends the tourists' stories and launches into a Japanese perspective.

There is a chilling scene between a father (Ikuma Isaac) and a son, Ichihiro Hashimoto (David Shih), where Hashimoto refuses to speak English. Furious at his disobedience, Father describes to him the losses their family suffered when the atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki in 1945. He orders the family to speak English because it is vital that they understand the language of the country that did this. He stresses the need to not only "connect" with potential enemies but to "communicate" with them, in the hopes of preventing such a horrific event from ever occurring again.

When Brianna learns that the students who built the Hitler float did not know about the Holocaust and only admire Hitler as a good speaker, she screams that it is wrong to honor someone without acknowledging the destruction his leadership has caused. The Japanese men remain stony-faced through her scolding, perhaps because they are thinking the same about America's attitude toward Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

Everyone in this play is searching for understanding, whether it is tourists struggling to make sense of new words, students in Japan trying to comprehend ours, or broken families unable to grasp the concept of peace with a country responsible for the death of their loved ones. The Haiku Geisha is the only character to lay her past on the table and then embrace it as part of herself, for better or worse. Her story overcomes the language barrier others have succumbed to, enabling this play to succeed on a level where its characters could not. Sake With the Haiku Geisha not only connects with its audience; it communicates.

Mother Dearest

"The world is getting more brutish," trophy wife Gloria Temple tells her estranged daughter, Marcie. "And that makes art even more important." Temple's reasons for saying this are selfish: she wants her daughter to abandon her happy bohemian life in New Mexico to take over the family's New York business, a foundation for the performing arts. But her quote feels resonant outside its context, especially in regards to this production of December Fools, playing at the Abingdon Theater Company. Perhaps playwright Sherman Yellen has expressed his own feelings in this dialogue, for this funny, touching and inspiring story of a mother and daughter coming to terms with their past is a perfect illustration of why art is important.

Temple, played by the distinguished stage veteran Elizabeth Shepherd, is the vivacious, driving force in this story. Though she is a sick, elderly woman dependent on her trusted housekeeper, Mrs. Hogan (Celia Howard), to help her get around, she carries herself with a stunning grace that can come only from one who has lived an upper-crust lifestyle. There is a spark in her eyes and a fire to her personality that give us a glimpse of the kind of lady she must have been many years ago when she married a philandering Broadway composer.

Her wayward daughter Marcie (Arleigh Richards) has inherited her inner fire, if nothing else. The rift between them is visually obvious. Gloria is a graceful, refined woman often clad in furs and silk shawls. Marcie stumbles around in jeans and a sweater, hardly what one would expect from the privileged daughter of a celebrated Broadway composer and his elegant wife.

But despite their image as a prosperous Broadway legend's picture-perfect family, neither Gloria nor Marcie has led a happy life. Both women were wronged by the men they loved, betrayed by those they trusted, and hurt by the tragic, senseless loss of a family member. Marcie has no hesitations in vocalizing her disgust with the world around her, but Gloria can express her feelings only by writing letters she never plans to send.

Her nonconfrontational approach comes back to haunt her the day Marcie accidentally stumbles upon her collection of indictments against family, friends, and acquaintances. One letter hits particularly close to home, as it involves a hurtful secret her mother has lied about for years. Determined to right this injustice, Marcie mails the letters.

When December Fools opens, it appears the main conflict will be Gloria's efforts to keep her daughter in New York to run the family business, but as the play unfolds, it is clear there is much more at stake. Gloria and Marcie are two divided souls trying to find a common ground, not only because they are family but also because they need each other. When they face off, they are evenly matched, as only a mother and daughter can be. Their verbal battles are laced with telling one-liners and weighty revelations, but in the end there can be no winner. Both women carry a heavy amount of baggage and will never be fully relieved of the burden.

Their history feels deeply rooted and real. Shepherd and Richards are thoroughly convincing in their roles, especially in the climactic final fight where stifled emotions bubbling beneath the play's surface explode in a flurry of hurtful accusations. The conclusion spares us a neat resolution. The characters continue on, shouldering their burdens and harboring their resentment, yet acknowledging that in the end none of this matters when all they have is each other.

In a beautiful and touching line of dialogue, Gloria says, "Memories make such bad company. They come uninvited, overstay their welcome, and leave a mess when they go." Indeed, these memories have left quite a mess. Fortunately, Marcie and Gloria reach a place where they find it in themselves to clean things up together.

Big Chill

"I come in the cold, wintry night, chilling everything in sight," croons a menacing Mr. Cool to a freezing child named Irene Bobbin, who's on a mission to deliver a dress in a blizzard. Brave Irene is the latest play to come out of the innovative Manhattan Children's Theater, a company that consistently meets its goal of providing quality entertainment for children and adults alike. Written and adapted to play format by William Steig, Brave Irene is a beautifully realized production that chills your spine and melts your heart. Designer Cully Long provides instant shivers with his frosty set. A giant white snowflake is painted across the pale blue floor of a dim living room, framed by snowy white trees and dangling icicles. In the room's center hangs an elegant pink dress fit for a princess, clearly out of place in its meager surroundings.

The play opens with Irene (Heather Weneck) eagerly watching her mother, Mrs. Bobbin (Maura Kirzon Malone), put the finishing touches on the dress, which we learn is intended for the Duchess's ball. Mrs. Bobbin is a rosy-cheeked mother, pleasantly resigned to her lot in life designing clothes for balls she can only watch through a window. Irene takes her mother's role in the Duchess's ball preparations very seriously, and when Mrs. Bobbin falls ill, Irene instantly volunteers to deliver the dress in her place.

The first courageous step of her journey is tiptoeing out of her cozy, candlelit home and into the bitter night. Once outside, Irene stands alone, hugging a pale green dress box to her chest while the wind whistles around her. It is not long before the wintry elements emerge to slow her progress. Three mischievous Snowflakes (Christopher Kloko, Perryn Pomatto, and Britni Orcutt) circle her in black and white dress suits while she gleefully attempts to catch them.

The fun ends when the wind picks up and the Snowflakes' aggression increases. They bellow, "Go home, Irene," shoving her back and forth between them, wrestling the box from her arms, and finally waving the dress before her horrified eyes. "We're taking all your dreams away," they say, before disappearing into the darkness.

Irene sinks to her knees crying, as all her mother's long hours stitching and hemming the gown have amounted to nothing. Weighted by her failure, she trudges on, hoping to plead her case to the Duchess so she will know the Bobbin family tried to make good on their responsibility to her.

Weneck's portrayal of Irene is sweet and touching, especially in the understated way she conveys her fear with worried, darting eyes as if registering for the first time the dangers that lurk outside her mother's home. We feel for her helplessness in the face of the elements, especially Mr. Cool (Pomatto), who circles her like a schoolyard bully with rolled-up sleeves and a confident swagger. Irene's desperate attempts to fight him off involve countering all his icy whisperings with thoughts of warm things. When Mr. Cool hisses, "Turning blue," she defiantly responds, "Barbecue!"

But her true inspiration comes from the Trees (Orcutt, Pomatto, and Kloko), stunningly costumed with shimmering white branches tied to their arms and crowning their heads. When Irene is lost, frostbitten, and swallowed by the night, the Trees tell her in a tender song that "love will carry you through the darkness." Thinking of her mother, Irene plows on.

Joan Cushing's upbeat musical lyrics give the play the colorful touch it needs to comfort children as Irene's situation worsens. At the same time, adults in the audience are likely to appreciate the complexity of her obstacles, along with the strong but simple moral she learns when overcoming them. Children will certainly see a heroine and kindred spirit in young Irene. She is a small girl who, when confronted by a large, cold world, fights against the odds to prove to all her doubters that one does not need to be big in order to be brave.

Love Lost

Is it better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all? This philosophical question is raised in The Black Bird Returns, a dramatic love story playing at the 45th Street Theater at Primary Stages. Co-written by Alexis Kozak and Barbara Panas, the play focuses on former lovers Kat (Panas) and Cliff (David Walters), who quickly move to rekindle their old flame without giving much thought to the feelings of their current partners. This creates an obstacle that the script has trouble overcoming. We know that Kat and Cliff are truly in love with each other, but they convey this in such an unsympathetic manner that it is often hard to root for their happiness.

Kat's boyfriend, Roger (Douglas Lally), feels pushed away to the point where he glumly asks, "How would you rate me, as a B- or a C+?" When Kat hesitates, he probes, "Am I even on the honor roll?" Meanwhile, Cliff treats his trusting, pregnant wife, Amanda (Julie Jenson), like excess baggage. On a date, Kat asks him, "Are you single?" He counters, "Do you need me to be?"

Deep into Act I, in a desperate, melodramatic moment, Cliff confesses to Kat that he is dying of cancer. This would cast him in a softer light if he chose to inform his doting wife as well. Instead, he goes along with her pillow talk about what a good father he will be, never once hinting that he might suddenly and inexplicably drop dead before the birth of their child.

His affair is unmasked when a fateful day arrives and Kat is forced to call an ambulance from his house. When Amanda confronts Kat about her relationship with Cliff, she is coldly dismissed. Here, Amanda earns our heart with her pained, desperate pleas to know more about her husband's secret life, especially regarding his mysterious friend Tom. Kat folds her arms and refuses to tell the grieving widow that Tom is a beloved blackbird they once fed on a mountain.

The blackbird is a meaningful symbol to Kat and Cliff and comes from one of their last happy days together before the romance dwindled. And so, during an outing with Roger, Kat returns to these mountains to find the piece of Cliff she thought she had lost.

At this point, a spiritual moment is set to unfold when a loud, jarring noise suddenly fills the theater. It is an umbrella repeatedly opening and shutting in the tech booth to represent the flapping motion of a blackbird's wings. The sound effect may have the best of intentions behind it, but when amplified by a microphone it sounds less like an approaching bird than a winged dinosaur. It drowns out the low, tearful dialogue uttered by Kat as she tries to maintain the somber mood.

Fortunately, the play is armed with strong acting to hook you where the characters may not. Cliff may have a sleazy nature, but Walters has a sweet, boyish charm that shines through the dialogue. There is such a deep sincerity to his "I love you" that we almost forget he is saying it twice a day to two different women.

Lally is also a magnetic force as Roger, Kat's berated boyfriend. A lingering moment in the play is his crushed expression when Kat hollers at him for innocently cooing at a blackbird. His enthusiasm at spotting the bird sounds so genuine that it hurts to see how quickly it fades at the sound of his girlfriend's sharp voice.

Perhaps the doomed relationship story here is more about Roger and Amanda, the dejected lovers of Kat and Cliff. They know their relationships will always pale in comparison to their partners' first loves, but they both try hard to make things work. In this story they come off as good people who have been deeply hurt and are unloved by those they want badly to please. With luck, the next time the blackbird returns, it will be for them.

Flow of LAVA

(W)hole, currently playing at the Flea Theater, is a full-length movement piece from the creative minds of the LAVA girls: an all-woman, six-person dance troupe known for its ability to draw on geological themes and phenomena as an inspiration for its dazzling aerobics. LAVA was founded by director and performer Sarah East Johnson, who later recruited Natalie Agee, Diana Greiner, Molly Chanoff, Rebecca Stronger, and Adrienne Truscott to complete the group. They are the cast of (W)hole, a show that shines with astonishing athletic performances and stunning trapeze feats, but dims in trying to convey the weighty ideas and symbolism that lie beneath the stunts. The LAVA girls are not, literally, jumping through hoops merely to jump through hoops. On the contrary, there is a purpose to everything they do. In the (W)hole press release they explain that such stunts as their "handstand duets and balancing acts" are used to represent "magnetic polarity reversal." However, those witnessing the handstand duet onstage without reading this beforehand (there are no explanations within the pages of the playbill) are not likely to understand the handstand's significance to magnetic polarity, let alone its reversal.

Midway through the show, the LAVA girls bring (W)hole to a screeching halt to play interactive games with the audience. One grabs a clipboard and says, "Anyone who has been upside down in the past five days please stand up." Those who stand (a surprising handful) are asked to come onstage. They are then given 17 seconds to join hands and form two circles moving in opposite directions. When this is accomplished, they return to their seats, and more questions of this nature are asked, encouraging those who answered affirmatively to come onstage and form various molecular patterns with others. This game is enjoyable for those who want to participate, and entertaining for those who don't.

The fun wanes when the LAVA girls give everyone in the crowd approximately two minutes to frantically gather their things and find a new seat in another section of the square-shaped theater. Some audience members gamely participated, while others looked reluctant to find another seat when they were comfortable in the one they had. In some cases, those with good seats who didn't move were not-so-playfully pressured to by those in bad seats, who saw this as an opportunity to acquire better ones.

Before the interactive games, the audience is given a quick, short, and complicated tutorial on how lava is formed beneath the earth, and is told that the point of the games is to show how "alike minerals find one another." But these connections, especially for those who are not science-minded, are hazy at best. Also hazy is the reason behind ushers forcing all audience members to remove their shoes and wrap them in plastic bags prior to entering the theater. Was this a prank or did it represent a scientific theory? There is never an explanation.

Without knowing or understanding the message behind the movements and tricks being performed by the LAVA girls, (W)hole can be appreciated only on its purely physical level. Mixing science and circus to create a comprehensive, full-length movement piece is a difficult endeavor, but with some trial and error, these six talented gymnasts should find the perfect balance.

Lords of the Strings

The Rapture Project's title is derived from the fundamentalist Christian belief that when death, destruction, and other inescapable ills appear on the horizon, the end of times will be upon us, and only the truly faithful believers will be "raptured" away before a bloodbath ensues. According to this belief, those who are raptured away will be literally plucked from the Earth and carried up into the heavens. Meanwhile, the nonbelievers will be left to fight out their differences at Armageddon, a historic valley north of Jerusalem. Fortunately, this gloom and doom does not extend beyond The Rapture Project's premise. The play itself is a dynamic, raucous, and fun romp down the road to hell, with a mix of both humans and puppets. The human performers open the show with an a cappella song and dance, later adding a variety of traditional and nontraditional instruments to create a catchy, handclapping rhythm. It is also a stunningly visual extravaganza, with funny marionettes and psychedelic images inspired by a 1960's designer named Jilala.

The play was written and created by its performers, members of a troupe called Great Small Works, all of whom have clearly done their research on the subject of Christian fundamentalism and its current role in American politics. There is a great wealth of information to be found within the story and in the set, which is a giant white wall spanning the length of the stage and covered in religious phrases and Christian iconography from the 1920's. In the center of this wall is a little red curtain that rises to reveal a cast of puppets going about their lives, making choices that will lead them closer to Baghdad and the climactic battle at Armageddon.

Rick, a ministries leader, is a conservatively dressed puppet leading tourists through the Grand Canyon. He is engaged to Carrie, another conservatively dressed puppet who has been seduced by his religious conviction. Their lives intersect with a typical American family: a block of four wholesome-looking puppets, literally joined at the hip, that win a trip to Baghdad. Meanwhile, Bernard, the villainous puppet, stands in the Brooklyn Botanical Garden struggling with his guilt over sending faulty body armor to the soldiers in Iraq.

Unbeknownst to him, one of his employees, a perky puppet dressed entirely in pink and named Wanda, finds her conscience and heads to Baghdad to reveal the truth about the armor. There is also a mysterious security guard puppet that is frequently and suddenly raptured away at the end of his scenes.

In one of the play's most poignant moments, the audience follows this puppet into the heavens to see firsthand what this rapturing is all about. The top of the stage opens to reveal three actors carrying the little puppet among the clouds while humming a whimsical spiritual hymn accompanied by trance-like music.

Despite the use of these colorful puppets and other childlike aspects, this play is more appropriate for adults, as well as anyone curious about the religious beliefs held by many of America's political leaders. Because of the complexity of the information that's being presented, those not familiar with Christian fundamentalism may not understand some of the story's details. But anyone wishing to learn more about the themes can attend one of the production's two talk-back sessions, which feature an impressive list of authors, artists, and scholars who explain the finer points.

Within the context of the play, Great Small Works understands the difference between teaching and preaching, educating its audience from a podium, not a soapbox. The company keeps things light, and even the powerful final battle between good and evil has a silly spin to it: a Satan puppet leads the forces of evil, while renowned writer and activist Susan Sontag embodies all that is good. With elements like these, The Rapture Project has all the right ingredients to feed your mind, tickle your funny bone, and rapture your heart.

Pulling Strings

Charles Dickens's A Christmas Carol has been staged in a variety of different ways: childishly funny, humbly poignant, brightly extravagant, and maddeningly musical, to name just a few. The Czechoslovak-American Marionette Theater has broken the mold here, shedding a refreshingly original light on this tired tale through a bilingual puppet show called A Christmas Carol, Oy! Hanukkah, Merry Kwanzaa, Happy Ramadan, playing at the Jan Hus Playhouse. Vit Horejs, puppet master and founder of the Czechoslovak-American Marionette Theater, has performed all over the world, finally emigrating from his native Prague to Manhattan, where, he says, his weary puppets are looking for a home. Jan Hus Playhouse is the perfect place for them to rest their strings; the intimate little theater is located in the heart of a multi-cultural, predominantly Czech neighborhood between First and Second Avenues. Though the play is told in English, the melodies are sung in Czech, Hebrew, and Swahili. Horejs asks you to imagine that this story is being told to you "not by an English serial novelist but by your Czech grandmother."

Imagining this is difficult, given the sarcastic, wry sense of humor Horejs injects into his story with a precision you sense only he could perfect. His Scrooge is not the grimacing, evil man in need of a change that other shows portray him as, which is just as well, considering this comical little Scrooge puppet is too cute to be visually menacing. In this version he is more of a modern-day Seinfeld; sarcastic and self-assured, not given to common niceties or social graces. His transformation here seems to be less about a conflicted man overcoming his wicked ways than a jaded New Yorker unlocking his inner tourist.

Horejs uses the adorable, colorful puppets to spellbind the children while shocking the adults with jokes aimed way over the little ones' heads. At a Christmas party, a bearded puppet becomes so drunk that he literally falls off the stage. Another uses his strings to flirt with a female, grinding his wooden body against hers before dragging her off to watch dirty videos behind the curtain. The best jokes were those that played to all ages, most notably one where Bob Cratchit passionately throws his wife onto the kitchen table to make out next to their pathetic excuse for a Christmas goose. The children in the audience squealed, "Eeew, kissing," while their parents chuckled at the other implications.

The Cratchit Christmas scene, usually aimed at giving the audience a somber look at an impoverished family making the best of their meager surroundings, garners the biggest laughs in Horejs's retelling. The younger children are obnoxious, the eldest daughter plays embarrassingly juvenile jokes, a kitten picks inopportune moments to mew its thoughts, and Mrs. Cratchit goes on a rant that would make a sailor blush when describing their "benefactor" Scrooge. Tiny Tim, of course, declares it the best Christmas he's ever had before hobbling off on his crutches.

Needless to say, Christmas Carol, Oy! Hanukkah, Merry Kwanzaa, Happy Ramadan is not your typical Christmas show, but those planning to attend a Czechoslovakian puppet show with bilingual holiday songs are most likely expecting something different. Aside from Horejs's unconventional take on the plot, he infuses into the mix a bilingual soundtrack of holiday songs and icons from other religious celebrations

Sounds of Silence

"When I was about 8, I saw the moon as it really is," writes expert mime Bill Bowers. As a youth, he would regularly twirl across grassy Montana fields while staring up at the night sky, never realizing that the glowing moon he looked fondly upon had a concealed dark side. His one-man mime show, Under a Montana Moon, playing at the newly renovated Performance Factory, is inspired by the day he took a closer look. In reverence to the visible half of the moon Bowers admired as a child, he maintains a light, happy note throughout the play's first act. His opening skits are silly, with delightful elements of slapstick humor. There are the usual mime gags: walking into walls and getting trapped in a box, though Bowers puts his own spin on the movements by performing them in a cow suit, which is best utilized in his impression of a "milkshake."

Once these crowd-pleasing skits are out of the way, he moves into uncharted waters, recreating a showdown on the Western frontier and a day spent at the county fair, where he plays games and rides coasters. The fair scenes are funny as a narrative but fascinating when you consider there is nothing on this stage other than a man and his suitcase of props. Bowers's movements are so convincing that when he wanders through what we presume is a dark carnival maze and bangs smack into walls, the audience yelps "Ouch!," feeling his pain.

Though this show is centered on mime, there is sound. In the beginning of Act II, Bowers lip-syncs to voice-overs when re-enacting teachings from a Mexican peace movement that came to North America by way of sacred clowns called Contraries. Bowers acts as a Contrarie in his piece The Way of Sweet Medicine when he passes these messages along to us through voice-overs, props, and his own graceful, controlled movements.

In the first teaching he uses menacing hand puppets to portray a man with two wolves fighting inside of him. One wolf is kind and loving; the other is angry and violent. "Which wolf will win?" a child asks in voice-over. "The one I feed," a man's voice responds.

The Way of Sweet Medicine indicates a shift in tone from where Act 1 left us, laughing at a silly cow and Bowers's carnival antics. The moon is darkening, and so is Bowers. In a deeply powerful scene, Prayer for a Boy, he re-enacts the circumstances of Matthew Shepard's heartbreaking death, told through voice-over testimony by the boy who found him.

This piece does not examine the violence or the psychology of those involved, but rather the sounds that came out of the tragedy. "They say we cannot call a sound back," says a monotonous child's voice on the soundtrack. "A sound goes on and on." To illustrate this point, the voice asks us to imagine the sound we think Shepard made when he was beaten and, more distressingly, the sound his mother made when she heard what had happened.

In Act II's final scene, Palette, we see Bowers stepping through a painting into a field alive with cricket noises reminiscent of his beloved Montana field. When he smiles at the moon and proceeds to twirl in dizzying circles, we sense he has come back to the light. The story is nicely framed by his return to the fields, where he now recognizes and embraces both sides of the moon.

One would expect a mime show to rely solely on visuals, given the nature of the craft. But Under a Montana Moon has deeper, richer elements in its stories, which contain important coming-of-age lessons and relevant social commentaries. It is also touching to acknowledge that, although Bowers has studied under the famous mime Marcel Marceau, taught at several colleges, and graced both the silver screen and Broadway stage, he has chosen to focus his one-man show not on these impressive accomplishments but on the Montana moon he grew up admiring. This production is a combination of his heart, mind, and body, and though he never speaks a word, you hear his message loud and clear.

Friends Forever

"Ohmygod! That is, like, so totally cool!" If this is an expression you often hear around your house, you are probably living with a "tween." Journalist Michele Willens is credited with coining the term to describe the group of kids who find themselves stuck between two worlds: childhood and adolescence. In her play Dear Maudie, playing at the 78th Street Theater Lab, she explores the tight bond formed by two fourth-grade girls, Nicki and Maudie, as they struggle to make sense of their changing lives. One would be hard pressed to find another play whose target audience is tweens. There are no adults playing children, no patronizing tones or after-school-special themes, and no coming-of-age epiphanies. Maudie and Nicki are on the brink of becoming teenagers, not adults. They are trying desperately to preserve their innocence, not lose it.

The girls are realistically portrayed by two cute-faced young actresses, Allison Brustofski (Nicki) and Danielle Carlacci (Maudie). The production's success relies entirely on their personality and charisma, since the story is told through the letters and e-mails they write each other during class. As they read the letters aloud, other actors, seated on benches behind them, will occasionally rise to illustrate what they are typing. But the play mostly rests on their shoulders

Under Terror

"We are not fighting so that you will offer us something," says a gun-wielding terrorist to a trembling husband-and-wife catering team. "We are fighting to eliminate you." If this line sounds scary in a fictional context, you may not want to know that it is a direct quote from Hussein Masawi, the former leader of Hezbollah. In the pulse-pounding play The Caterers, playing at the 29th Street Repertory, fact and fiction are blended together as writer Jonathan Leaf reimagines the events in a 1977 hostage situation where Islamic terrorists stormed buildings in protest of a film called Mohammed, Messenger of God.

The Caterers opens in a tiny lobby two hours before this controversial movie is to premiere. Caterers David Weintraub (Ian Blackman) and his wife, Nina (Judith Hawking), bask in the preopening excitement, discussing their own dreams of screenwriting stardom while arranging bottles of wine and water on a linen-white table.

Suddenly, a bearded man in blue overalls barrels through the door wielding a gun. He immediately informs the Weintraubs that he is a terrorist, they are his hostages, and they can call him Mohammed. Moments later, the film's British writer, Warren Heath (Peter Reznikoff), enters, ecstatic to be at his premiere. By this point, the tension in the room is suffocating.

Warren is a self-centered man whose true nature is revealed when he takes a drastic measure to save his own life while putting someone else's at risk. David and Nina are a resourceful couple who attempt to talk their way out of the situation, even complimenting Mohammed by noting that he does not seem like a typical terrorist. Smirking, he replies, "You encounter us regularly?"

Mohammed is played frighteningly well by Brian Wallace, and the audience finds itself pulled into this claustrophobic lobby where you start to see every prop as a potential weapon. This is the type of story where you desperately look for a loophole, some small point of implausibility to assure you that this could not really happen. But Leaf has covered every base. There is no way to escape the room or to reason with a hateful, violent man who is willing to kill everyone in it.

The Caterers forces its audience to confront an issue they spend every day trying to avoid. Terrorists are the bogeymen in the closet, threatening to strike when we are rushing to a subway, starting a day of work, or even walking down the street. Moments before Nina and David were held at gunpoint, they were watering lobby plants. Before Warren was Mohammed's tortured captive, he was a wealthy, honored writer eagerly anticipating the opening of his film. Their situation is disturbing on many levels, the most being our deepest fear: that this can happen to anyone at any moment.

It is also important to note that Leaf does not take sides or preach politics in the play. World issues are occasionally discussed, but there is no Bush-bashing, no criticism or praise of the Iraq war, no attack on conservatives, and no praise for liberals. The core issue is Mohammed, Messenger of God, which the terrorists do not want people to see because they think the film will disgrace Mohammed, the prophet of Islam.

Whether it truly does, the terrorists will never know because they refuse to watch it. This is the issue Leaf stresses the most: the "conclusions people come to without looking at the evidence." People will lose their lives over the premiere of an unseen film, based entirely on paranoid speculation.

This tightly plotted play moves at a fast pace with no intermission to break up the suspense or spoil the illusion that you are trapped in the room. Because of this, the anxiety level can get quite high, and several audience members were crying or covering their mouths in horror. When the play ends, it is hard to shake the feeling that you have just spent the past 80 minutes locked in a room with a terrorist.

Fun by the Wayside

Wayside School was supposed to be a typical one-story school with 30 classrooms side by side, but it was accidentally built 30 stories high with one classroom on each floor. That is only the first of many strange things at this towering elementary school where cows roam the halls, tornadoes shake the building, teachers disappear, and classes are taught on a 19th floor that does not exist. At the peak of all this madness are the children who attend class on the 30th floor. In Sideways Stories From Wayside School, playing at Manhattan Children's Theatre, John Olive has compiled the best scenes from Louis Sachar's award-winning Wayside School series and compressed them into a clever children's play that captures the wacky playfulness of the award-winning books.

The story opens in the colorful 30th-floor classroom, with its yellow walls, purple tables, green stools, and a lopsided chalkboard. Large red apples with scared faces sit on three of the classroom's five desks. The remaining two desks are occupied by students Bebe (Anna Kull) and Myron (Brian Patrick Murphy). They sit rigidly in their seats while their teacher, Mrs. Gorf (Rachel Soll), speaks with the school's beloved janitor, Louis (John K. Kucher), who would like one of her apples. Mrs. Gorf is ready to oblige when Bebe and Myron cry out in protest. When Louis leaves, Mrs. Gorf informs the quivering children that, due to their outburst, they will soon join the others as ingredients for apple pie.

In self-defense, Bebe holds a mirror in front of her face seconds before Mrs. Gorf can wiggle her fingers and cast a spell. Mrs. Gorf cackles, the children scream, and the theater goes dark. When the lights return, there are five children standing in the classroom and a giant green apple where Mrs. Gorf once stood. This time when Louis returns looking for a bite, no one stops him from taking one.

With Mrs. Gorf gone, the children are sent a new teacher, the strange but kind Mrs. Jewels, whom they immediately fall in love with. She, in turn, instantly likes the children and accepts their eccentricities. Bebe is a lightning-fast sketch artist, and Daemon always smiles and counts accurately if not numerically. Myron pulls Leslie's pigtails until he is hypnotized into thinking they are rattlesnakes. Leslie can only read upside down, and Rondi is a compulsive gum chewer.

All the actors in this production have the right amount of energy and emotion to keep their characters lively and interesting while also incorporating hints of realism into their personalities. They groan, whine, stomp, and stumble in true first-grade fashion but go back to their zany Wayside nature when solemnly confessing that Mrs. Gorf's face haunts them in clouds and mashed potatoes.

For a children's play, this is a surprisingly complex story with a strong central conflict, a moral dilemma, and a climactic ending where Myron and Bebe must confront their roles in Mrs. Gorf's disappearance. Because of these mature elements, this production lends itself to an older age group. It is perfect for grade school but could easily extend into adulthood, especially if you consider that the novel has been a favorite among young readers for over ten years.

For these reasons, Sideways Stories From Wayside School is a fun, intelligent play for children but also a guilty pleasure for adults and teens. Manhattan Children's Theatre wisely selects classic novels to adapt into children's plays so that children can appreciate the work for the first time while their parents and older siblings fondly relive it. This production proves you do not have to be a child to enjoy children's theater.

Role Reversals

Most people never remember what they scored on their SATs in high school. Yet when their children take the test, they suddenly remember all too well. Perhaps that is why some parents dress their children in Princeton sweatshirts from the time they are 5, whereas others pay tutors up to $200 an hour to prepare them for the impending exam. In Maryrose Wood's delightfully unique musical The Tutor, playing at 59E59 Theatres, two desperate Manhattan parents named Richard (Richard Pruitt) and Esther (Gayton Scott) hire a young alumnus from Princeton named Edmund (Eric Ankrim) to tutor their daughter for the SATs. They tentatively introduce him to their punked-out, heavily made-up teenager, Sweetie (Meredith Bull), hoping he will see the Ivy League potential in her.

Edmund sees something in Sweetie, but it is not potential. As a starving artist working on the Great American Novel, he sees young Sweetie as the perfect "cash cow" to subsidize his income while he writes, never imagining that one day this young girl could wind up teaching him.

With an onstage orchestra supplying the live music and a variety of complex scene changes sustaining the plot's fast pace, the cast and crew have no room for error as they scurry about in the darkness between scenes. The spotlights are perfectly timed, the orchestra is always exactly on cue, and everyone manages to get where he or she needs to be on this jungle gym of a stage. Often an actor will balance on a high platform while another rolls him into place. On many occasions, Ankrim dashes across the stage to quickly hoist himself atop the orchestra box, where the ceiling serves as his studio apartment's floor. It is impressive to watch how much is flawlessly accomplished in the few seconds the actors have to create their next setting.

When Edmund first appears to evaluate Sweetie's potential, he is obnoxiously well mannered and condescending to his student. Then one day in the library she asks to read some of his novel. Reluctantly, he shows her, but regrets it when she criticizes the mechanical way he writes. She offers suggestions, and Edmund is surprised to find that they help his writing. From there she becomes his trusted reader, giving comments, criticism, and general feedback at each of their sessions.

Eventually the two become close and discover that the best parts of themselves come out when they are together. Edmund's enthusiasm for writing fuels her desire to learn, and her unjaded vision of the world helps him to see his characters from a new perspective. Their bond strengthens to the point where Edmund cannot imagine writing without Sweetie, and Sweetie cannot imagine liking any other boy but Edmund. Unfortunately, he is oblivious to her feelings, and her girlhood crush leads to the play's main conflict, which has nothing to do with tests and everything to do with people.

The Tutor plays with the notion that sometimes in life we are never sure who is tutoring whom. During the course of the story, a student learns from her teacher, parents learn from their child, and a teacher learns from his student. By the end, they all learn to lighten up, listen to each other, and not take life so seriously.

It is a relief to see a play that is not afraid to try something new and has a good time doing it. The actors have an infectious energy that makes you want to follow their story wherever it may lead. There are catchy original songs by the team of Maryrose Wood and Andrew Gerle, the most memorable being "Stupid Rich Kids," "Don't Eat Your Friends," "Me Artist, You Rich," and Esther's somber ballad "That's How a Life Is Made," sung beautifully by Gayton Scott.

This production is fun enough for all ages to thoroughly enjoy, but its subject will be especially significant to high school students. When the SATs descend upon them in their senior year, it would be nice if they could see a play poking fun at all the surrounding hysteria. As The Tutor astutely reminds us, it is only a test.

In Love and War

In a desolate Israeli cafe overlooking the Plains of Armageddon, three very strange and mysterious people find themselves bonding over beer as they overlook this eerily quiet, centuries-old battlefield in Richard Lay's promising yet disjointed social satire, Lunch at Armageddon, at the Blue Heron Arts Center. Set on the balcony of this caf

A Day in the Neighborhood

"If life ended tomorrow, I'd still have my memories and dreams," says Alex Law, a flashy Puerto Rican poet who has resided on Avenue B since the 70's. He is the guest speaker for a series of plays at the Metropolitan Playhouse known as Alphabet City, a unique and ambitious endeavor by the theater's artistic director, Michael Bloom. Bloom sent his actors out to Avenues A, B, and C in the East Village on a mission to find the characters that define this quirky section of Manhattan. The actors were then instructed to observe and take notes on their chosen character's story and transform it into a monologue. Alphabet City III focuses solely on those who reside on Avenue B.

The setting is sparse: wooden crates and planks make up the stage, while a noise resembling that of a dripping water pipe provides the only sound effect. The theater is small for intimacy purposes, and the actors take advantage of this by frequently jumping into the audience and speaking to them directly.

At times this approach brings you closer to the story by creating the illusion that you are chatting with the character over coffee. Other times it is uncomfortable to have someone leap off the stage, lock eyes, and speak directly to you in a forceful tone. The balance is a precarious one. English Photographer (Tod Mason) affably converses with the audience, whereas a tightly wound Care Provider (Mario Quesada) comes too close for comfort, screaming questions in your face with such intensity, you uneasily wonder if you should answer.

Deborah Johnstone gives an absorbing performance as a Parisian man named Billy Lyles, who notes the erosion of camaraderie on the avenue. He speaks of a time when residents talked on the streets, picked up tabs at diners, and enjoyed the thriving art scene as a group. Over the years he has watched hip jazz clubs descend into moneymaking machines that want you to buy a drink or get out. He sits on the street trying to connect with his neighbors, sadly resigning himself to accept that times have changed and people don't talk anymore.

Regardless of whether a particular character is worthy of focus, most of the actors are talented enough to carry their stories with wit and charm. There are problems, however, with the clarity of Quesada's monologue that his energetic and impassioned performance cannot overcome. It is never entirely clear which, and how many, characters he is playing at a given time. This is disappointing, because Quesada has several great lines and touching points to make. The problem is that you do not know which person he is playing when he makes them.

Though this production has some wrinkles that need to be ironed out, the Alphabet City series on a whole should be commended for the bold steps it takes in trying something different. The East Village has a rich history, and this play proves how easy it is to pull someone off one of its street corners and find a story fit for a theatrical monologue.

Since these actors have nothing to work with other than a blank stage and a spotlight, they are forced to capture the intricacies of the person they are portraying, down to every twitch, cough, and stutter. It's a difficult feat to accomplish, and during the play's run the actors, themes, and monologues regularly change, so there may be times when the actors fall short of delivering pitch-perfect performances. But even then it's worth the price of admission to watch someone try to fully inhabit the mind, body, and spirit of a stranger he just met on the streets of Alphabet City.