Songbirds

If you're going to go back to the 1960's, you have to go all the way, and that is exactly what writer/co-composer/lyricist William Electric Black and co-composer Valerie Ghent have done with Betty & the Belrays, a delightful, toe-tapping, finger-snapping musical about a white girl group trying to get signed to a black record label. Designer Christina Fikaris has created a colorful, eye-catching set that instantly establishes the 60's mood. The walls of this intimate theater space are adorned with paintings of bright pink lips and musical notes, while the ceiling is decorated with dozens of glittering records dangling by a string above the audience members' heads.

It is in this setting that we first meet Betty Belarosky, played by singing powerhouse Nicole Patullo. Patullo has fun with her lyrics, singing each song with conviction regardless of whether it is a playful, waddle-like-a-duck dance or a somber ballad about segregation. A recent high school graduate, Betty is at a crucial point in her life where most girls either go to work or get married. Reluctantly, she sets out to apply for the most coveted job a young girl could have at that time: telephone operator.

While standing on line to be interviewed, she meets Connie (Cara S. Liander), who is distraught over a recent breakup, and Zipgun (Vanessa Burke), a switchblade-carrying tomboy straight out of reform school. Desperate not to spend the rest of her life answering phones, Betty convinces Zipgun and Connie to abandon the interview and join her in auditioning for a girl group. Both girls are interested, until they learn the audition is for a black record label.

Because this production is family-friendly, the weighty racial issues it addresses are handled with kid gloves. Betty, Connie, and Zipgun's devotion to civil rights is not in the same category as Martin Luther King Jr.'s, but they do recognize that segregation is a serious and disturbing issue that too often goes ignored.

Betty is not even aware that segregation exists until she meets Sam the Beat (Levern Williams), a local D.J. from the other side of the tracks who opens her eyes to the ignorance surrounding her. He sends Betty and her friends to meet a talent scout for the black record label named Loretta Jones (Verna Hampton), a feisty woman who teaches the girls how to sing with soul and spirit.

Jones delivers the ultimate wake-up call, belting out an inspiring solo number, "Lord, How I Love My Ironing Board," to open the girls' eyes to the harsh realities plaguing her community. Hampton is a strong and passionate singer; as her notes go higher and the song reaches its booming climax, you can feel her righteous anger simmering beneath the humorous lyrics.

Deceiving surface value is a recurrent theme in this play, as it was during the era it examines, a time when girl groups inundated the nation with their music but never with their faces. Because of racial tensions, singers chose to keep their race a secret, fearing alienation from a huge portion of their audience if their identity was revealed.

But despite the turbulent era the story is set in, Betty & the Belrays is an undeniably upbeat production. All of the songs, even the ones about racial tensions, are set to infectious and familiar beats reminiscent of the girl group period (the Ronettes, the Shirelles) of the early '60s. Everyone seems to be having a fun time, whether it's the actors dancing in the aisles to a song about spreading peanut butter ("Go to the shelf, grab that jar. Stand on your toes if it's up too far!") or the onstage band members laughing as they play the show's silly melodies.

With energy like this, it is easy to understand Sam the Beat's advice to Betty early in her singing career. "The only thing that crosses the color line," he tells her when she first visits his studio, "is music."

Closet Case

What do you say when you suspect your co-worker is a serial killer? In Sam Marks's dark comedy Nelson, a talent agent named Joe (Alexander Alioto) tries to make small talk with his suspiciously twitchy co-worker Nelson (Frank Harts), asking him, "So, haven't you ever wanted to take a hammer and bury it deep into someone's brain?" Nelson, however, is offended at the insinuation, and Joe's protests that he is working with a psychopath are ultimately dismissed by his superiors. Nelson has an endearing baby face and large eyes that drip with vulnerability. But unbeknownst to anyone but Joe, he also has a briefcase full of snuff movies that he was commissioned to film while his friend Charlie (Samuel Ray Gates) narrated.

Watching Nelson is similar to seeing three out-of-control cars moments away from a head-on collision. You know there is going to be damage and you know things are going to get messy, but what you don't know is just how messy they are going to get. Nelson is a very tense, edge-of-your-seat story wrapped up in a mystery that you can't wait to be solved.

Every time Nelson opens his closet door, a bright light shines out, and he talks enthusiastically into it. Who or what he is talking to is revealed later, though we know it can't be good if it is locked in a closet. Still, Harts plays Nelson with a deep insecurity and desperate neediness that allow audiences to at least feel sorry for him, even if they can't trust him.

There are no good guys in this story, no protagonists, and no common man. These are not characters you want to find yourself identifying with. Alioto plays Joe with such a cool, snakelike quality that he practically slithers. He laughs at others' misfortunes and delights in making his jittery colleague squirm. But it is Charlie who comes off as the scariest. Gates displays a frightening coldness in Charlie's eyes, putting a wall between himself and humanity, a wall that we sense he is ready to hide behind when something unpleasant has to be done.

The play's most powerful scenes are the ones that take place around the climax, when we can feel the tension onstage building to the point of eruption. Nelson goes too far in his obsession with a beautiful movie star named Laura (Meagan Prahl, who's seen on Nelson's posters and heard through prerecorded scenes). And Charlie realizes that Joe must have found the snuff tapes he and Nelson made, which means Joe knows about their involvement in them and can go to the police.

The play also explores the lure of celebrity and the lengths some people will go just to capture a piece of it. Nelson is eager as a puppy for the privilege of delivering an envelope to Laura's house, and is in ecstasy when she sends him a chocolate basket thanking him for his help with a screen test. These actions lead him to believe that what he sees on the screen is not only real but accessible to him. Charlie, on the other hand, sought celebrity for himself by agreeing to be an onscreen narrator for the snuff films because he wanted people to recognize him.

Nelson's greatest strength is the ability to weave a story that is entirely unpredictable, one that we can't quite wrap our minds around as it's unfolding but that we know is headed somewhere big. The characters are secretive enough to make it entirely plausible that any of them could be on the verge of harming another. The possibility of death is felt in every scene.

Because of the play's subject matter, it is important to note that Nelson contains no disturbingly gory images or actual shots of snuff footage. Marks wisely trusts his audiences to use their own imaginations to fill in the blanks. It's an effective method of storytelling for this particular play, because your own thoughts about what is in Nelson's closet and on Charlie's videos are enough to send chills up your spine.

The War at Home

James McClure's Pvt. Wars was written in another time about another war, but like all good war stories it is just as relevant now as it was in the 1970's. Even though its three main characters are Vietnam veterans, McClure focuses not on the politics of that conflict but on the effect it had on these young soldiers, who have committed themselves to a veterans' hospital hoping to find some peace, away from their private demons. What makes the play compelling is that it is told in the details of their present lives instead of focusing on the horrific past events that changed them, or the bleakness that we suspect will be their future. The setting is a sterile-looking lounge, mostly bare with only a single table in its far-left corner. A goofy-looking young man in a long flannel robe, Gateley (Ethan Baum), is often seated at the table fiddling with a broken radio. There is something simple and nonthreatening about Gateley that ingratiates him with a hyper, unpredictable soldier named Silvio (Chapin Springer). Meanwhile, a third man, a stuffy intellectual from a wealthy background named Natwick (Jeffry Denman), rubs everyone the wrong way.

Baum, Denman, and Springer are three very watchable, amusing, and magnetic performers who display great chemistry with one another. Baum plays Gateley with a sweet, childlike innocence that could believably win over guys like Silvio and Natwick, performed wonderfully by Springer and Denman as tightly wound, chronically depressed characters with some shreds of goodness still left in them.

Their interaction in the lounge feels extremely natural, reminiscent of three bored college students sitting in their dorm, looking for ways to avoid doing work, which is most likely what other young men their age are doing. Unfortunately for these men, their dorm is a hospital lounge, where they delight in causing mischief and trading jokes that seem to come from an authentic place inside themselves, not a survival tactic you would expect them to use to get through the day.

Even when these soldiers have sunk to their lowest mental state, they still engage in silly frat house behavior: chugging beer, playing childish pranks, and competing to see who can do the best Tarzan yell—Silvio, by far—though it is Natwick who is declared the winner for his unexpected effort. They discuss the mystery of women and techniques for getting their attention, and even engage in a role-playing game where Gateley stumps Silvio by pretending to be a lesbian—the only seduction scenario Silvio can envision himself not succeeding in.

We learn that Gateley is fixing the radio for a fallen comrade with missing arms and legs. Everyone expects this man will die, and when he finally does, Natwick bluntly reports the news to Gateley, thinking it will put an end to his project. Surprisingly, it doesn't. Gateley continues toiling with the parts, explaining that it is symbolic of his psyche: if the radio can be repaired, so can America, and if there is hope for America, he can leave the ward. Or so he says.

In some respects, the three men help each other to heal, but in other ways they hold each another back, unwilling to see a comrade make progress that they feel themselves incapable of making. The thinking seems to be that if one man gets out, another will, and then the third will be left to face his demons alone.

For all the humor Gateley, Natick, and Silvio use to hide their pain, the very fact that they are here, in this lounge, is proof that it exists. McClure's writing grants us a ray of light, a silver lining, as Gateley calls it before Natwick reminds him, "Take away that silver lining and all you have is a cloud. A very dark cloud." Fortunately, PVT Wars exists in the silver lining, and thin as it is, its lovably flawed characters and moments of dazzling comedy are ultimately successful in distracting us from the surrounding darkness.

In the Mix

After seeing The Mammy Project, it will be hard to look at an Aunt Jemima pancake mix without thinking about its true ingredients: racism, stereotypes, and oppression. Writer and performer Michelle Matlock blows the lid off this century-old pancake box in her must-see one-woman show about a former slave named Nancy Green, who found everlasting fame as the smiling face of Aunt Jemima. In 1889, a man named Chris Rutt was looking for a catchy name for his company's newest product: ready-made just add water pancake mix. He found it while attending a minstrel show, where a black-faced performer sang a catchy song called "Aunt Jemima," which also plays on the soundtrack to Matlock's show. While the tune is indeed catchy, its implications make it hard to tap your toes to.

Minstrel shows were created by white entertainers to humorously depict the lives of slaves through imitation and caricature. In a scene so loaded with truth that its every syllable stings, Matlock performs her own minstrel show with lyrics that blatantly reveal the genre's true intentions. Afterward, she questions whether these shows are truly gone or are merely lying low, waiting for a comeback.

There are scenes and images in The Mammy Project that will stick to your heart, especially since the legacy of Aunt Jemima continues today. Even Matlock was asked to read for the part of Aunt Jemima in a pancake commercial as recently as 2001. It wasn't until she arrived at the casting room and saw the script that the reality of what she was auditioning for sunk in. She couldn't stop thinking about the origins of this role and the woman who made it famous over a century ago.

Although Matlock is upbeat and humorous in every scene, it is the pain that we do not see or hear that is most present onstage. Her ability to stay humorous on the surface while boiling with indignity and repressed rage underneath reveals the kind of person Nancy Green must have been. When she served pancakes at the Chicago's World Fair in 1893, she was instructed to inform customers that she had left her plantation home to bring her pancake mix to the white folks up north, when in truth she had come in search of the two children who were taken from her long ago. But with the nation still recovering from the Civil War, guilty consciences needed to hear that this former slave hadn't left her master for any other reason than to share a pancake recipe.

Unfortunately, the public does not know much about the real woman behind the smiling face on the pancake box. When Green died in 1923, she was eulogized for being a woman whose pancakes would live forever, although nothing about the recipe was actually her own. The tragic reality of Green's life is that she was born a slave and died a trademark.

But the play is about more than just her. Matlock holds the image of the mammy up to our faces, asking us to look at the way it has been popularized in American culture. In one scene, Matlock shows clips from Gone With the Wind on a small projector. We watch as Scarlett O'Hara reads off a list of demands for her mammy, the most ridiculous being that she should tailor a new dress out of window curtains. It is here that Matlock stops the clip. "Frankly, my dear," she says in her own version of a mammy, "you can kiss my ass."

Though Matlock's revelations are upsetting, they are also uplifting. By the end of the play, we see in her the kind of spirit that we wish Green had had: a resilient, determined woman who, when faced with similar odds, would never allow herself to get trapped in a box.

Kids' World

Children's book author Ezra Jack Keats has earned many accolades for his collection of stories and illustrations about the adventures of small children living in low-income areas of the city. As the son of immigrants residing in Brooklyn during the 1940's, Keats had firsthand experience with this setting, which inspired him to focus his tales on the excitement and mischief a child can indulge in when growing up with a diverse group of friends and neighbors in an inner-city tenement. Tada!, an innovative youth theater featuring a talented cast of young performers between the ages of 8 and 18, takes us straight to the heart of a 1971 apartment building in Apt. 3, adapted for the stage by Davidson Lloyd with fast-paced dance numbers directed and choreographed by Joanna Greer.

Staying true to the book's bright watercolor illustrations, Apt. 3 is a light show of mood-defining colors, the most striking being a blue screen on the back wall, where the audience watches the hunched silhouette of a man with a harmonica playing a somber, soulful tune. Brothers Sam (Javier Cardenas) and Ben (Monk Boyewa Washington) have just realized they are locked out of their apartment when they hear the melody for the first time, and they wander down the halls hoping to find its source.

Transparent black doors on wheels are rearranged to create long-winding hallways and doorways to apartments that Sam and Ben put their ears to, fascinated with the different voices, accents, and conversations they can hear behind each one. The angrier tenants scare Ben, who wants to return home, but older brother Sam refuses to turn back until they find the man creating the haunting music.

The story's climactic moment comes at the end of their journey when the mysterious man reveals his identity, opening the children's ears to the music they hear every day, in the halls where they live and in the voices of people they know. This realization nicely concludes the piece with an uplifting message about the beauty that can be found in the shadows of a dreary tenement building.

After a short blackout and set change, we are introduced to the next Keats tale, Maggie and the Pirate, written and composed by Winnie Holzman and directed by Janine Nina Trevens. For Maggie the setting moves outdoors to a sunny backyard with a big yellow bus and a paint-smudged tire swing. The Narrator (Nicholas Stewart) introduces the audience to a spunky young girl named Maggie (Mary Claire Miskell), who lives with her family on the bus. One fateful afternoon, when Maggie and her friends are at the supermarket, a mysterious pirate sneaks into her backyard and steals her beloved pet cricket, Niki.

Though the surface of this tale is humorous and lighthearted, the young actors tackle their dialogue with a gravity you wouldn't expect to find in a children's show. Maggie's reaction to the stolen cricket is not dismissed as a silly, childish problem but as a serious wrongdoing that has brought tears and anguish to the life of a genuinely nice young girl. Fortunately, she has loyal friends, who divide into groups and search for Niki in a fun series of musical vignettes.

If the children enjoy these two Keats productions, their involvement with the show does not have to end with the curtain call. Those enthused about Apt. 3 can purchase harmonicas in the lobby, while those preferring Maggie and the Pirate can opt for black eye patches. In return for this evening of entertainment, the Narrator kindly requests that the audience "sit there, listen, and try not to set the place on fire," a small concession for the privilege of experiencing two productions as inventive and heartwarming as these.

Passion Play

Callback is a two person-play with four actors. The script, written by acclaimed film, television, and theater writer Bill Svanoe, follows a budding friendship between a director, Ed, and an actress, Judy, that spans more than 40 years. Because of this timeline, the director has chosen two different casts to play Ed and Judy. The two headlining actors are veterans, while the two in the second cast are younger, up-and-coming performers. The production reviewed here features veteran actors Joan Darling and Greg Mullavey. Darling is the first woman ever nominated for an Emmy in directing, and Greg Mullavey's biography spans both Broadway and television, though his most recognizable credit is his role in the 1970's TV comedy Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman. Perhaps it is this breadth of experience that generates such realism and conviction in Mullavey's and Darling's performances. They bring the dialogue to life, making it sound as if it is not merely words on a page but true declarations coming from the depths of their own hearts.

Judy and Ed are a clever, quick-witted duo, constantly exchanging snappy one-liners and thoughtful insights into each other's personalities. The first time Judy meets Ed, she bursts into his office shaking with hyper, nervous energy. Before he can greet her, she launches into a rapid-fire explanation of why she is late while frantically grabbing for a script and picking the spilled contents of her purse off the floor. Ed watches her in shock, which eventually fades to amusement when he sees how passionate and honest she is about her love for theater and the profound role she sees herself having in it. Unfortunately, this does not get her the part.

Months, then years go by; the passage of time is shown through period-themed music and a slide show of pictures depicting famous actors, musicians, events, and political figures of the era. Eight years later, Judy is still auditioning for Ed, who, as usual, applauds her talent and deems her perfect for the part, then admits that she probably won't get it because of industry politics. Judy, though heartbroken, never stops trying.

Over the years, Judy and Ed develop a very interesting and durable relationship. As they mature in the business, they both achieve a great amount of success, Judy in directing and Ed in television. But in spite of all they have accomplished, none of it has brought the fulfilling artistic career they have always dreamed of. It is not until they reach middle age that they finally come to terms with the fact that they need to pursue a more stable, less stressful career path.

Callback is a touching and entertaining production that any audience can enjoy, but because of its knowledge and understanding of the theater community, the play will have a deeper meaning to those who work in the field. Many of Svanoe's monologues read like an ode to theater and the dedicated individuals who give everything they have to an industry that almost never gives back.

The play tugs on heartstrings, not by being sad or depressing but by having its characters remain stubbornly optimistic in the face of overwhelming odds. The story does not conclude with a bang but with a sweet, gentle note that brings these two to a new place in their lives where they can still find happiness. So deep is their passion that it takes decades of hardship and rejection for Judy and Ed to leave the theater, but less than a minute of standing in an empty auditorium to make them fall in love with it all over again.

In the Spirit

Manhattan Children's Theater's second play of its 2006-2007 season, Charles Dickens's A Christmas Carol, will come as a welcome surprise for anyone who has heard the classic tale a hundred times and is not looking forward to it again. Adaptor and director Bruce Merrill gives us a nicely abridged version that packs the story's central themes and favorite lines into a quick-paced, hourlong, family-friendly interpretation. The result is a production that Christmas Carol enthusiasts and parents can enjoy while exposing their children to Dickens's complex language. Of course, a young audience cannot be expected to follow every word of the 19th-century English dialogue, and so the MCT artistic team has pooled its members' talents to turn the story into an engaging sensory experience.

Lance Harkins's stage design depicts a dark, shadowy world with an all-black color scheme that extends from the back wall to the curtains, and an abstract picture of a moonlit city skyline that runs along the sides of the stage. The set, when combined with Shane Mongar's dark lighting, instantly takes us into Scrooge's head. We see the world as he does, before the supernatural intervention occurs.

Once the spirits enter to transport the grumpy old man to the long-lost days of his youth, this heaviness is lifted. The first two ghosts appear onstage wearing long silk gowns with thick ropes tied around their waists, joyfully twisting, spinning, and skipping to illustrate happier times. When Scrooge is a nice young man dancing at the Fezziwigs' Christmas party, bright lights accompany the upbeat, toe-tapping instrumental numbers. But as we watch Scrooge grow distant and eventually lose his humanity, the music slows and the lights dim, returning us to the darkness from which we started.

Merrill's adaptation does not focus solely on Scrooge's life; it also pulls back to examine the effects his actions have on the world around him. The actor playing Scrooge, Aaron Rustebakke, is cast as both the embittered old man and a silly narrator, and he's too busy alternating roles to fully lose himself in the character's details. Instead, he acts as an effective device for moving the story along, highlighting the necessary plot points and providing expository descriptions of past events and supporting characters.

The story's emotional core and central themes are embodied in Eric V. Hachikian's original music score and Lauren Gordon's choreographed modern dances. For example, when the Ghost of Christmas Future appears in a cloud of smoke to lead Scrooge to his doom, the dancing ceases and the playful instrumentals stop. They are replaced with the frantic pounding of a deep, ominous note, while a harsh spotlight casts frightening shadows beneath the eyes of the ensemble characters rejoicing over the death of Scrooge.

Because of the darker elements and emotions explored in the story, this production seems best suited to an older age group. Manhattan Children's Theater specifies in its listings that it is most appropriate for children ages 5 and up.

Unlike other versions of A Christmas Carol, this one does not contain carols, songs, or festive holiday decorations. In fact, most of the laughter is provided through Andrea Steiner's props, especially a ridiculously large turkey with its legs sticking straight up in the air, and a miniature Tiny Tim doll that the Cratchit family delights in passing around like a football. This adaptation may not be the complex Victorian morality tale that audiences are used to seeing, but it succeeds in delivering all the sadness and joy we hope to feel when reading this timeless story.

Clueless

Women should be sexy but not have sex, a wife shall be submissive, men like stupid girls, bleach blonde is "in," and if you dress like a slut men will treat you like one. These are just a few of the many mixed messages the media sends to young girls every day. Some roll their eyes and choose to ignore them, while others listen carefully and take them to heart. In Jessica Lynn Johnson's solo show, Oblivious to Everyone, we meet a pretty young woman in her late 20s named Carrie who is completely immersed in the ever-changing world of pop culture. Like its main character, Oblivious to Everyone has a silly, shallow appearance but a surprisingly deep, emotional core. When Carrie first stumbles onstage wearing giant bug-eyed glasses, a tight, low-cut shirt, and pants with the word "Juicy" scrawled across the rear, it seems the play will follow the same winning formula as the popular MTV show Newlyweds, focusing its comedy on the hilariously stupid thoughts and antics of a beautiful girl. However, appearances are deceiving both within the play and in the initial perception of it.

After setting down her shopping bags, Carrie hangs up her cellphone, chirping, "Love ya, mean it, bye," and smiles flirtatiously at the audience members, who collectively assume the role of a psychiatrist. She says she does not know why her friends and family want her to see a doctor, but for some strange reason they are suddenly embarrassed to be seen with her.

This reason is soon revealed. Carrie has a tendency to break into multiple personalities, mainly ones she has seen on various television programs. Sometimes she is an abusive Bible Belt husband from the Jerry Springer show, and other times she is an adult film star who has been waiting all her life to be on the Howard Stern show. But Carrie has no idea that these other personalities exist.

Johnson does an amazing job of abruptly switching from one extreme character to the next. Each new persona completely swallows up her original one, leaving no traces of the Paris Hilton wannabe that was just sitting in the doctor's chair. But even with the believable mannerisms and dialogue of each alter ego, it is Carrie who has the most dimensions. There is a deeply scarred woman beneath her perky, smiling exterior whom we catch only glimpses of throughout the show. Still, these peeks into something more than a culture-junkie airhead are what keep you glued to the unfolding drama.

Carrie's personalities are not so much an illness as they are a symbol of the repressed person who lives inside her. She is so influenced by other people's thoughts and opinions that she can no longer tell where they end and she begins. Her alter egos express the lonely, vulnerable, and insecure aspects of her personality that she is too afraid to acknowledge.

Because of these multiple personalities, Johnson labels her play a serio-comedy, but it is also an important social commentary with a message that should not be taken lightly. After all, popular media icons for young girls currently include Paris Hilton, someone who makes a living out of partying and behaving badly, and Jessica Simpson, who found fame in acting stupid.

Oblivious to Everyone combines all the shows, sound bites and mixed messages young girls receive every day to create a frightening picture of what popular American culture has become. Fortunately, it also provides hope that beneath every Paris Hilton clone is a young girl whose longing for self-expression will one day shine through. After much soul searching, even Carrie comes to realize that although the occasional guilty pleasure is O.K., the real world is more than just a show on MTV.

Old Friends

Irish college buddies Mick (Daniel Freedom Stewart) and Dermot (Gary Gregg) may have gotten older, but neither seems to have ever grown up. Mick, a charmer and womanizer, has a boring job but a lovely wife, whereas his socially awkward friend Dermot is a lonely postman always pining for companionship. Neither seems to have moved on from the best summer of their lives, the one right after college in 1989 when they secured visas to work as busboys in New York City. In the heartwarming and humorous character-driven play Trousers, written by Paul Meade and David Parnell and playing at 59E59 Theaters, Mick and Dermot are reunited 17 years after that summer, the last one they would spend together.

Completely out of the blue, Mick turns up on Dermot's doorstep with a suitcase full of clothes his ex-wife shredded before kicking him out of the house. Though much time has passed between them, Dermot immediately invites Mick to stay on his couch until he gets his life back together. Initially, their interaction is awkward and strained, but when Dermot starts to play a familiar old song on his record player, the two are on their feet and dancing to the same beat as if no time has passed.

Dermot is obviously a music enthusiast. His shelves are stuffed with hundreds of records, CD's, DVD's, cassettes, and music books, stacked high and positioned far enough apart from each other to create the illusion of a Manhattan skyline.

His lonesome existence adds a sad element to this comedy. We can see that he is a kind, likable, and fun person to be around, yet he consistently makes bad choices, hiding his head in the sand instead of dealing with his problems. Because his job ends in the early afternoon, Dermot spends most of his time thinking about a nurse named Linda whom he volunteered to D.J. for at a hospital fund-raiser. Until meeting Linda and reconnecting with Mick, Dermot's life was as empty as the symbolic green coffee mug lying on his table that he hopes to one day raise through the power of positive thinking.

But despite the underlying sadness in Dermot's life, the play never feels heavy, mainly because of the warm chemistry that Stewart and Gregg bring to their characters. Their silly conversations and goofy personalities are the glue that holds this story together.

At the same time, there is evidence to suggest that Mick's role in Dermot's life has not always been positive. Something happened in New York City to cause a rift between them, and the answer to this mystery has something to do with the plaid trousers they shared while clubbing in the Village. Oddly, Dermot has never thrown these trousers away, even though they have long since fallen out of style.

Fortunately, this mystery does nothing to damper the play's upbeat, feel-good mood. There is a joy in knowing that whatever separated these two so many years ago has not kept them from reuniting when they both need each other most. Time has not been able to change the fact that Mick and Dermot know, accept, and understand each another in a way no one else in the world has been able to.

George Patton once said, "Success is how high you bounce when you hit rock bottom." Meade and Parnell's production of Trousers shows us that with a friendship like Mick and Dermot's, you will always have a springboard waiting.

Working Girl

As a financially comfortable woman, successful writer, and college graduate, social critic Barbara Ehreneich had no idea what to expect when she accepted an assignment to go undercover as a member of the working class. After all, she wondered, how hard could it be for someone with her credentials and education to wait tables? In Joan Holden's touching and comical dramatization of Ehreneich's best-selling nonfiction book Nickel and Dimed, we see just how difficult it really is. The play opens with failed attempts by Barbara (Margot Avery) to learn the computer ordering system in a fast-food restaurant called Kenny's, while the cook barks commands and impatient customers harass her for being too slow with their orders.

The stage is wonderfully constructed to lend itself to the diversity of Barbara's jobs. A stiff-looking cot sits in its center waiting to be tidied by Barbara and the other Economy Inn housekeepers. Behind that is a toilet she cleans as a Magic Maid, and to the left is a counter where she folds clothes as a Mall-Mart associate. But the most effective staging technique used to express the book's theme is the long, rectangular chalkboard suspended above the stage, where characters write the hourly wage Barbara is getting paid in each new job she undertakes.

Holden writes that "the story is both serious and funny," and the actors deliver on this premise, playing their multiple roles as minimum-wage workers with humor, wit, and charisma. A sassy housekeeper (Cherelle Cargill) works in slow motion, ridiculing Barbara for her speed when they get paid by the hour, not the room. Jeremy Beck plays several quirky characters, but is especially dead-on in his portrayal of a devout Mall-Mart manager who balks when Barbara writes that she moderately agrees with the statement "there's room in every corporation for a nonconformist."

Credit must also go to the live band, Chip Barrow, Paul Fess, and John D. Ivy, whose performances define the mood. When Barbara takes a second job to pay the rent, the musicians burst into an uplifting rendition of the Chumbawamba song "Tubthumping" ("I get knocked down, but I get up again") before blending into a slower and sadder "Help, I've fallen and I can't get up again" as Barbara joins the staff of a nursing home for a meager $7 an hour.

The song transitions are symbolic of the life the low-wage workers lead in this play, one that starts with optimism and hopes that are quickly crushed as reality sets in.

3Graces Theatre Company clearly has its heart in this production, even going so far as to have its actors live one week on a minimum-wage salary in New York City, restricting them to a budget of $11.16 a day for all purchases. The playbill is also filled with stories, quotes, comic strips, and statistics about the minimum wage and the federal poverty line.

Still, looking at the bright side of things, one of the playbill's comic strips helpfully points out that despite the hardships low-wage workers face, they can always take solace in the fact that "nobody will ever mug you for your paycheck."

Casualty of War

Eve Ensler's intense drama The Treatment, at the Culture Project, examines the blurry line the U.S. military has drawn between interrogation and torture. The play does not specifically name a war, president, time period, or country, and it does not need to. Instead, it focuses on the mind-set of one soldier, who has forgotten what he is fighting for. He has also discovered violence within himself that he never knew existed, and has come home to a family that can no longer relate to him. The play opens in a green, sterile room with a tormented young veteran fitting this description: a soldier known only as Man (Dylan McDermott) who has just returned from a term overseas, full of inner demons from his job as an interrogator at a detainee camp. His wife sends him to a military psychiatrist, known as Woman (Portia), who speaks with a knowing calm, suggesting that she has spent most of her life counseling trembling young men who desperately "want their brains and families back."

Nothing rattles her, not even the soldier's unpredictable bouts of loud, hysterical anger, lewd sexual overtures, or uncontrollable urges to rattle the blinds and throw heavy metal chairs across the room. Through all of his psychological meltdowns, her eyes never blink, and her posture never collapses.

When the soldier sees that the psychiatrist is as good at her job as he once was at his, he starts to squirm. At the detainee camp, he was the one to initiate silent treatment, hold a gaze without looking away, and fire questions at scared, broken men until they cracked. Watching the psychiatrist use these tricks, he comes to the unnerving realization that now he is the scared and broken one, vulnerable to cracking at any moment.

The psychiatrist's steely expression creates a longing to know more about this strange and immovable woman. The title refers to her treatment of the soldier's nightmares and post-traumatic stress, which at times feel a little extreme, even for the military. Her abrasive nature raises questions about her own intentions toward a man who is in a deeply distraught state.

For a short, intermission-less, 70-minute play, The Treatment manages to hit many unforgettable notes of powerful emotion and disturbing truths. It reminds us that while soldiers are not the ones who start a war, they are the ones who will suffer the most for it. When this soldier says that horrible nightmares prevent him from being able to sleep, the psychiatrist gives him a hard dose of reality, reminding him that he is merely a solider, forced to follow orders, and that the people who gave those orders are sleeping just fine.

Portia and McDermott are fully immersed in their highly intense roles. They bare their characters' souls to the audience, letting everything pour out, often shifting between wild anger and unbearable sadness. Portia has perfected every nuance of a rigid military woman who thrives under pressure and loves rules. McDermott manages to be sympathetic even when he is at his most destructive. He is fully believable as a man who hears constant screaming in his head.

At one point, his nearly comatose character asks the psychiatrist, "Can you hear the loudness?" She answers, "I can feel it." By the end of the play, everyone in the audience will too.

The Band Plays On

The 1980's are a period that many people would rather forget, but authors Becky Eldridge and Amy Peterson and composer Andy Eninger have given us something wonderful to remember in Band Geeks: A Halftime Musical, playing at the Lucille Lortel Theater as part of the New York International Fringe Festival. This 80's-style musical is about a band full of social misfits trying to earn respect in a small town ruled by sports. The opening song, "Band Camp," introduces the eclectic mix of characters in a campy, high-energy dance number that features each band geek giving a musical monologue before hopping on the bus to band camp. We hear introductions from a pregnant teen, a dark goth chick, a Mennonite, a shy freshman with scoliosis and acne, an awkward orphaned boy living with his grandmother, and three seniors intent on ruling the camp and hazing freshmen. We also meet their hilarious chaperone, Mrs. Love, played by male actor Ed Jones in drag.

Unfortunately for this group of geeks ready to ship off to camp, the jocks have come to bid them farewell. Anyone who has ever dreaded gym class will love this play's depiction of the die-hard athletes who sing their praises of sports before falling to their knees and lamenting that this will be the best days of their lives before they grow up and "marry a nasty wife," lose their hair, and watch their muscle turn to fat.

But while most of the songs have catchy tunes and silly lyrics, you will occasionally catch a solemn note. At a car wash fund-raiser, the girls in the band sing about embracing physical insecurities in the song "Use What You Got." And when the kids falter before a big game, Mr. Bradford (Ross Foti), their band director, tells them, "If you can't find the rhythm and you don't know what to do, just listen to your heartbeat, 'cause the music's in you."

Audience members are also invited to embrace their inner dork by participating in the action. Two people are pulled from their seats to challenge a trumpet player for his spot, while others are given pompoms to wave at a football pep rally. Band Geeks: A Halftime Musical ends on an uplifting note for everyone, as the kids come to realize that it is O.K. to be a geek when you have your band behind you.

Forget Me Not

Our brains have the ability to sweep unpleasant memories under the rug, though they lack the ability to dispose of them permanently. Everything we bury is still there, trying to work its way back to the surface, determined to re-enter our consciousness and stay until acknowledged. Eric Meyer's absurdist dark comedy An Off-White Afternoon, playing at the Connelly Theater as part of the New York International Fringe Festival, is about a middle-aged couple, Henry (Cash Tilton) and Alice (Asta Hansen), who are struggling with repressed memories and blurry gaps from a rocky past of alcoholic hazes and heroin-induced blackouts. Though they are now clean, sober, and happily married, their interaction is strange, as if they live in two different realities. When Alice asks Henry to dress nice and graciously greet the guests of her weekly women's meeting, Henry is shocked. He protests that this is the first time he has heard of a women's meeting, while Alice insists they have had lengthy conversations about it. Henry ends the argument by saying, "Let's just forget it," and Alice quickly agrees that forgetting is best.

Forgetting appears to be a daily part of their routine, especially when it comes to discussing their past. Henry is particularly stuck on a Fourth of July party that upset him deeply, although he cannot remember why. He thinks it is because Alice was so preoccupied with socializing that she ignored him, but after she apologizes he is still agitated, perhaps because he knows this is not the real reason.

Tilton and Hansen are terrific as Henry and Alice, having found the perfect balance on the fine line Meyer has drawn between realism and absurdity. Dan Pfau and Ian Schoen are also riveting as the creepy young boys who saunter into Henry and Alice's house with timid girlfriend Julie (Anne Carlisle) in tow, hours before the women's meeting is scheduled to begin. When they hint at knowing the secrets that lie within Alice's meeting and Henry's memory lapses, our interest in them intensifies.

The story contains more twists and turns than an M. Night Shyamalan movie, so revealing anything about the ending would spoil the excellent job Meyer has done in building the suspense. But suffice it to say that An Off-White Afternoon has a satisfying payoff and a poignant message about confronting your past before your past confronts you.

Bad Hair Day

"Every story has a beginning" is both the opening song and premise of the bubbly Fringe Jr. musical Rapunzel, playing at Manhattan Children's Theater as part of the New York International Fringe Festival. When a cynical boy named Jamie and his angelic pigtailed sister Lee (played by child actors Raum-Aron and Katy Apostolico) are given a choice by their lovably upbeat Babysitter (Jenn Wehrung) about what fairy tale to read before bedtime, they are torn, having already heard them all several times. With a knowing smirk, the Babysitter selects "Rapunzel" despite the children's protests that they have heard "Rapunzel, Rapunzel, throw down your hair" a hundred times. The Babysitter asks if they know what came before that famous line, and after a moment's thought they are forced to admit they do not. They, as well as the audience, will find there are many surprises in store for those who have forgotten the beginning details.

From here we enter the world of make-believe, though the Babysitter is still onstage with the children, now acting as the Storyteller. The characters occasionally interact with her, either asking for a line or requesting that she stop interfering with theirs. Jamie and Lee occasionally offer their ideas for changes in the story, one example being when the Prince (Michael Pagett) makes his first appearance. The children decide princes are too overused in fairy tales and change his status to "artist."

The animated performances and tight plot help keep the central story strong, as the book and lyric writers, Karen Rousso, Judy Dulberg, and Kerry Wolf, supply us with a winning stream of lively songs. The standout numbers are "Why Is the Witch So Bad?" and "Snip," thanks to the amazing charisma and stage presence of the singer, D'Jamin Bartlett, who plays the Witch. Although she is clearly the show's antagonist, taking young Rapunzel from her parents and locking her in a high tower with no way out, her sassy, fun demeanor prevents her from ever being seen as truly wicked.

Rapunzel is a fun, family-friendly show appropriate for infants, toddlers, and grade-schoolers, though it is mostly intended for ages 5 to 12. As the play unfolds and builds toward its climax, it is startling to realize how many of the story's original details have been lost over time, making it the perfect tale to retell for contemporary audiences.

Little Big Man

Height really doesn't matter much when you have a heart as large as Danny's. A twenty-something, four-foot-tall dwarf making his way in New York City, he is looking for love and acceptance, not only from a girl but also from himself. In Marc Goldsmith's play Danny Boy, playing at Classic Stage Company as part of the New York International Fringe Festival, we are invited along for his mostly humorous but sometimes heartbreaking search. The plot is like a delicious stew in which each character contributes his or her own unique ingredient. Danny and his friends have a natural, sizzling chemistry onstage as they sit around his messy bachelor-pad living room exchanging dialogue that is rich with sarcasm, wit, and a deep affection that's always evident, even in their bickering.

Danny's hilarious childhood buddy, Gabe (Troy Hall), a lovable loser who can't manage to keep a job as Santa's helper, becomes fiercely protective when he feels his friend's personal integrity is being threatened. As Danny's life unfolds, we begin to understand why he inspires such deep loyalty from those around him.

Stephan Jutras brings a beautiful inner life to Danny, showing us a genuinely kind man with a magnetic personality who struggles to come to terms with the stereotypes that are always attached to people of his size. Jutras adds many layers to his character, expressing worry and pain with his eyes while fighting to keep his voice from cracking when admitting his anxieties to his seductive dream girlfriend, Allison, played wonderfully by Sarah Schoenberg.

But the person Danny needs the most protection from is himself. Often uncomfortable in his own skin, his insecurity is best demonstrated by a fishbowl full of dollars that he keeps on a nightstand. Every time he unnecessarily apologizes for himself or his feelings, he must add another dollar to the bowl. Eventually, his life unravels to the point where he is dropping napkins into the bowl with IOU scribbled across the front.

Danny Boy focuses on a character who often falls through the cracks in mainstream theater, and so this is not the type of play we see often. But Goldsmith's delightfully comedic and deeply moving production makes it a story that we will want to hear many times again.

Runaway Bride

When Blood Wedding debuted in 1930's Spain, right before the civil war, it became extremely popular there and was even called pure poetry by many critics. The flowing, rhythmical dialogue is underscored with a sad violin melody to give it the lyrical feel that its acclaimed Spanish writer, Federico Garcia Lorca, originally intended for the piece. Translated by Lillian Groag, the production playing at the Walkerspace theater bears the distinct mark of its theater company, Woodshed Collective, a group that seems to specialize in building elaborate sets out of nothing but wood. The raised square stage is made of wooden planks and surrounded by a moat of woodchips. In the backdrop, we see rows of cut logs tied together with rope hanging from the ceiling like a curtain, and two trees sprouting behind that, reaching their long, thin branches toward the stage. Eerie sawing sounds add to the wood-like atmosphere, culminating in an aggressive hammering just prior to the play's opening.

Blood Wedding is about a Bride (Anna Kull) who leaves her Bridegroom (Wil Petre) on their wedding day to run off with a neighbor, Leonardo Felix (Charles Sprinkle). Lorca's words are truly poetic and Woodshed Collective's set is beautiful, but the story is all style with little substance. The play is supposed to show the rawness of passion, the beauty of love, and the sadness of betrayal. But while these themes are conveyed by the production's technical and design elements, they are never truly embodied by its characters.

Perhaps this is because Lorca has drenched his characters in so much symbolism that it is easy to lose their realism. Only one character has a name; the rest are known only by their roles: Mother, Bride, Bridegroom, Wife, Mother-in-Law, and Father. Felix, whose family once murdered two of the Bridegroom's brothers and his father, is the only named character. But he too is a symbol, and the plot never gives a reason for the murders.

In fact, the strongest and most recurring symbol here is not a person but blood. Characters speak of blood in respectful tones as if it is an entity with a mind of its own, doing as it likes while the person it inhabits is forced to follow like a dog on a leash. The Bride certainly acts as if pulled by a chain when she impulsively leaves her new husband on their wedding day to run off with Felix, ending Act 1.

The tone changes in Act 2 when we enter a mythical forest where a white-clothed Moon (Jennifer Kathryn Marshall) weeps and the malicious, black-caped Death (Michele Athena Morgen) lurks about the trees looking for Felix and the Bride. In an interesting piece of casting, we see that Death is played by the same actress who plays the Bridegroom's bloodthirsty Mother. Their personalities seem so similar that when the Bridegroom asks, "What are you doing here?" you wonder if he is angry at the mysterious, black-cloaked woman or incredulous to find his own mother in the woods.

When Blood Wedding premiered, its themes and symbolism were relevant to that time and society. But this production establishes neither the setting nor the period, plunging us into the story as if we already know that this is early-30's Spain, on the brink of civil war.

Fortunately, the story is still interesting on a metaphorical level. There is a distinct poetry to the piece and a wonderfully established atmosphere that draws the viewer in. Its climax is particularly breathtaking. Two enraged men run at each other with knives, but before they can meet, Death raises her black cape, blocking the audience from seeing anything other than an explosion of bright, red rose petals. The scene looks like a painting, and it says more in that moment about the violence and hopelessness of the times than any other character does in pages of words.

Mouse Trap

The magical world of Disney seems a little less magical when you discover that those delightful little cartoons were written by bitter, chain-smoking alcoholics who hated their boss and their miserable jobs. In 1952, employees of the Walt Disney Studios had many reasons to drink their sorrows away while contemplating Mickey's next adventure. The writers were overworked, underpaid, unappreciated, and unable to unionize because this was the McCarthy era, when worker solidarity seemed uncomfortably close to a communist value. In Justin Sherin's riveting social drama, Mickey Mouse Is Dead, playing at 59E59 before moving on to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, we meet two disgruntled Disney writers, Finch (James Lloyd Reynolds) and Harris (Anthony Manna), members of a guild that is trying to unionize. As the nationwide communist hunt gains momentum, the guild grows increasingly worried that Walt will expose unhappy employees as communists to prevent a strike. Harris is especially worried when Walt dismisses one of his scripts, remarking that it is similar to one written by a former strike leader named Elroy. Harris whispers the name as if the very sound could have the FBI kicking down the door.

A deeply paranoid atmosphere is immediately established from the play's opening. We are introduced to the characters as they pace across a small, gray office, their lives unraveling before they can have their morning coffee.

Reynolds and Manna are excellent as Finch and Harris. They converse like two wartime buddies, looking battle-scarred and weary but most of all sad that their lives have come to this. They have endured many hardships in their years at Disney, including the soul-crushing moment when Walt claimed their Oscars as his own. But it is the streetwise Harris who knows the bottom line: "When it's down to you and me, just how sorry are you that you've got a checkbook?"

Though Walt plays a prominent role, the play is not an exposé of his life. The script alludes to real events, such as Walt testifying before the House Un-American Activities Committee and his intimidation of union activists in the early 1940's, but the story centers on his writers' perspectives. Not only did a strike once cripple his studio but his beloved Mickey Mouse has an image to maintain. How far will he go to protect this image and his business? the play asks.

The union doesn't know, and it is this unknowing that prompts it to sacrifice one of its own: a cute little rich girl from the paint and ink department named Grace (Marnye Young). She must ask Walt if he thinks there are communists working in his studio. If he says no, the union is safe. If he suggests she look toward the union, it is not. In the worse-case scenario, he will see what Grace is trying to do and arrest her for being a communist. Finch, Grace's boyfriend, is adamantly against this, but if he stops her and the FBI descends on the union, it will point accusing fingers at him.

Harris, Finch, and Grace quickly find themselves caught in a web, with no way out but to sacrifice their own lives or someone else's. Their moral conflicts delve deeply into the dark side of human nature, focusing on a pivotal moment in people's lives when they find out what they are really made of.

We meet Finch, Harris, and Grace at a time when their kindness and goodwill toward others have succumbed to a raw survival instinct. Because everyone is behaving on such a self-serving level, they are not particularly likable, though they are sympathetic. Without a union they have no rights, but if they pursue forming a union, they run the risk of being labeled communists. Either way, it appears they will lose, and for that their anger and resentment is understandable.

Many films, plays, and books have examined the effects the McCarthy era had on the entertainment industry, but Mickey Mouse Is Dead feels different because of its setting. Disney is a place where good is supposed to triumph over evil, not submit to it. Sherin was wise to choose this studio for his setting, because it shows how dangerously out of control this witch hunt became. Many innocent people were unjustly blacklisted and persecuted for being communists, but you do not truly see how sweeping the FBI's net was until you realize that no one was safe—not even Mickey Mouse.

Sister Act

If Anton Chekhov were alive today, he would no doubt take great joy in the invention of e-mail. He and his favorite actress (and lover), Olga Knipper, could have then communicated from afar with the protection of user names and passwords. Unfortunately, in the early 1900's Chekhov had no choice but to send his secret letters in envelopes easily pried open by his nosy, overbearing sister, Maria. Playwright Jovanka Bach examines the strong yet unusual bond between these two siblings in her finely tuned, bittersweet family drama, Chekhov and Maria, playing at the Barrow Group Theater. At the same time, there is a story behind the story that is equally important. Before the production begins, director John Stark provides a personal introduction, explaining to the audience that his wife, the play's author, passed away in January after a long battle with cancer. He dedicates this production to her memory.

Stark's personal understanding of the story and devotion to its characters shows in his loving direction of his late wife's play. There is a strong emotional core to Chekhov and Maria, especially considering the heartbreaking similarities between Chekhov and Bach, two playwrights who struggled to complete their work while plagued by a terminal disease.

The play opens with Chekhov (Ron Bottitta) returning to his Yalta country home after a mysteriously long vacation. Maria (Gillian Brashear) greets him like an eager puppy, bombarding him with questions, praise, interrogations, tea, cake, dinner, and mail all at once. Her keen interest in the details of his life feels strangely obsessive for a sibling, but Chekhov seems unperturbed, indulging his sister with silly stories and idle chitchat. The only hint of conflict between them concerns his love for Olga, a Moscow actress starring in a production of The Three Sisters. The brother and sister are clearly very dependent on each another yet seem too close for siblings, with Maria acting like a wife and Chekhov behaving like her domineering husband.

Bottitta takes us inside Chekhov's head, familiarizing us with the mind of one of the world's most celebrated writers, a playwright who saw humor in misfortune and farce in tragedy. This Chekhov has always rejected public notions of himself as a gloomy old man constantly writing about death and hopelessness. Remembering his impoverished childhood, growing up poor in a musty basement with several siblings and a cruel father, he speaks as though he knows tragedy, and it is not the stuff his plays are made of.

His naturalistic interaction with Maria is fascinating to watch but at times hard to bear because of her suffocating presence in his life. Brashear gives a convincing, emotionally involved performance as Maria, finding the perfect balance between a lonely old maid pining for the road not traveled and a fiery, controlling sister determined to protect her brother from himself.

She has the difficult task of caring for Chekhov as a person while catering to his demanding needs as a writer. When The Three Sisters closes, another play must open, and Chekhov is driven to stay up all night composing the new piece by candlelight at the cost of his health. Concerned about his hacking cough, Maria hides the candles so he cannot work at night, effectively halting his work but improving his well-being. Her actions, well intentioned as they might be, are always in question because she makes them without considering her brother's wishes.

Maria manipulates circumstances to keep Chekhov confined to his Yalta home while critics and audience members toast his plays in Moscow. It drives him mad to know that the cast and crew are having fun at parties and discussing the greatness of his work while he sits at home reading about it in papers. He wants badly to be at these parties with his friends, admirers, and Olga.

Though the story takes its time to set up, it eventually builds to a rich and rewarding payoff when Maria goes too far and Chekhov says too much to her, hitting a raw nerve. With their final, climactic fight, many questions are answered regarding a lifetime of difficult circumstances that have brought them so close together. Surprisingly, given the odd nature of their relationship, the answers are convincing.

It is always a great feeling to leave a theater thinking of the play you have just seen and wondering which of its two leads gave a more compelling performance. With its intimate theater setting and subtle, believable acting, Chekhov and Maria will also leave you feeling as if you had just spent an evening sitting in the great playwright's living room.

Stolen Hearts

In 1930, when films began the transformation from silent to talkies, the Association of Motion Picture Producers instituted the Hays Code to prevent movies from supposedly corrupting the nation with bad values. One of its principles prevented films from ridiculing the law or glorifying anyone who violates it. And so it comes as no surprise that Ernst Lubitsch's classic 1932 comedy Trouble in Paradise was pulled from circulation soon after it was released. Like its lovable main characters, con artists Gaston (Jeremy Shamos) and Lily (Nina Hellman), it delights in breaking all the rules. The original film has been flawlessly recreated for the stage by director Elyse Singer and writer David Simpatico, who referred to both Samson Raphaelson's screenplay and Aladar Laszlo's stage play The Honest Finder in conceiving this production, now at the Hudson Guild Theater.

The play opens in the gray Art Deco lobby of an upscale hotel. We see the shadows of two men talking behind a white curtain when, suddenly, one clubs the other over the head. As he falls to the floor, the assailant steals his wallet. In the next scene we see the smooth con artist, Gaston, smiling at his own cleverness, clearly the one responsible for the crime.

Later that night he meets his soul mate, Lily, a woman with similar talents who admires his accomplished criminal record. Their courtship unfolds over a dinner conversation loaded with sexual innuendo and an unusual flirtation: the lifting of each other's personal possessions, culminating in the theft of a garter belt.

The story then jumps ahead two years to show Gaston and Lily living together contentedly in a life of petty theft and minor heists. Everything changes the day Gaston meets Madame Colet (Carolyn Baueumler), a wealthy French perfume heiress who is careless with her money and expensive jewels. Gaston and Lily formulate a plan to steal her fortunes by masquerading as her employees. It does not take long for Madame Colet to hire the handsome and charming Gaston to be her personal secretary, and Lily to be his assistant. But as the scam proceeds, Gaston comes to realize that he is falling in love with Madame Colet.

Trouble in Paradise's most enjoyable feature is its ability to transport the audience back to its original 1930's setting. The costumes, props, set, and soundtrack are all reminiscent of a different era and a gentler Hollywood. Simpatico tips his hat to the old film's director by periodically stopping the action onstage to inject Lubitsch's booming voice into the story, providing directions, period-relevant comments, or murmurs of disgust if an actor or actress has butchered the lines.

This theatrical adaptation would make Lubitsch proud, as the jokes and punch lines consistently hit their mark. The entire cast had the audience roaring its approval, as reliably as a laugh track.

As a con with his back constantly against the wall, Gaston has to do a lot of fast talking. His dialogue is packed with complicated words and phrases that glide effortlessly off Shamos's tongue with accuracy, wit, and mind-blowing speed. Hellman plays his partner in crime, Lily, as an alluring, savvy woman, but with a layer of insecurity that surfaces when she is around the impeccably groomed Madame Colet. The funniest scenes pit the two women against each other, when Lily silently fumes in her role as an underling assistant forced to listen to her mink-clad boss speak lustfully of Gaston.

Because of the film, this production comes to the stage with a built-in audience. During the performance it was not unusual to hear people laughing in the middle of a joke, or before a new scene began. But for those who have not seen the movie, the play is a special treat; they will have the enviable experience of witnessing a comic masterpiece unfold for the first time.

It is unfortunate the original movie was a victim of its time, banished from theaters when it should have been honored. Luckily, it has resurfaced here with Simpatico's wonderful stage version, giving today's audiences the chance to enjoy a classic romantic comedy that was almost lost in time.

Warrior Princess

"Sleep now," a tired Prince Henry begs his teenage bride. "Let the castle rest." He does not see the fires of rage in her eyes when she slams the door, seething, "The castle will rest no more!" The young bride is Margaret of Anjou, and in Sarah Overman's historical drama Her Majesty the King, we watch her grow from a feisty young girl to a resilient woman warrior who casts her weakling husband aside to wage war over the land he has pathetically given to his enemies.

A story focusing on royal family feuds that span generations and divide countries can easily become bogged down in dry historical data. Fortunately, Overman's characters are so interesting that we listen closely to their poetic, old English dialogue, eager to learn the twists and turns that have brought them to this point in their lives.

The play opens with a young Margaret (Lisa McCormick) sleeping peacefully in a bedchamber veiled by a billowing white sheet. Suddenly, she is aroused by a ghostly murmur and the image of an old woman's scowling eyes looking through her curtain. She instantly recognizes the apparition as her deceased grandmother, Yolande of Aragon (Mimi Cozzens), who warns her to stay away from England and return to France. Horrified, Margaret points out that it is too late. She is on a boat that is about to dock on English shores.

Once she is plucked from the boat, Margaret scarcely has time to utter a greeting before she is met with swarming palace aides who adorn her with jewelry and harshly dress her in a shimmering red gown. After a ring is shoved on her finger, the aides deposit her in the bedroom where she is to meet her husband and produce an heir.

Unfortunately, her new groom, Henry VI (Michael Keyloun), is a lanky man with nervous ticks and jerky movements who is terribly frightened of leadership. While he shies away from the throne, his vicious opponent, the Duke of York (Jason Kolotouros), gets closer to seizing it for himself. Seven years after his marriage to Margaret, Henry VI finally gives in and lets him have it. Margaret is furious. Not only has she been married into a family that is about to become obsolete, but she has just given birth to a male heir. She wails that her son will now be a stranger to his country—"he who should be king!"

What we see next is the strength of a woman determined to fight for the life that is rightfully hers. If her husband is not going to act as king, she will do it for him. She sheds her youthful gowns and emerges as an armored adult warrior, played with vigor and fortitude by Diana LaMar. As an inspiring speaker and valiant and fearless fighter, she is followed into battle regardless of the fact that she is a woman.

The 15th-century Wars of the Roses ensue, in which the houses of York and Lancaster struggle for the throne of England. Yet there is so much more at stake than the outcome of this conflict. While the characters in this play dutifully assume the leadership roles they were born to play, they have moments of heartbreaking vulnerability where they long to marry for love and have children who are not likely to die on a battlefield. McCormick's portrayal of Margaret in these scenes is painful to watch. Beneath the layers of armor is a child's soul that yearns for a carefree life free of crowns, titles, or inheritance. Her character shines a harsh light on royal marriage, showing how easily the world forgets that people born to be pawns are still born people.

Margaret's role in history is not complimentary. Some would argue rightfully so, since she caused a war in a country she was sold to for peace. But in Her Majesty the King we see the human side of this often vilified queen. Here, she is a young girl, a doting mother, a loved mistress, a loyal granddaughter, and a strong, intelligent leader. This story is likely to make even her biggest detractors pause and wonder if maybe her only real crime in life was to skillfully play the cards she was dealt in a world where females were not expected to understand the game.