Seeing Through

In the 1940's, psychologists Kenneth and Mamie Clark conducted their famous "Doll Test," in which young black children were given four baby dolls (identical except for color) and instructed to select the dolls that they preferred. Most of the children favored the white dolls, and the Clarks' astonishing findings were later used as evidence in the landmark 1950 anti-segregation case Brown v. Board of Education. Adapted for the stage with wit and grace by Lydia Diamond, Toni Morrison's classic 1970 novel The Bluest Eye explores a tumultuous and troubling rift between what we are and what we hope to be. The Chicago-based Steppenwolf Theater Company's production of the book, set in Morrison's own hometown of Lorain, Ohio, circa 1941, has been brought to New York by the New Victory Theater, and it resonates with both startling anguish and irrevocable truth. Most important, it bursts with life and an imperative story. Intended for young audiences, this resplendent and compelling play, about 11-year-old Pecola Breedlove's quest for blue eyes, should be required watching for everyone.

The rhetoric of the popular "Dick and Jane" books frames The Bluest Eye, as Pecola totes around a book extolling the untarnished, lily-white lives of a stable family so different from her own. As the play begins, she reads aloud from her book, and the rest of the cast slowly joins in, creating a confusing muddle of undistinguishable words. Clipped sentences—"Father, will you play with Jane? Father is smiling. Smile, Father, smile."—are the basis of this overly simplified, impossibly idealistic story that devolves into ugly noise—a cacophony of voices that drowns out Pecola's plaintive tones.

On Stephanie Nelson's effective, multilevel set, which is strung with clotheslines teeming with laundry in shades of rose and beige, the action springs back and forth in time to flesh out Morrison's complex characters. Frieda and Claudia, two sisters who are Pecola's neighbors and friends, narrate much of the story. They rarely leave the stage, and their presence as young witnesses gives Pecola's experiences added significance.

Pecola, we learn, has become pregnant with her father's baby, but we shouldn't expect to discover why. Instead, "since why is difficult to handle," Claudia warns, "one must take refuge in how."

And so Morrison begins to gently trace the players and events that accumulate to form Pecola's tragedy. Most centrally, there is her father, Cholly, an angry and vicious man who was abandoned as a baby and sexually exploited by white men, and her mother, Pauline, who lavishes loving words on the young white girl where she works but forces her own daughter to refer to her as "Mrs. Breedlove."

Even when Pecola steps out of her chaotic home, she faces the disdainful glare of the drugstore clerk, the chiding of neighborhood gossips, and, most poignantly, the white, blue-eyed visage that reminds her of everything she lacks. Pecola fastens onto this likeness—as embodied by Shirley Temple, pale plastic dolls, and, most animatedly, her well-groomed classmate Maureen Peal—and fervently believes that when God grants her blue eyes, she will be loved and no longer invisible.

Director Hallie Gordon has shaped a haunting and intriguing production, rendering horrific events (particularly incest and rape) without graphic display; instead, characters simply speak Morrison's words to relate these events. The imagination is a powerful thing, Gordon reminds us, and we are left to fill in the gruesome blanks.

The magnificent cast is anchored by the steadfast Alana Arenas, whose sweet, genuine voice is tinged with hope as she reveals Pecola's vulnerability and quiet determination. Monifa M. Days and Libya V. Pugh offer plucky and thoughtful characterizations of Frieda and Claudia, while Chavez Ravine and Victor J. Cole turn in nuanced portrayals of Pecola's sparring parents. TaRon Patton, as Frieda and Claudia's feisty and fussy Mama, nearly steals the show every time she takes the stage. Spouting love and criticism at lightning speed (and with crackling humor), she is the very personification of tough love.

Diamond has wisely kept much of Morrison's poetic language intact to glorious effect, as when Claudia ruminates on the love that thrives in her household, even under the thumb of her gruff Mama: "I could smell it—taste it—sweet, musty, with an edge of wintergreen in its base. It stuck, along with my tongue, to the frosted windowpanes."

And love—of any kind—is what Pecola lacks. Morrison's novels endure in part because she gathers up so much humanity to patch together asymmetrical characters who overflow with heart, soul, and extreme desperation. And although Morrison claims to offer us only the "how" of what happened to Pecola, the "why" hangs over these events, tangled up with the characters' lives and stories, including everything that came before and everything that will follow.

Meeting of Minds

There are few regional, university, or community theaters that have not produced the absurdist comedy Picasso at the Lapin Agile, a casual encounter between Albert Einstein and Pablo Picasso sprung from the wild and irreverent imagination of Steve Martin. A cinematic version is even in the works, tentatively scheduled for a 2008 release. Now in its sixth season, the Astoria Performing Arts Center has brought Martin's play to Queens in a compelling and sharply rendered production. Since it opened its doors, the APAC has hopscotched around the neighborhood; currently, it has a temporary home in the Brocolli Theater at the Variety Boys and Girls Club of Queens, and set designer Michael P. Kramer has convincingly transformed one corner of a bare gymnasium into a warm and well-worn Parisian cafe circa 1904.

In this fanciful and intriguing script, Einstein and Picasso meet and exchange ideas on the eve of major watershed moments in their careers—in 1905, Einstein would publish "The Special Theory of Relativity," while Picasso painted his famous "Les Demoiselles D'Avignon" in 1907.

It's a testament to both Martin's brilliance and battiness that he would choose to juxtapose a scientist and a painter; ostensibly, head would meet heart, reason would meet spontaneity, and sparks would fly. Instead, these dualities are complicated as the men speak of celebrity, intellect, and cultural significance. And when a mysterious visitor, who looks an awful lot like Elvis Presley, appears late in the show, he further challenges established notions of perpetuity, fame, and fortune.

Rather than map out a simple two-sided argument, Martin has filled his supporting cast with a host of eccentric and incendiary characters. There's Freddy, the acerbic proprietor, and his sharp-tongued girlfriend, Germaine; Suzanne, a winsome young girl who arrives with a drawing that Picasso gave her after a romantic liaison; Sagot, an over-the-top art dealer in a sparkly cape; Schmendiman, a would-be genius in an oversized bowtie; and Gaston, a regular patron who makes intermittent comments about sex and other bodily functions. "Why do all the nuts show up in one evening?" he wonders as he lumbers toward the toilet.

Under Lawrence Lesher's efficient direction, this production pops with energetic verbal interchanges. The opening expository scenes could use a bit more snap, but when Sagot sashays in with a miniature Matisse in tow, the conversation immediately becomes more pointed.

Martin's writing is certainly sophisticated, but its humor is often elusive, as if written to please the author, not the audience. But if the proceedings are not always laugh-out-loud funny, Martin manages to pull off moments of exemplary wit. At the end of a particularly incomprehensible outburst, Schmendiman adds, "No pun intended." "No pun achieved," Freddy dryly corrects him.

Martin is also quick to question the limitations of the theatrical form. The play was written in 1993, before audiences became glutted with such devices, and these self-aware asides and winks at the audience ("Yes, dear audience, we the actors know that we are doing a play") were certainly more novel then than they are now. And yet, even as Martin challenges the form, he also manages to endorse it.

As Sagot shows off his tiny Matisse, he points to the frame as its most important feature: "Otherwise, anything goes. You want to see a soccer game where the players can run up into the stands with the ball and order a beer? No. They’ve got to stay within the boundaries to make it interesting. In the right hands, this little space is as fertile as Eden." The boundaries of a stage, then, can also be liberating.

In the excellent cast, Jimmy T. Owens is particularly splendid as the melodramatic Sagot, while Alex Pappas and Meryl Bezrutczyk imbue Freddy and Germaine with the perfect amount of tart domesticity. Timothy J. Cox gives an inspired and explosive comic performance as the loony Schmendiman. Lean and lank with a shock of dark hair and a bushy, stand-alone moustache, Jordan Kaplan makes an amiable and slightly unhinged Einstein.

Only Rafi Silver struggles a bit in his rendering of Picasso. True, it's not the best-written role—at times, Picasso comes off as little more than a marauding womanizer—but Silver doesn't reveal much depth behind his passionate gaze.

Picasso at the Lapin Agile would seem to be an ideal opener for the APAC. Although it is often produced, the play is perpetually alluring for communities of artists. And as Astoria becomes a home for more and more creative types, they will eventually surface to debate issues of art and culture. One cafe, the Waltz-Astoria, has already opened its doors to area artists, sponsoring live musical performances and poetry readings in the hopes of creating a vibrant community. At this moment, a future Picasso or Einstein might be sipping a glass of Greek wine.

No Shrinking Flower

Deborah Louise Ortiz did not have an idyllic childhood. But in her sassy and poignant solo project Changing Violet, Ortiz—who both wrote and performs the piece—is a feisty force to be reckoned with. As Violet (her fictional alter ego), Ortiz outlines the years she spent growing up in the Bronx and Manhattan, where the only apparent constants were drugs and abuse. It's a perilous cycle, but Ortiz explores it with courageous honesty and conviction, deliberately locating other, more positive influences steadily humming in the background. To mitigate her heavy subject matter, Ortiz has framed her story within the makings of a disrupted fairy tale. When she first appears, she experiments with a more traditional opening. "Once upon a time," she intones, but then makes a face as if she's tasted something bitter. Instead, she divulges, "it all started with a song," as the strains of Tom Petty's "Free Fallin'" launch us into her memories.

Indeed, under the adept direction of Terri Muuss, Ortiz virtually dances through her life, although her beatific smile and smooth movements belie the often violent and disturbing subject matter that follows. As the episodic scenes unfold, an eclectic grab bag of tunes (from hard rock to "The Brady Bunch") pipe in as the action moves through time and location.

Clad in a clingy black top and pants, Ortiz plucks various items of clothing from a clothesline, effectively playing dress-up to suggest her age and situation at seminal moments in Violet's life. Among other incarnations, we meet a young Violet in pigtails earnestly penning a letter to Santa Claus, a teenaged and romantic Violet obsessed with Elvis Presley, and a 20-something Violet in thrall to drugs and alcohol, desperately trying to block out life's misery.

Throughout, Violet resists the sexual advances of her increasingly abusive and drug-addicted father while persistently urging her mother to remove her from his influence. In a particularly compelling scene, Violet prepares for her wedding. "I feel just like Cinderella," she says with a sigh, but her new abusive husband perpetuates the cycle, leaving the young bride—who has abandoned a budding acting career—alone to care for their baby.

Although a few scenes are thinly drawn, for the most part Ortiz negotiates her material with grace and vigor. However, repeated instances of substance use and abuse fail to register as sensational—merely witnessing these actions is no longer as troubling as observing their harrowing aftereffects. Furthermore, the abuse (emotional, physical, and sexual) that Violet suffers, while frequently alluded to, could be examined in greater detail.

It would also help to see more of Violet's passion for performing, where her personality shines through most freely. One of the strongest scenes depicts Violet's first audition, where a Latino theater company immediately casts her against racial type (she is Puerto Rican, and asked to portray someone who is not). Here, Ortiz reveals Violet's spirit, humor, and moxie. Allowing more of these qualities to emerge would make Violet more vibrant—more of an actor than a reactor to the events in her life.

Ortiz is a captivating performer, and her deep, husky voice frequently erupts into a sandpapery laugh that is both brittle and endearing. She is a weathered yet wistful presence, and her generous delivery has an undeniable undercurrent of danger. Ortiz—who went on to become a performer and a playwright—fearlessly harnesses the spirit of a powerful woman just this side of disaster.

"When I dance, it helps me to forget," Violet confides, and her gyrations propel her away from a string of fallen Prince Charmings (her father, a boyfriend, even Elvis) as she searches for the little girl she left behind. It's astonishing that she (and Ortiz!) has endured this veritable lifetime of definitive experiences, and all before the age of 30. Dangerous Curves Productions (of which Ortiz is a partner) is devoted to helping women find their voices in theater, and Changing Violet—happy ending or not—is an enlightening contribution to that quest.

Bodies and Minds In Motion: Visible Theater Merges the Personal and Political

New York magazine theater critic Jeremy McCarter recently lamented the lack of truly "political" theater in the city. Instead of well-calibrated incendiary writing, all too often he sees "issue" plays, dramas that reinforce liberal ideals while effectively preaching to the choir.

"A genuinely political play," he maintains, "does more than affirm. It doesn't ask for our attention, it demands our engagement—moral, emotional, and intellectual. Paradoxically, it draws us out of ourselves to take us into ourselves, forcing us to rethink what we think we know."

With the goal of "bringing the anarchy of life to the discipline of the stage," Visible Theater, founded in 2000 by Krista Smith, is a company with the resources and ideals to both demand and expand the attention of its audiences. Devoted to the development and deployment of ambitious, incisive, and inclusive theater projects, Visible is not content to merely present issues; instead, its members wrestle with preconceptions and misconceptions about the world, the country, and the body. In doing so, Visible has become not only one of New York's most provocative artistic companies but also one of its most nurturing.

Photo Credit: Carol Rosegg

A variety of grants and generous supporters have allowed Smith to focus on the intense acting training, script development, and workshops that are her chief priorities. ("My true love is the process, not the destination," she says.) Now, however, the company is poised to showcase two of its collaborative ventures simultaneously at the Abingdon Theater Complex this month: Krankenhaus Blues, a darkly comic play that had a successful run last year at the now closed Blue Heron Arts Center, and True Story Project: SEX!, a storytelling endeavor inspired and informed by real-life sexual experiences.

Krankenhaus Blues has become something of a showpiece for Visible, shaped within a lengthy gestation period of active collaboration. Sam Forman's play, an exploration of disability, genocide, and show business set against the backdrop of the Holocaust, reflects Smith's objective to make theater that will "allow silenced voices to speak and send a ripple of shared humanity into the universe." The production reunites director Donna Mitchell with actors Christine Bruno, Bill Green, and Joe Sims, who return to reprise their acclaimed performances. Helen Yee composed the original music, which she performs throughout the show.

Unlike the case with many Off-Off-Broadway productions, which are often thrown together in a few weeks, Visible has had the luxury of extended incubation periods, and Krankenhaus Blues was no exception. Smith, an actress, director, and vocal advocate for the disabled, originally commissioned the play from Forman with her company specifically in mind. Her proposal: a dramatic exploration of the treatment of the disabled in Germany during the Holocaust.

Photo Credit: Carol Rosegg

"She thought, and rightly so, that disabled people had been left out of a lot of the work that's been done about the Holocaust, and—to our knowledge—there hasn't been a play about disability and genocide produced in New York," says Forman, who spent time in Berlin to familiarize himself with the region's history and culture. A friend of Smith's, he worked for two years on the script, embellishing and tweaking the characters based on the cast's improvisational skills during an intense rehearsal period.

According to Mitchell, another friend who was invited into the project early on, the play focuses on the first (and lesser-documented) wave of Holocaust victims, which included the disabled, homosexuals, artists, and Gypsies—disenfranchised individuals who were snatched from their families and taken to German hospitals (called a Krankenhaus), where they were subjected to torture and experiments before being murdered.

Rather than compact the facts neatly into a strictly linear and prescriptive narrative, Forman took a broader, looser approach. "Donna didn't discourage me from bringing my own modern, New York, ironic sensibility to [the show]," Forman remembers. "We really tried to stay away from the historical docudrama and ended up instead with something much more personal and peculiar to our own experiences."

In this way, the creation of Krankenhaus Blues became an exercise in free association and artistic discovery for those involved. "Jokes, songs, dirty sex talk, agitprop, ghost stories, and personal memories" all found their way into this "odd hybrid of a world," says Forman. A skilled comic writer, he lets his humor percolate within the script as the action traverses back and forth through time, space, and consciousness.

As the performers and creative team compiled their stories and experiences, they generated a sense of history both shared and individual—a look at how a huge event (here, the Holocaust) can affect people's lives in such profound yet disparate ways. "I think the show gives people a lot to talk about: our individual relationships to history and world politics, people's sense of powerlessness, [and] the importance of human connection in this crazy and cruel world," Forman says. "The play deals a lot with feelings of alienation and 'otherness,' and people reaching out towards each other across the big, scary void."

Photo Credit: Carol Rosegg

He continues, "On a personal level, I think it's been important to write these roles for physically disabled actors that are a little 'outside the box.' I know a lot of disabled actors have been frustrated in the past with the sorts of roles that are usually available to them on the stage and screen, and I think a company like Visible is doing a very good thing by commissioning writers to create challenging material for these very talented actors."

Social exclusion certainly applies to the theater and entertainment industries, and Visible's performers—many of whom are disabled themselves—have both noted and appreciated Visible's commitment to acknowledging and celebrating their lives.

"I want people in the theater to see me onstage and have to completely re-evaluate what it means to be human," jokes Christine Bruno. (It's actually one of her lines in the play.) Bruno, who first met Smith when the two were students at the Actors Studio Drama School in the late 90's, plays Anka, an overwrought actress with a father fixation. And although she makes light of her character's lofty theatrical goals, Bruno's performance very directly challenges notions of reality and humanity as Anka sings and slinks her way into dialogue with the other characters.

For Bruno, who is disabled, Krankenhaus Blues presented an opportunity to expand audience members' experiences with disability. "I want them to understand that disabled people are much more similar to nondisabled people than they are different," she says. "We experience a full complement of emotions, not just sadness, longing, and the pursuit of our place in the world. We're neither victim nor inspiration. We can be funny, sexy, sexual, wacky, sarcastic, arrogant, rude, and messy—like everyone else."

Photo Credit: Carol Rosegg

Categorizing people may be convenient, but labels imply limitations, even when created by ostensibly charitable institutions and individuals. Determined to complicate and disrupt troubling archetypes, "Visible is groundbreaking in that we are not working towards inclusion, we just are inclusive," Smith says.

And although such lengthy development periods can be prohibitive (in terms of regular ticket buyers, for example), it's still the only way Smith can imagine working. Her plans for the company are similarly nurturing and assiduous. She and her husband will continue to host artists' retreats outside New York (the last one was in Maine) and continue to foster dynamic work in the Visible LAB. Despite the company's successes, "I am not interested in expanding or building an empire," she vows. "Visible will just continue to be 'boutique-like' in its structure, focusing on cultivating artists and developing new works."

Visible's approach to theater sprang directly from Smith and Mitchell's experiences acting together in a production of Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? Improvisational in nature, the company primarily employs Konstantin Stanislavski's Active Analysis technique (along with selected theories from acting teacher Sanford Meisner and the Viewpoints technique) to provide a grounded yet spontaneous environment for its performers.

The Visible LAB, which meets weekly, offers artists an opportunity to experiment and refine their performances in a safe and supportive environment. "It is a holistic, integrative approach to freeing the instrument," Smith says, and participants work on preparation—including meditation and yoga—as well as scene study and improvisation work.

"Rehearsing a play in this manner brings a sense of organized chaos to the stage," Smith says. "It invites the actors to be spontaneous within the given circumstances of the play."

After attending a storytelling festival, Smith was prompted to incorporate that technique into Visible's work as well. True Story Project: SEX! is the third original production to evolve from the sharing of personal stories, and many of the tales were further developed within Visible's monthly Writing Circle.

"It was clear to me that autobiographical storytelling was an incredible vehicle for being heard and for connecting," Smith says. "The work is honest, bold, and incredibly moving."

Storytelling was also a vital component in the genesis of Krankenhaus Blues, and the actors were encouraged to explore their own experiences as they developed their characters.

Bruno, who also participates in the Visible LAB, compares her work in the LAB to the rehearsal process for Krankenhaus Blues, which, she says, was "built on a spirit of improvisation, relaxation, following impulses, and developing your artistry from a place of truth with an available body and an open mind and heart."

Joe Sims, who plays the sardonic clown Fritz in Krankenhaus Blues, became involved with Visible on a dare from a friend, who invited him to participate in a workshop for the True Story Project.

"I was totally blown away by what I found there," he remembers. "It really shattered my previous conceptions about acting and theater." His performance in Krankenhaus Blues marked his debut in a full-length production.

He also credits Visible for its commitment to exposing deeper truths onstage. "It's really hard to be honest about yourself," he says of his work in the True Story Project. And because Forman created Fritz with Sims specifically in mind, it is impossible for him to hide behind a truly "fictional" character. "In some ways it's tough going still," he says, "but Visible creates a space for working that is challenging but safe."

Sims, who is also disabled, savors the apocalyptic environment of Krankenhaus Blues. "The play takes place the moment before dying," he says, "but it's such a full moment. What led them up to that moment? What led them to the brink? That's so important, because those events should never be forgotten, lest we have to relive them again today."

The anachronism and irreverence of Krankenhaus Blues create much of its humor but also reveal the Holocaust as an extreme example of a very contemporary phenomenon: the way many people work to distance themselves from those who aren't "normal." As she discussed the show, director Mitchell was quick to point out the current cultural obsession with irony, and the ways in which many contemporary artistic projects take an ironic stance as a means of holding truth at arm's length. Sarcasm and self-referential humor, it seems, provide sturdy protection against facing reality directly and honestly.

In Krankenhaus Blues, irony becomes less of a shield and more of an instrument to strip characters down to their essential truths, exposing the audience's elementary expectations and, as critic Jeremy McCarter hoped, prompting them to "rethink what we think we know."

Although Visible may be one of the few companies to be creating political theater at this cultural moment, the focus remains more on inciting revolution within individual lives than on spectacular theatrics. Smith pursues change on a personal level—artist by artist, story by story. And it's theater that is meant to be not just watched or performed but lived.

"Visible Theater is one of the few theaters in the country that truly represents the full complement of what you see out on the street, at least in any big city," Bruno says. But, she adds, "it's not a disability-specific theater company. You'll see people of all colors, ethnicities, genders, sexual persuasions, disabled and nondisabled, mixing it up and living their lives."

Photo Credit: Carol Rosegg

Visit Visible Theater at http://www.visibletheatre.org.

Pats on the Back and Trophies Too: IT Awards Celebrate Off-Off Broadway

Working Man's Clothes's To Nineveh: A Modern Miracle, a contemporary retelling of several Old Testament stories, was the big winner at the second annual Innovative Theater (IT) Awards Sept. 18, taking home six awards, including Outstanding Production of a Play, Outstanding Director, and Outstanding Ensemble. Prospect Theater Company's Iron Curtain was named Outstanding Production of a Musical and also earned the award for costume design. Other multiple winners were T. Schreiber Studio (three) and La MaMa E.T.C. (two).

Cast of To Nineveh: A Modern Miracle
Photo Credit: Sans Peur Photography

The IT Awards ceremony, dedicated to honoring Off-Off-Broadway theater, took place in the Great Hall of historic Cooper Union. The venue, a cavernous basement theater where Abraham Lincoln reputedly once gave a speech, seemed appropriate for the Off-Off-Broadway crowd, a menagerie of artists accustomed to working in basements, storefronts, or wherever else they might conceivably create a performance space.

The return of the IT Awards marks an exciting moment for Off-Off-Broadway theater and for companies whose eccentric names (including Milk Can, Waterwell, Handcart, Vortex, Impetuous, Emerging Artists, and Andhow!) conjure up more creativity and intrigue than those of Broadway producers Nederlander, Shubert, Dodger, and Disney. Many winners were quick to thank the IT Awards, including Isaac Byrne, who was recognized as outstanding director. "When we work at this level, for little or no money," he said, "it helps to be validated and makes it all worthwhile."

This year's 151 nominations represented 49 productions from 40 different theater companies. Reflecting the ever-shifting terrain of the Off-Off-Broadway scene, only one individual nominee, Boo Killebrew of CollaborationTown, was also nominated in 2005. (Twelve theater companies had nominations both years.) As charismatic host Charles Busch remarked, Off-Off-Broadway theater may be impossible to define, but having an awards show is certainly a way of getting "a little bit closer."

The most important change Executive Directors Jason Bowcutt, Shay Gines, and Nick Micozzi made in their sophomore season is one of jurisdiction. Like last year, to be award-eligible a production was required to play a set number of performances with a budget of $40,000 or less and ticket prices of $30 or less. But this year, in an effort to better represent the fluctuating borders of Off-Off-Broadway theater and its practitioners, productions from Queens and Brooklyn were also up for consideration. This was timely for the Astoria Performing Arts Center's critically acclaimed production of the musical Forever Plaid, which earned three nominations.

Jason Bowcutt, Shay Gines, Nick Micozzi

The audience was younger and rowdier than the crowd at the Tony Awards, and its dress tended more toward cowboy boots, spiked hair, and sequins than black tie and tails. As pointed out by the lively and witty opening number, this is theater made by hardworking, talented people–who also have day jobs. Gleefully directed by Christopher Borg and cheekily performed by an uproarious and sizzling ensemble, the song paid fond tribute to the unglamorous realities of Off-Off-Broadway: venues with no air-conditioning, props constructed by actors, Equity showcases (in which actors don't get paid but are reimbursed for travel), and a lack of agents and publicists.

The audience laughed in commiseration. Throughout the night, there was a sense of "almost too good to be true" bewilderment, as artists seemed to wonder, Is this really an awards ceremony for us? This incredulity extended to the sophisticated award presentations, where anonymous-sounding voice-overs introduced nominees, whose photos (both a headshot and a production still) were projected on three screens. Those assembled couldn't help but snicker at the slick professionalism, a fancy presentation indeed for productions typically mounted on shoestring budgets.

An eclectic roster of artists dropped in to present awards. "You're all so damned innovative," purred actress Martha Plimpton, who presented the featured actor awards, and controversial composer Michael John LaChiusa announced the Outstanding Music Award. Downtown drag sensation Lypsinka gave the Outstanding Solo Performance Award to Margaux Laskey (size ate), who thanked her family for giving her so much material.

Lypsinka, presenter Outstanding Solo Performance
Photo Credit: David Anthony

Choreographer Jeff Calhoun, currently at work on the Broadway transfer of Grey Gardens, struggled just to make it to the ceremony. Apologizing for his raspy voice, Calhoun confessed that a nasty bout of strep throat had kept him home from rehearsal that day, but declared that he couldn't miss the IT Awards, where, he said with a wink, "size doesn't matter." He presented the Choreography/Movement Award to the Vampire Cowboys Theater Company's Marius Hanford, who thanked the IT Awards for acknowledging the importance and artistic integrity of fight choreography and stage combat.

Marius Hanford recipient of Outstanding Choreography/Movement

Photo Credit: David Anthony

Ben Vereen got a standing ovation when he appeared to present the 2006 Artistic Achievement Award to Tom O'Horgan, an Off-Off-Broadway pioneer who also revolutionized Broadway with his productions of Hair and Jesus Christ Superstar. A much respected and proficient theater artist, O'Horgan is the only director to have had four hit shows running on Broadway simultaneously, and yet he has never won a Tony. Vereen remembered that the legendary Bob Fosse called O'Horgan "my inspiration," and applauded the IT Awards for recognizing a man of genius. Vereen also commended the crowd for being artists with "the tenacity to tell the big boys, 'We're going to do theater anyway!' "

Ben Vereen
Photo Credit: David Anthony

Tom O'Horgan, recipient of Artistic Achievement Award
Photo Credit: David Anthony

There was a strong sense of nostalgia and passing the torch among the presenters. Tony-winning designer William Ivey Long handed the Outstanding Costume Design Award to former assistant Sidney Shannon, and Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright Lanford Wilson, who presented the award for Outstanding Production of a Play, prophesied, "I was there; you'll be here."

Actress and playwright Lisa Kron, whose critically beloved play Well moved to Broadway last season, handed the award for Outstanding Performance Art to the New York Neo-Futurists for their production of Too Much Light Makes the Baby Go Blind. The large troupe promptly turned their acceptance speech into a piece of performance art, as they simultaneously burst out into expressive and exultant 30-second speeches, indistinguishable from one another but overwhelmingly grateful as a whole. Veteran downtown performers Mary Testa, Jason Kravitz, and Marylouise Burke also presented awards, as did director and playwright Adam Rapp.

The 2006 Stewardship Award went to the Field, a resource center for independent performing artists that offers such services as peer feedback workshops, performance opportunities, creative retreats, career workshops, and computer access.

Backstage editor Leonard Jacobs presented the third and final honorary award, the 2006 Caffe Cino Fellowship, to the Vampire Cowboys, a nonprofit company that creates theater with a commitment to stage combat, dark comedy, and the mating of genres. Co-founder and Artistic Director Qui Nguyen and Managing Director Abby Marcus accepted the award and introduced several company members, who performed highly charged excerpts from their 2006 hit show Living Dead in Denmark.

The IT Awards voting process gives audiences input (their online votes count for 25 percent) while encouraging companies to see each other's shows. When a production submits itself for competition, three cast, crew, or production team members are required to go out and judge other productions. In this way, the creators hope to facilitate a greater sense of community and relationships among the many diverse (and busy) Off-Off-Broadway artists.

The attendance at Cooper Union was impressive but not sold out, yet those empty seats could be filled next year with more theater companies and artists eager to come together and celebrate their work. Off-Off-Broadway now has a seat at the awards table, and with awards come legitimacy, publicity, and, as Charles Busch reminded the audience, the chance to keep defining and redefining who they are and what they do.

Charles Busch
Photo Credit: David Flestcher Washington

For a full list of winners and hundreds of photos from the ceremony visit the New York Innovative Theater Awards website at http://www.nyitawards.org/anr/.

Can't Fight Gracie Mansion

Revolution has frequently spawned musicals, from the working-class uprisings of Evita to the cheeky protests of Urinetown. The creators of the snarky yet unsatisfying musical Smoking Bloomberg have staged their own mini-revolt in New York City: the quest of Kim, a Korean dry cleaner, to reverse the antismoking policy that threatens her business. Apparently, the 2003 law banning smoking in public spaces also decreased consumer demand for dry cleaning, as smoke-free dining and drinking produced smoke-free (and less smelly) clothing. Out on the street, Kim meets another Kim, a male Korean dry cleaner so destitute he has taken up prostitution. Seizing upon their common misfortune while being hounded by feisty factions of smokers and nonsmokers who compete for her allegiance, Kim sets out to find Mayor Mike Bloomberg and convince him to overturn the law.

Writers David Cornue, Sam Holtzapple, Warren Loy, and Chris Todd have penned a melodious and frequently witty score, including a tongue-in-cheek love duet for the Kims that makes prodigious and unexpectedly amorous use of the term "perchloroethylene," the toxic chemical used in dry cleaning. Trouble is, this ambitious satire, presented at the New York Musical Theater Festival, aims to skewer, well, seemingly everything and everybody, regardless of religious, ethnic, or smoking affiliation. The streaks of ironic commentary are so broad they frequently become tiresome and confusing. What's more, while it's difficult enough to believe in the Kims' unbridled passion for dry cleaning, the constant spoofing (which often takes the form of overdone accents, irreverent gestures, and silly one-liners) undermines any dramatic fervor and sense of justice.

Although the script craftily critiques many current and turbulent issues, including the Patriot Act and noise pollution, its bite is mostly obscured by sex jokes and distracting stereotypes. By the time Joe Camel (an actor sporting a huge stuffed animal head) struts out near the end of the show, rampant confusion has distorted any discernible morals.

Director John Ruocco has staged the flimsy material capably, if not thrillingly, and the actors all deliver fine performances. Tina Stafford and Blair Ross do excellent work with a handful of pithy roles, and Jihyen Park exhibits winning sweetness, if not quite enough sass, as the crusading Kim.

Rob Odorisio's set, anchored by racks of (what else?) dry cleaning, is both inspired and functional, while Tyler Micoleau's lighting displays a variety of appealing backgrounds. But although the lights focus tightly on the characters, the aspirations of Smoking Bloomberg are ultimately lost in a cloud of smoke.

September Song

It was the little show that could, and apparently it still can. Timeless, ageless, and apparently dauntless, The Fantasticks has been revived with plenty of heart at the new Snapple Theater Center. Tom Jones and Harvey Schmidt's paean to young love debuted Off Broadway in 1960 at the Sullivan Street Playhouse; when it finally closed in 2002, it had played over 17,000 performances, spawned some 11,000 productions in the United States and 700 productions worldwide, and was the longest-running theatrical production ever. But why does a story about the flutters and foibles of young love still capture our hearts? Why pay to see a production whose special effects include colorful confetti and a cardboard moon when, across the street, you can see monkeys swinging from the eaves in Wicked? And, above all, why revive this musical less than five years after it ended its epic run?

Somehow, it is still impossible to fight the magic that is The Fantasticks, starting with "Try to Remember," the opening ballad that quickly became a standard. The song is an invitation to a simpler, more innocent moment and mind-set, and during the performance on the five-year anniversary of 9/11, it resonated with chilling poignancy. As El Gallo (Burke Moses), villain and narrator, gently began to sing, stillness embraced the audience:

Try to remember the kind of September When life was slow and oh, so mellow.

The song coaxes us toward faith and innocence, which the audience collectively struggled to summon despite the reality of what September has come to mean.

Perhaps the greatest lesson taught by The Fantasticks is that although your moon may be made of cardboard, what counts is how much you believe in it. Jones's book and lyrics put forth a rather generic tale: a boy, Matt (Santino Fontana), and a girl, Luisa (Sara Jean Ford), fall in love while separated by the wall built by their quibbling fathers to keep them apart. But in a classic example of parental reverse psychology, the fathers actually want their children to marry, and they concoct an elaborate scheme, complete with the abduction of Luisa by the enigmatic El Gallo, to convince their children that their romantic attraction is real. But can romance survive when flattering moonlight gives way to invasive sunshine and thorny flaws?

Jones has directed this revival based on Word Baker's original staging, and, under the stage name of Thomas Bruce, he also jumps back into a role he originated back in 1960: Henry, The Old Actor. Jones certainly makes an older Old Actor than he once did, and his gentleness, joy, and sincerity make him a lovable and endearing mascot of the show he shepherded to life. When Henry steps out of a trunk with his sidekick, Mortimer (the delightfully rubber-faced Robert R. Oliver), they aid El Gallo in the staged abduction of Luisa.

Henry's shock and delight that El Gallo remembers one of his obscure previous performances underscores the deification of theater and its legacy. "Try to see me under light," Henry charges us, for he is convinced that under stage lights, anything and everything is possible.

Jones's uncomplicated staging gently enhances the story: The Mute (Douglas Ullman Jr.) serves as stagehand, doling out costumes from a multipurpose trunk; glitter doubles as rain; a dowel held horizontally creates the wall. Ed Wittstein's costumes contribute splashes of vitality, especially the lively mismatching of the two fathers, who wear a complementary collision of plaid, stripes, suspenders, and hats. Wittstein's spare set takes best possible advantage of the disappointingly low clearance of the Snapple Theater's space; as the latest in corporate-funded venues, it is functional but hardly alluring. El Gallo even takes a jab at the low ceiling when he attempts to tip his hat and realizes he's boxed in by his surroundings.

Fontana and Ford are appealingly fresh-faced and vibrant; Fontana uses his wide-eyed grin and warm voice to great success, and Ford gives Luisa a refreshing mix of sarcasm and wit, allowing us to see the woman lurking beneath her girlish surface. Moses is a commanding El Gallo, sinuous and seductive as required, and his thunderous voice is the perfect vehicle for Schmidt's sometimes operatic score.

Only the fathers, Bellomy (Martin Vidnovic) and Hucklebee (Leo Burmester), are slightly disappointing. Burdened with some of the more dated and clunky material, they are never as endearing as they might be as they sing, dance, and spar over horticulture. Dorothy Martin and Erin Hill contribute prodigious and playful support on the piano and harp, respectively.

At the abrupt ending, the players draw their own curtain, and when the curtain closes, it seems too soon. As Jones and Schmidt prophesized, this is a story that never really ends, and they leave audiences wanting more. If we can never return to the September they once envisioned, at least we can return to The Fantasticks, where they do their best to create it for us, again and again.

Martinis and Mayhem

"I give them their heads," Dawn Powell said of her characters. "They furnish their own nooses." A contemporary of Fitzgerald and Hemingway's, the prolific Powell wrote a punchy 1940s novel, A Time to Be Born, that has inspired a musical at the New York International Fringe Festival. "Inspired" is a blurry term, however, since the resulting production (with music by John Mercurio and book/lyrics by Tajlei Levis) incorporates little of Powell's reputed wit and venom. This lengthy, under-directed, but sweet musical depicts New York on the brink of World War II, when the cosmopolitan crowd was still obsessed with fashion, etiquette, and scandal (imagine that!). At the center of everything is Amanda Keeler Evans (Maria Couch), an aggressive social climber who has snared a wealthy and stuffy husband. Although his publications dutifully print rave reviews of her ghostwritten work, even Amanda has a more idealistic past, and when old flame Ken Saunders (James Sasser) resurfaces, she wants him back in her life. On the run from a broken engagement, Amanda's former hometown friend Vicky (Christy Morton) turns up asking for help, and Amanda concocts the perfect scheme—housing mousy Vicky in an apartment that Amanda and Ken can use for surreptitious lunchtime encounters. When sparks begin to fly between Ken and Vicky, however, a tense romantic triangle materializes.

Under Marlo Hunter's earnest but tepid direction, Levis's adaptation is overwhelmingly antiseptic and surprisingly sexless for a story so teeming with vitriolic gossip and thwarted passion. Mercurio's music, an amalgam of styles ranging from jazzy, Cy Coleman-esque torch songs to pulsing, contemporary musical-theater power anthems, is generally pleasing, if unmemorable.

Burdened with tedious exposition and a pocketful of repetitious songs, the production is most persuasive when its characters are candid and cutthroat. Couch is dynamic and deviously delightful as the tyrannical Amanda, while the velvet-voiced Sasser impresses as brooding writer Ken. But Morton is the show's revelation as fish-out-of-water Vicky, whose transformation to city girl is so complete that she begins to affect a Katharine Hepburn-inspired upper-crust accent.

Powell's progressiveness is evident in the presence of two strong female characters who desire not only a man but a prestigious, rewarding career. In diluting Powell's vigor, however, A Time to Be Born loses the zest that would transform this somewhat mushy romance into a razor-sharp character study.

Survivor

For the majority of us, our most direct contact with war is the upswing in gas prices and a daily smattering of photos and news stories. The battlefield is remote, and it's easy to believe that our lives are war-free zones, even as American forces remain deep in combat. The most remarkable accomplishment of the Public Theater's stirring new production of Bertolt Brecht's war play Mother Courage and Her Children is its determination to take us directly into war and its immediacy. Under the steady direction of George C. Wolfe and in the warm, prickly, and resplendent form of Meryl Streep, Mother Courage steers us into the maelstrom of battle and its very human consequences. Brecht was not chronicling the Iraq war, of course, but the Thirty Years' War in Europe, 1618-48. But even though this is not our war, per se, thanks to Tony Kushner's potent and appealingly comedic new translation, it very well could be. As religious ideologies clash, presumptuous kings are criticized, and the rich receive tax breaks, the audience clearly found the political diatribes to be all too familiar (and worthy of spontaneous, appreciative applause). Rather than focusing on the particulars of regiments and religious allegiances, Brecht accepted war as a largely unknowable, bewildering, and alienating beast and focused on one woman's struggle to make a profit selling goods from her cart while ensuring the survival of her three children.

As Mother Courage attests, however, each of her children has an undeniable "personality defect," and survival is precarious. The eldest, Eilif (Frederick Weller), is recruited into the army and becomes a swaggering, ruthless soldier; her other son, the honest but simple-minded Swiss Cheese (Geoffrey Arend), is hired as a paymaster for the Swiss army; and her only daughter, Kattrin (Alexandria Wailes), is overly sensitive and mute, silenced by a soldier's sexual violation years earlier.

Mother Courage's affection and contempt for her children spins as wildly as her wagon's wheels. In lieu of horses, she harnesses her offspring and berates them candidly to their faces. And yet, as the war snatches them away one by one, she reveals pockets of grief, prisms of love that are quickly absorbed into her surly exterior. For a war profiteer, necessity must strip away sentimentality, but it is eroded neither cleanly nor completely.

For although Streep certainly depicts an anti-maternal figure (swinging and gripping her money pouch with the bravado of a man parading his sizable endowment), she gives us very striking glimpses of Mother Courage's sensitivity, most notably through Jeanine Tesori's visceral music. Tesori (along with gifted orchestrator Bruce Coughlin) has scored Brecht's text with an ambitious palette of sounds that could very well be produced by instruments discovered lying on a war-torn roadside: a quacking trumpet here, a strummed guitar there, and most of all the drums—a persistent, persuasive, and often disturbing beat.

The designers have also adeptly cobbled materials together for this production, from the mismatched wooden shapes of Riccardo Hernandez's set to the sparseness of Marina Draghici's worn costumes. Paul Gallo's lighting is especially evocative, demonstrating the power of warm sunlight to transform even the meanest of environments into a sparkling landscape worthy of a painting.

Each of the performers bravely attacks the material, and Brecht's epic script is peppered with many vibrant supporting characters. Jenifer Lewis gives a muscular performance as the strident prostitute Yvette, while Kevin Kline is affable as the quick-tongued Cook. Although Kline's mellifluous voice often seems a bit too refined for a grubby womanizer (would he really say "discombobulate"?), it is an undeniable pleasure to watch him and Streep exchange barbs with impeccable dexterity. As the curmudgeonly Chaplain, Austin Pendleton is likably tongue-tied as he sputters his lines, and his wood-chopping scene is one of the evening's comic highlights.

Weller delivers a rousing performance of an anthem about a soldier's doomed wife, while Arend is genuine and appealing as the wide-eyed Swiss Cheese. Of the three children, however, Wailes makes the most compelling impression as Kattrin, who (like us) is the silent observer of the action. An experienced deaf actress, Wailes turns in a nuanced, precise, and impassioned performance.

Streep, of course, is why people are camping out overnight for tickets, and she does not disappoint, giving a performance of unbridled range and energy (and beautiful singing, to boot!). The Public is certainly lucky to have her, for Brecht is not easy to sit through in any setting, with his characteristic wordiness and length. Undeniably the hot ticket this summer, Mother Courage is also a hot show, that all too rare example of what theater can and should be—bold, provocative, and timely. Here, war is dangerous—and not that far away.

The Glutton and the Narcissist

If Shakespeare imagined what future productions of Romeo and Juliet might look like, chances are he never envisioned Romeo as a garbage can. And yet, director and writer Neal Freeman and puppet designer Michael C. Malbrough have turned the Bard's best-known lover into a tubby puppet constructed from a stout trash bin. This Romeo doesn't make a peep during Fatboy Romeo, an awkwardly abridged pop-culture reinvention of his story; instead, he flips open his hinged jaw and eats everything in sight. Freeman's concept is solid—a mission to expose America's cultural gluttony through an archetypal tale. Here, Juliet is a trashy-looking narcissist, her cousin Tybalt is a "sword lover," and her fiancé Paris is a self-obsessed bodybuilder. A series of media images—including air-brushed advertisements and celebrity photos (Michael Jackson and Britney Spears make appearances)—projected on a small screen provide a backdrop, while bouncy synthesized music underscores each scene.

After setting up these showy components, however, Freeman never brings them into meaningful dialogue. In his program notes, he admits that he never really liked Romeo and Juliet much, citing the broadly drawn characters and lack of subtlety. But in Fatboy Romeo he only recycles and reinforces this stereotypical, overblown behavior. He seems to want to teach us something about the dangers of overconsumption and cultural greed, yet the show's intended satire never coheres. While individually well defined, the puppets and projections never achieve revelatory interaction.

The narration is gamely performed by Danielle Thorpe and Patrick Toon, who voice the characters. Three puppeteers animate Malbrough's designs, which range from hand puppets to what looks like a coagulation of Barbie dolls glued on a stick. The Romeo puppet is particularly inventive, and the infamous Montague wears sneakers as well as a heavy set of jowls that age him well beyond what we expect. (To cement the discrepancy, Leonardo DiCaprio, who played Romeo on film, appears onscreen during Romeo's entrance.) Eleven-year-old Emma Park-Hazel introduces the scenes and skips around the set. She's certainly pert and playful, if purposeless.

Much of the problem comes from Romeo's silence. Impassive and unblinking, he is the ultimate ugly American consumer, impervious to feeling on his single-minded quest to feed himself. Without a voice, however, he becomes like the hundreds of people we see on the street every day, silently cramming things into open mouths. Freeman might want to consider pulling a bit of humanity from the rubbish.

C'est Magnifique

Flatulence has never been quite so variegated—or dignified—as in the days of Joseph Pujol. In The Fartiste, an entertaining yet bizarre new musical, Michael Roberts (music and lyrics) and Charlie Schulman (book) tell the true story of a simple baker who became a Moulin Rouge star thanks to the dexterity of his posterior. John Gould Rubin's efficient, colorful direction brings the debauchery of 1890's Paris vividly to life while giving us reason to sympathize with Pujol, a man who wants his farting to mean much more than, well, the passing of gas. Surrounded by a mélange of artists and cancan dancers, Pujol (Kevin Kraft) is the earnest straight man, quite determined to turn his odd talent into a respected art form. In a self-possessed and winning performance, Kraft barely cracks a smile as he contorts his body to summon an extraordinary array of sounds, including explosive trumpeting and high-pitched squeaks. This combination of highbrow attitude with lowbrow physicality makes the show hilarious and endearing.

As played by the jaunty band, Roberts's bistro-infused songs are pleasant and straightforward. In a silky duet, "Listen With Your Eyes Closed," Pujol begs his wife Elizabeth (Rebecca Kupka) to see his talent as more than grotesque flatulence. Toulouse-Lautrec (played on bended knee by Mark Baker) and the narrator, Aristide Bruant (the superb Nick Wyman), charm in "We Live for Art," a celebration of decadent pleasures. And Jim Corti, as producer Charles Zidler, scores with "Give 'Em What They Want," a perky vaudevillian number intended to convince Pujol to give up his ideals and fart for the masses.

With a simple, shimmering red curtain, a handful of lacy black garments, and a cluster of red chairs, designers Clint Ramos (set) and Melinda C. Basaca (costumes) capture the seedy atmosphere of Montmartre more resourcefully than Schulman and Roberts' interminable opening sequences. Richard Move provides expert choreography for the high-energy dances.

With incredible flair, rubber-mouthed sound effects man Steven Scott stands at a microphone at the edge of the stage, voicing Pujol's expulsions with perfect timing. "Make your body bleat," commands Zidler, but Pujol, determined to compose his own symphony, wants his body to make music, not ribald reverberations. His audience, however, demands sensational noise, not sensitive arpeggios. Thus, although raunchy double entendre invariably abounds, The Fartiste also becomes a somewhat sophisticated look at the ennui that can result from selling out.

Chamber Poe

"Could a madman have been as wise as this?" demands the protagonist of Edgar Allan Poe's chilling story The Tell-Tale Heart. Fed up with his neighbor's "vulture eye," he assiduously murders him, only to be haunted by the ghostly beating of the dead man's heart. As the presumed lunatic, performer and composer Danny Ashkenasi is certainly wise, and he has adapted Poe's suspenseful yarn into a brief but intense "musicabre," a well-honed and deliciously creepy chamber piece. Accompanied by three cellists (Ella Toovy, Tara Chambers, and Maria Bella Jeffers), who surround him as they anchor the right, left, and back edges of the bare stage, Ashkenasi, wearing a silky red bathrobe, turns Poe's text into a sort of sadistic form of Masterpiece Theatre. With just a chair as set and prop, he paces and flails, only to return to a seated position, legs properly crossed. Smug in his repose, his genteel appearance makes his reported activities only more horrifying. He alternately speaks and sings the story, and his voice, which has moments of considerable power, is a bit raw around the edges, a sandpapery effect that further betrays his unease.

Contributing to the New York International Fringe Festival for the third year in a row, Ashkenasi has written a dense score for his three proficient instrumentalists, and the songs percolate with atonal arpeggios and screechy scales. In "True, Nervous," the opening song, he jumbles Poe's words to create a lyric pattern that pops with impending doom. The cellists feverishly pluck and saw at their instruments to match his emotional state, later creating the ominous pulse of the dead man's heart. The final searing notes evoke the sound of frantic scribbling, the scrambling of a doomed man trying to escape from a trap.

The protagonist claims his perceived madness is only an "overacuteness of the senses," and Ashkenasi's adaptation—along with David L. Carson's sharp direction—keenly illustrates the heightened sensory state of a man on the edge. Wise or mad (and maybe both), The Tell-Tale Heart is a spooky glimpse into a darkly tinted world.

Punk Rock Shakespeare

Don't be fooled by the complimentary earplugs handed out at the door. Despite a terrific premise—a punk rock adaptation of Shakespeare's goriest (and, reportedly, most popular) play, Titus Andronicus—Fugly Productions's Titus X: The Musical never becomes the earsplitting, cutting-edge spectacle it promises to be. Punk rock would seem to be the ideal medium for Titus, a play that boils with anger and revenge, but repetitious music and a poorly balanced sound system turn the production into a wall of gratuitous noise and performances that, like the distorted sound, lack nuance and precision. The first 15 minutes of the show (and many moments thereafter) are virtually unintelligible, as the vocalists and the band compete for supremacy. A brief prologue sets up Titus's entrance, and four performers chant his name with robotic diligence as the victorious warrior returns to Rome. With most of his sons slain in the war, Titus murders the eldest son of Tamora, queen of the vanquished Goths—ostensibly a religious sacrifice—and launches a series of violent acts that escalate as the play proceeds.

Director Peter Sanfilippo provides the simplistic staging. The three-piece band (guitar, bass, and drums) dominates the stage, and the actors run off and on to emote behind microphone stands. A screen set up behind the band serves as a backdrop, and although the multicolored abstract projections create spooky lighting effects as the actors walk across the stage, they are overwhelmingly generic, forming mottled geometric shapes and skull patterns. Sanfilippo also designed the costumes, a mishmash of punk and goth apparel—dangerous-looking boots, mohawks, crucifixes, and fishnet stockings.

Shawn Northrip, a graduate of New York University's Graduate Musical Theater Writing Program, created Titus X, and his book, while faithful to Shakespeare's plot line, lacks the richness of the Bard's language. Although a scene that uses a single word (an expletive that begins with "f") creates some unexpected humor, it stands at odds with the rest of the production, which drowns in plot exposition and questionable rhyming ("And though you're sweet, this is just a piece of meat," sings Tamora).

Northrip's music is a respectable batch of punk rock, with strong bass lines, guitar riffs, and explosive drumming. The dense compositions, however, offer little variation as the show progresses. Still, there are a few standouts. The lyric "I wanna get in ya, Lavinia," sung by Tamora's sons before they rape and disfigure Titus's daughter, pulsates winningly when crammed into a short, jumpy song, its perky beat bringing relief from an otherwise blandly loud and forgettable score.

The idiosyncracies and affectations of punk rock find their way into Titus X with varying degrees of success. Northrip's songs often end with an exclamation point—an ambiguous, abrupt ending that provides a neat transition but quickly loses effect with repeated use. The actors' performance styles also replicate the self-involved pose of many punk performers—hands wrapped tightly around the microphone, intensely gazing off into the distance, lost in their own world. Although this despondent posturing may work for rock musicians, in a theatrical production it reads as sullen and closed off, stripping actors of the ability to communicate with each other as well as depriving the audience of watching a dynamic exchange of energy. No amount of frenetic dancing can make up for it, nor can copious head-banging—could this be, I began to wonder, an alternate form of clapping for oneself?

The six performers sweat and emote prodigiously. Peter Schuyler brings a fiery presence to Titus, outfitted in a hip military jacket with thick black lines drawn under his eyes like a football player blocking out the bright stadium lights (which may or may not be the point, as Titus moves into deep darkness). Ben Pryor and Joe Pindelski (of last year's Fringe success The Banger's Flopera) bring valiant energy to a variety of roles. As Titus's doomed daughter Lavinia, Laurie Davis unfortunately recalls a tormented Britney Spears (or any other misguided teen queen).

Dwayne Thomas is fine as the kilt-clad Aaron, but it is Francile Albright who makes the strongest impression as Tamora. With her black-rimmed eyes burning with malice, Albright makes the most concerted effort to communicate and connect to the other performers. She can rock out with the best of them, but she makes it clear why and to whom she is screaming.

With the potential to be a polemic on war and violence, Titus X never creates much of a stir. "No one is free when others are oppressed," the ruler Saturninus attests, but the production, mired in blood and noise, ultimately refuses to explore this sentiment. Tucked into the tiny (and, fair warning, un-air-conditioned) Tank, Titus X finally registers as nothing more than a group of cocaine-snorting performers singing for themselves. And with so much violence and heartlessness on display, this is a script that begs for more sensitive and responsible attention. Otherwise, it becomes merely a cascade of violence for violence's sake—in which case you'd be better off using those earplugs after all.

Into the Strata

Inspired by the centennial of the 1906 San Francisco earthquake, Digging in the Dark is theater troupe Capacitor's attempt to represent the earth's shifting levels through the shifting of human bodies. Under the inspired direction of Jodi Lomask, this dazzling mix of dance, performance art, acrobatics, and clowning takes us on a high-flying trip to the center of the earth and back. On the bare stage of the cavernous American Theater of Actors, with a 25-foot projection screen as a backdrop, the first image is of a man suspended high in the air and diving downward, forcefully swimming as he plunges violently into the earth. The "Terra Itinerary" provided in the program carefully describes a journey through 13 scenes/layers of earth, including the crust, lithosphere, mantle, and core.

Lomask's choreography and design spring believably from a text crammed with geological terms. Bending and folding, colliding and diverging, her performers embody the text and transform it into something wondrous, something human. Although Capacitor has undertaken metaphysical projects like this before (including Within Outer Spaces, a comparison of heavenly bodies and human ones), this one is particularly notable in its fusing of the human with the natural. Within each of us, Digging in the Dark seems to suggest, there are multiple layers that shift both spectacularly and violently.

Six bold and dynamic young dancers (three men and three women) make up the versatile ensemble. Simulating the continental crust, they come to the stage one by one and begin to move together like cogs in a machine—the movement is at once frantic and fluid. As each performer steps out of the group with a haughty expression, the others quickly flip the offending dancer over and back into the mass, suggesting the fracturing of rock as it breaks apart.

Each layer of the earth gets detailed treatment, and the entire piece is underscored by a charged mix of dynamic music and stunning projections. The sounds range from natural (birds singing, thunder, and wind) to electronic (thumping bass and new age arrangements). The multicolored projections are especially effective when juxtaposed with the performers, who come together to mimic their kaleidoscopic shapes in the "Outer Core."

But the show's most breathtaking moment, the "Lithosphere/Magma Rising" section, does not rely heavily on special effects. As two slim sheets of crimson fabric unfurl from the ceiling to the floor, a young woman climbs them, wrapping herself within the cloth to create a complex pattern as she performs daring acrobatics midair. The "Inner Core/Orb" is also a highlight, as the six dancers crawl into a hollow orb suspended from the ceiling. The sphere spins as they move within, through, and around it, creating a captivating blend of object and bodies.

Two clown-like characters (in institutional-looking jackets bound by multiple belts) provide humorous entertainment in short scenes between the dance sections. The man juggles admirably while the woman, wearing an LED headpiece with huge megaphone-shaped cups extending from her ears, pokes fun at him while listening attentively to the ground. (The earpieces change colors based on the angle of her head, an impressive prop.)

While a few of Lomask's inventions feel a bit too lengthy at times, it's hard to complain when a production brims with such energetic staging and fierce, committed performances. Capacitor's Digging in the Dark is a visual treat as well as a fascinating study in aligning the movement of bodies with the movement of natural forces. Resonating from an earthquake that took place 100 years ago, this is a powerful aftershock.

Revolutionary Repartee

With a double bill of military-related dramas (Macbeth and Mother Courage) for this season's Shakespeare in the Park and a remounting of David Hare's provocative riff on the Iraq war, Stuff Happens, scheduled for Sept. 5, the Public Theater is wearing its apprehensions about war quite visibly on its sleeve. It should come as no surprise, then, that its latest production, School of the Americas, a co-production with the LAByrinth Theater Company, continues to mine wartime subject matter. Here, however, the result is less than charged in a disappointingly dry and gratingly didactic production. A rough account of revolutionary Che Guevera's imprisonment in Bolivia in late 1967, School of the Americas is part fiction, part truth. The truth: Che was visited by an idealistic young schoolteacher days before he was brutally shot to death. The fiction: He began to trust this teacher, Julia Cortes, and shared some of his philosophy with her while imprisoned in her schoolhouse, the Bolivian army's makeshift prison.

José Rivera, who earned a name (and an Academy Award nomination) for himself with his film The Motorcycle Diaries, another Guevera-based project, is keen to develop the relationship between Che and Julia as a sort of passing of the torch, a transference of rhetoric from wizened leader to discontented upstart. Julia's school services only a few children, those excused from work or family duties and briefly spared their parents' skepticism toward education. A single woman living with her sickly sister, Julia is devoted to her work, but she still can't help but wonder: Why educate these impoverished children so they can understand how much they lack?

As Che's communist propaganda ricochets through the small, worn schoolroom, Julia challenges his violent methods and his choice to place his ideals over the needs of his family. Unfortunately, these tightly constructed (and constricted, given the limited space of the schoolroom) debates never build to a very sophisticated or satisfying intensity, and they chug along in bouts of rather flat-footed, overly simplistic dialogue. Rivera gives us a wealth of surface facts and historical information, but one never gets the sense that these conversations have enough fire to ignite an inner revolution in either of these characters.

This overabundance of encyclopedic detail also curtails the specific development of character and motivation. It's never fully clear, for example, why Julia elects to visit Che in the first place—clearly, it's more than a need to nourish him with chicken soup. But a later quasi-romantic subplot is abrupt to the point of being awkward, lacking the proper exposition.

And Che, horribly injured and on the brink of death, seems all too relaxed and almost casual in his posture. It doesn't help that the otherwise mellifluous John Ortiz delivers the dying Che's lines with almost Shakespearean clarity and dexterity, even as he battles with frequent asthmatic wheezing. How he can spin propaganda in a silken voice while intermittently gasping for air is a mystery, as is his failure to include any noticeable accent in his characterization of the Argentinean leader.

Patricia Velasquez, making her American stage debut, gives an enticingly passionate, albeit rather one-note, turn as Julia. The supporting characters have better luck with the writing, and Felix Solis delivers a compelling performance as the conflicted Lieutenant Ramos, while Karina Arroyave makes a striking (yet brief) appearance as Julia's sister Lucila.

Designers Andromache Chalfant (sets), Mimi O'Donnell (costumes), and especially David Weiner (lighting) have created a sumptuous Bolivian landscape, appropriately tarnished yet filled with pockets of splendor. Their attention to detail manages to capture both the prosaic (live chickens roam the set in one scene) and the holy (an altogether spellbinding final image, illuminated by candles). Sound designer Robert Kaplowitz's otherwise fine mix of political voice-overs and indigenous music is marred only by an overly long, piercing helicopter cue near the show's end that left most of the audience members covering their ears.

Invariably, it is difficult to write, direct, act, or even watch a play about people professing, over and over again, what they believe and why they believe it. Still, director Mark Wing-Davey has put forth a production that often manages to inform, if not fully inspire. And with a theater arranged to replicate a schoolhouse (complete with three rows of hard wooden benches at the front), education may very well be the goal of this School of the Americas.

The Parent Trap

Would-be parents, beware. In her compelling new play, Satellites, Diana Son does not paint a pretty picture of the transition to parenthood. A scant six weeks after a tumultuous C-section, Nina (Sandra Oh) feels that she should be ready to work, but is she really? Sitting alone in her home office, she hears her daughter Hannah crying upstairs, and her conflict is palpable—painful, raw, even "feral," as she describes it. But Nina's life and career must go on, baby or no baby, for reasons both financial and personal: she and her husband Miles (Kevin Carroll) have just moved into a four-story Brooklyn brownstone (a definite fixer-upper); Miles, a dot-com producer, is out of work but under pressure by his nomadic and irresponsible brother Eric (Clarke Thorell) to embark on a sketchy business venture; and her friend and business partner Kit (Johanna Day) is begging her to pick up the slack at their architectural firm.

Directed with fluidity and grace by Michael Greif, Satellites raises important questions about the problematic position of a working mother (to work, or not to work? And at what cost?). Son, whose work first rose to prominence with the widespread success and popularity of her 1998 play Stop Kiss (also produced by the Public Theater and starring Oh), recently became a mother herself, and she has duly investigated the fractious activity of childbearing and its resulting identity crises. But within the tidy span of 90 minutes, she also manages to sharply chronicle the manifold ways the birth of a child affects the extended group of people who surround (or orbit) it. And as Nina and Miles attempt to adjust to both their new roles as parents and their new geographical location, they are also confronted by their own racial identities, and lack thereof.

Although neither Nina, who is Korean, nor Miles, who is African-American, feels particularly connected to his or her own roots, they are determined to forge meaningful connections for their daughter. Nina hires a Korean nanny, Mrs. Chae (Satya Lee), hoping that Hannah might learn to speak Korean, while their move to a predominantly black neighborhood is an attempt to give Hannah another opportunity for self-identification.

Their choices quickly crumble around them, however, illustrating the difficulty of manufacturing a specific cultural experience for, well, anyone. Soon after they move in, a rock is thrown through their front window. Whether or not the act was racially motivated, it threatens their faith in themselves, driving each of them to seek a sense of belonging elsewhere.

Nina, whose own mother is dead, begins to gravitate toward Mrs. Chae, and a look of longing crosses her face as Mrs. Chae sings a familiar Korean lullaby to Hannah. Miles, in turn, strikes up an unwilling relationship with Reggie (Ron Cephas Jones), the "king of the block," whose streetwise wheeling and dealing lands him, oddly enough, at the center of their household renovations. However, both Nina and Miles are just as quick to avoid identifying too closely with their new acquaintances, especially when Nina discovers Mrs. Chae's ignorance and Miles begins to doubt Reggie's honesty.

Clearly, there is much (and sometimes a little too much) going on here, but if Son's script is somewhat overburdened with detail, it's hard to complain about in a production that is so uniformly well acted, conscientiously envisioned, and brimming with smarts. Son's characters are so thoughtfully drawn that even a weaker, quasi-romantic subplot between Kit and Eric becomes intriguing.

On hiatus from her Golden Globe-winning role in TV's Grey's Anatomy, Oh shows her theatrical prowess here, vividly depicting Nina's conflict as she alternates between strength and vulnerability. Carroll adeptly harnesses Miles's uncertainty and fear, while Ron Cephas Jones strikes the perfect balance (equal parts irritating and irresistible) as the swaggering Reggie. Day is a vibrant addition as the smart and snappy Kit, who is turning 40 and wishes Nina would pay more attention to her "baby," their work.

Designer Mark Wendland's set is a Brooklyn brownstone to build a dream on, an unfinished apartment with a gorgeous staircase and a bright, colorful studio. The sets glide swiftly along tracks as they shift us and the characters through different rooms, and Greif gives us glimpses of the actors moving through different spaces as the scenes evolve, underscoring their search for a quiet, stable place to sit down in relative peace.

Satellites is also a study of geography, both that of ourselves and our property—how ownership changes in a neighborhood, for one thing, as well as what (if anything) we have to pass down as human beings. Nina fears that Hannah "will never see herself—she will never see me." Within this Brooklyn brownstone, relationships and expectations across race and class are thwarted and distorted. Although these characters may seem to move in parallel orbits, their lives inevitably intersect, provoking arguments and encounters that are both painful and edifying.

She Stoops to Banditry

There's nothing quite as delightful as watching a seasoned actor do what he was obviously born to do, and this is what happens when George Riddle performs "Heliotrope," a sweet pastiche song in which he woos a younger woman in vain. Well on in years (and experience), Riddle logged more than 5,000 performances in various roles in Off-Broadway's longest-running musical, The Fantasticks, and his confidence, skill, and joy are apparent in every twist, shuffle, and sidelong glance he throws at the audience. Here is the consummate professional, taking his time and using each word (and shrug) to maximum effect. Never mind that the song comes out of left field with little dramatic function to recommend it—in the hands of the seasoned Riddle, it sparkles with charm. Although his performance left me wishing I had a "repeat" button, it is, unfortunately, a diamond in the rough within an extremely roughhewn new musical, The Legend of Pearl Hart. Based on the true story of the last (and only female) stagecoach bandit, the action moves from 1893 to 1905 (and from Canada to Arizona) at a tiresome clip. In condensing Pearl's life, writers Rich Look (music) and Cathy Chamberlain (book and lyrics) skim over the surface of what could (and should) be a much more intriguing story. Any account of a woman with a gun will draw immediate comparisons to Irving Berlin's Annie Get Your Gun, and Look and Chamberlain do little to convincingly develop (and improve on) what that classic show created.

To say life turns on a dime in Pearl's world would be an understatement. Born in Ontario, she sees her fortunes evolve in quick, singular events. Cutting the high card from a deck lands her in a (troubled) marriage to Frederick "Black Jack" Hart and a move to Chicago. A lucky poker hand buys her a hotel in Arizona; a later, unlucky poker hand snatches it away. With such split-second jumps in the action, there's little dramatic build to the story's events and even less time for substantial character development. Even when Pearl decides to start robbing stagecoaches, we don't see the actual event; instead, we watch a crowd of people impassively watching the robbery from the sidelines.

Director Lea Orth's awkward, sometimes stagnant staging certainly doesn't help—actors often deliver lines straight out at the audience when they are meant to be communicated to actors standing far behind. And when Pearl's younger sister Lucy, an aspiring novelist, sells a play based on Pearl's life, the company launches into one of the most confusing sequences of stage movement I've ever seen. Characters haphazardly appear, disappear, and reappear, and while it looks as if they might be rehearsing for a play, it's impossible to decipher exactly what's going on. Eventually, they launch into a short retelling of Pearl's adventures, but it's like reading the Cliffs Notes of the Cliffs Notes—an abridged version of an already poorly abridged story.

Look's music tends toward a general country sound—what you might hear played on a piano at an old-fashioned saloon, perhaps—but it lacks a general cohesiveness, unless you count the prerecorded, overly synthesized accompaniment that gives every song a rather tinny sheen. The songs range from derivative contemporary musical theater (Pearl's solo "A Window Opens") to the twangy gems "Just a Cowboy" and "Buffalo's Gone"—full-fledged country ballads that showcase Keith Krutchkoff's buttery baritone to lovely effect. These songs do little to advance plot and character, however, functioning primarily as occasions to stop and sing.

The lyrics often further complicate matters. When Pearl arrives in Chicago, the company repeatedly welcomes her to "Shhhhhhhhhh—[pause]—cago," and my date had to lean over and ask me to clarify what they were saying.

Still, there are several effective numbers. Riddle, who plays bartender Joe, scores with the vaudevillian "Heliotrope" as well as with the trio number "What About Me?," sung by the men who long for Pearl's attention (including the fantastic Trip Plymale as Ed, the town drunk). And another diamond in the rough, Laurie Gamache (a veteran of the Broadway production of A Chorus Line), gives a strong performance in the fiery "New Girl in Town." As sometime saloon owner Kate, she is a vivid, confident presence, almost making us wish the show were more about her character instead.

As the title character, Catherine Hesse exudes plenty of heart but little of Pearl's pluck. That's not entirely her fault, however, as the simplistic material doesn't always give her much to work with. Michael Shane Ellis is appropriately villainous and shows off a lovely voice as Pearl's scoundrel of a husband, Jack, while the rich-voiced Krutchkoff comes off a bit stiff as Bill Truman, a cowboy star and ladies' man who falls hard for Pearl.

Is Pearl Hart's story worthy of dramatization? The creators would do well to delve deeper into the more exhilarating and provocative moments of Pearl's life rather than trying to include every minute detail. Perhaps then Pearl would comprise richer characteristics (both good and bad) that would make her more human and, as such, worth rooting for.

In Limbo

Jesus needs an attitude adjustment. Not only is he faced with the arduous task of transporting people to heaven (from an endless list scrawled on his clipboard), but his father seems to be ignoring him and fails to return his calls. In Eric Bernat and Robin Carrigan's entertaining but sometimes overwrought new play, Jesus and Mandy, a rather uncertain and pessimistic Savior arrives to convey Mandy to the afterlife. However, the feisty, terminally ill 12-year-old will have none of it. Instead, she proposes a different plan: touring the world as "Magical Mandy" with an agenda of "smiles, fun, and hugs." And maybe—just maybe—she will realize her most treasured fantasy and appear with Happy Sheckles on his annual Telethon for Terminal Tots.

From the get-go, we know that Mandy is a goner (the sock puppet doctors at St. Jude's Indigent Hospital tell us so), and the play takes place in limbo, as vividly imagined by set designer Mark T. Simpson and lighting designer Garth Reese. As Mandy's imagination whirls, the stark hospital room becomes a psychedelic playroom framed by shiny geometric clouds, shifting multicolored lights, and a bottomless chest of toys.

Set in the late summer of 1972, this "comedy with dance" becomes an homage to that era. Carrigan's perky choreography is well suited to C.P. Roth's vibrant sound design, and the bouncy 70's music occasions everything from hand-slapping to kicking to leaping into the air. Carrigan is particularly adept at detailing the sort of poker-faced, so-serious-it's-ridiculous dancing that is guaranteed to produce laughter, as in a spastic yet lyrical duet performed by Jesus and Mandy late in the show (feathers and pinecones are used to great effect). Although the dance sequences often arise inexplicably and go on a bit too long, they are easily the most enjoyable—and entertaining—elements of the show.

They also help to disguise the thinness of the plot. Confronted by Jesus, who insists that her time on earth has come to an end, Mandy enlists the help of her imaginary friends, who come to life to help her convince him otherwise. The suspense pivots on whether Mandy will finally agree to move on, but there's simply not enough conflict to captivate an audience for over two hours. Arranged arbitrarily, the episodic events—Jesus will get a makeover, go on trial, and experience a Freaky Friday kind of soul exchange before the night is through—fail to build into a satisfying climax.

The pace alternates between vibrant (the dance sequences) and lethargic (most everything else). Saddled with the bulk of the wordy script, Stephanie Fittro is the show's find as Mandy. A veteran of, appropriately, the national tour of Hairspray, she is a consistently perky and winning presence, and she carries the show triumphantly on her slight frame. From her brown pigtails to her saddle shoes, she puts forth her self-described "Mandy-ness"—an unwavering positive attitude and belief in good. She also manages to spit out dialogue at an amazing speed, including such unlikely phrases as "It's not like he perniciously prevaricated or perpetually perpetrated perjury. Per se."

Co-writer Bernat plays Jesus, and he is appropriately sullen and pessimistic as the forlorn Messiah, if a bit detached and slow in his line delivery. Costume designer Karl A. Ruckdeschel obviously had a ball costuming Mandy's friends, who suggest characters from the Austin Powers films. Sassy Ivy (Afi Ekulona) wears a clingy, metallic-silver bodysuit with red lapels, while good-natured Ned (John Haegele), a Ken-doll knockoff, prances around in a loud arrangement of orange and brown patterns.

In his concept for Beastro (Eddie Cruz), Ruckdeschel's ties to Avenue Q are most obvious (he is currently a costume design associate for that puppet-centric show), and Beastro, ostensibly a stuffed unicorn who is missing a horn, features a fantastical plush animal suit with an orange mane, set off by red sneakers. With no intelligible lines to speak of, Cruz nonetheless makes the most memorable impression of Mandy's three sidekicks—a terrific dancer, he successfully employs his physicality and facial expressions to fashion a captivating and altogether original creature.

Jesus and Mandy boasts some kicky one-liners ("You put the 'mess' in 'Messiah,' " Ivy tells Jesus), striking design elements, and amusing choreography. But the show's punch is buried beneath an overwritten script that makes it difficult—and often confusing—to travel from point A to point B.

Still, director David Drake makes a good case for the rewards of paying attention to Mandy, and as brought to life by Fittro, she is both endearing and sympathetic. With her earnest dedication to show business (the telethon is her dream performance), Mandy's faith in entertainment is transparent, as well as a bit heartbreaking. For in her mind, an audience is the gateway to salvation, and the forlorn Jesus needs only to step on a stage to get his groove back.

Thwarted-Love Story

Tales of doomed love can be charted back to Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet, but contemporary interpreters of fairy tales are more apt to provide a polished happy ending. (The Grimm brothers could scarcely have imagined how Disney would drain the blood from their sobering tales.) When Once on This Island surfaced on Broadway in 1990, it snagged eight Tony Award nominations, including two for its industrious creators, Lynn Ahrens (book and lyrics) and Stephen Flaherty (music), who seemed to have learned the secret of smart storytelling: that a more realistic and truthful interpretation of a fairy tale need not be bland and dour. Instead, they infused their tale with color and light in what New York Times theater critic Frank Rich termed "a joyous marriage of the slick and the folkloric."

With their exuberant rendition of this musical, the Gallery Players have staged yet another admirable revival. The energetic performances fairly explode from the stage, and director and choreographer Steven Smeltzer's interpretation is a dazzling celebration of the art and power of storytelling.

Based on Rosa Guy's novel My Love, My Love (a Caribbean reinvention of Hans Christian Andersen's The Little Mermaid), Once on This Island tells the story of Ti Moune, a black peasant girl who falls in love with Daniel, the light-skinned son of a wealthy French planter. Like everyone else on the island, Ti Moune and Daniel are divided by class and race. "We dance at parties," the esteemed class sings, while the peasants counter, "We are dancing just to stay alive."

For the peasants, survival is paramount, and dreaming beyond present conditions is a luxury not easily afforded. But Ti Moune, whose mysterious origins led her to be plucked from a tree by her adoptive parents, wants more than a life spent working for others. "Mama's contented, and Tonton accepts what he gets," she scoffs while singing about her parents in her triumphant anthem, "Waiting for Life." She is determined that her own life will be much different.

With superstition prevalent throughout the island, four gods both help and hinder Ti Moune on her journey. As personified by Alicia Christian (Asaka, goddess of the earth), Anthony Wayne (Papa Ge, demon of death), Monica Quintanilla (Erzulie, goddess of love), and Michael C. Harris (Agwe, god of water), the spiritual beings are the island's lifeblood. Quintanilla, in particular, turns in an exceptional performance as Erzulie, and her sensitive performance of "The Human Heart" is one of the show's most heartfelt moments.

The entire cast is very strong and obviously thrilled to be part of this story. As Ti Moune (originally a breakout role for the precocious LaChanze, who currently stars in Broadway's The Color Purple), Lisa Nicole Wilkerson brings a lovely, wistful quality to her performance. (Recently featured as Nala in the national tour of The Lion King, she is a tremendously accomplished dancer as well.) Ashley Marie Arnold is endearingly energetic as Little Ti Moune, and as the story-within-a-story continually circles back to her eager questions, she is a hopeful, poignant, and ideal recipient of its message. With her youth and vibrancy, she is, as the company explains in the final song, "Why We Tell the Story."

Rashad Webb gives a sensitive (and silky-voiced) performance as Daniel, and Dann Black (who very nearly stole the show as Horse in the Gallery Players's production of The Full Monty last year) offers another delightful turn as the doting Tonton Julian. Debra Thais Evans (as Ti Moune's cautious Mama) and Katherin Emily Mills (as Daniel's intended, Andrea) also deliver fine performances.

With the show's impeccable design, the Gallery Players prove again how so much can be achieved with so little. Joseph Trainor (set designer), Amy Elizabeth Bravo (costumes), Niklas J.E. Anderson (lighting), and Jill Michael (puppet artist) are all to be commended, as the island comes alive with dynamic and creative colors, shapes, creatures, and dimensions.

Smeltzer excels in moving his actors across the stage—under his able direction, every person looks like an accomplished dancer. The percussive and dramatic "Pray," in particular, is an ambitious and arresting achievement. He is less confident, however, when the action slows down, and many of the quieter, dramatic moments become slightly static. In "Forever Yours," Ti Moune and Daniel's haunting duet, for example, the scene takes place so far upstage that its resonance very nearly evaporates. Ti Moune also remains seated for the following scene, which leaves Wilkerson unable to exhibit her character's escalating resolve as she makes a pivotal deal with Papa Ge. These are minor quibbles, however, in a production so brimming with well-executed movement.

Music director Steve Przybylski and his band play the Caribbean-influenced score with ease, and the percussion-based sections are particularly emotive and nuanced.

More attuned to the bleakness of reality than the romance of happy endings, Once on This Island nonetheless presents a world that honors love and integrity, even—and even more so—when faced with insurmountable limitations. The Gallery Players continue this celebration with pizazz.

Eastern Images

In Japanese, photography translates as "copying the truth," and the Yara Arts Group has produced a delicate, thoughtful theatrical exploration of the father of Japanese photography, Hikoma Ueno (1838-1904). Combining elements of music, dance, and puppetry, Sundown is an enigmatic meditation on the life of a pioneering artist. Rather than follow a straightforward biographical form, however, the play charts Ueno's life more abstractly, drawing from historical fact as well as texts written by such disparate authors as Emily Dickinson and anonymous geisha girls. Created and directed by Watoku Ueno (who also provides the vivid lighting and set design, and is of no relation to the photographer), Sundown allows Hikoma Ueno's life to unfold in mesmerizing, dreamlike scenes, underscored by violinist Storm Garner's haunting compositions, which can be both jarring and serene.

Although the proceedings turn overly metaphorical at times, Ueno himself (Nick Bosco) grounds the production, and Sundown investigates many transformative conflicts in his life. Raised in a tradition of portrait painting, he adopted the camera in his quest for clearer artistic expression. The camera was dismissed as witchcraft by many of his acquaintances, and Ueno's pursuit of photography was controversial during a time of overwhelming Western influence.

Ueno mixed his own chemicals and invented a "wet plate" developing procedure that, unlike a daguerreotype, created a negative that could be reproduced multiple times. Still, commercial success eluded him, and the majority of his subjects were geishas (whose beauty made them ideal subjects to be photographed), foreigners (who didn't have intrinsic prejudices against photography), and rebel leaders (who, prepared to die in battle, wanted their images preserved).

Impending mortality made a photograph overwhelmingly important to the Japanese samurai—not merely a luxury but a duty. "I completed my obligation to prepare for death," a soldier remarks after Ueno takes his photograph.

Whole sections of Sundown offer straightforward, and rather didactic, historical facts put forth by the six actors, who reveal comprehensive information about Ueno's background and surroundings. The actors form a captivating, precise ensemble throughout, but the play's most intriguing moments are the more poetic ones. Ueno (the director) uses a simple white screen to display mesmerizing images with puppets and light, as well as reproductions of many of Ueno's photographs.

With its suggestive, cyclical structure, Sundown arrives at several false endings, and a few of the final scenes (involving geishas and samurai) are rather protracted and feel randomly placed. And although Kazue Tani gives a compelling performance as the Bird Woman, her interactions with Ueno could be more clearly defined and explained. Fortunately, the stage pictures offer such arresting images that you are unlikely to be too bothered by the occasional opaque metaphor.

Ueno wanted to find an artistic formula for photography, a way to capture the "things we can't see that exist." A century after his death, photography continues to fascinate us as a window into lives and times gone by. In Sundown, the Yara Arts Group offers an intriguing study of one of history's most important—and largely forgotten—chroniclers of humanity. The production finds particular poignancy in the many photographs that appear on the screen; Ueno endeavored to "copy the truth," and the eyes of his subjects challenge us to understand more fully, beyond what we can see.