Rattle and Hum

Brimming with life, energy, style, and substance, a fantastic jazz combo ushers in each performance of The Jazz Messenger. The tight ensemble underscores dramatic scenes, accompanies dusky ballads, and even keeps rhythm during intermission. Unfortunately, the dramatic substance of this uneven production never locates the vivid colors heralded by the musicians. An impressive but wobbly effort written by Eric K. Daniels (who also stars in the title role), the play tells the story of Terry Clayton, an African-American trumpet player who is imprisoned by a malicious German officer in France during World War II. The officer, Major Köhn, is smitten with Terry's girlfriend, a French jazz singer named Avril. He enlists the despondent Terry to help him write jazz songs to win her affection. Locked in his cell, Terry befriends an ailing French priest and also finds time to construct a gramophone made of various objects, including pieces of a sewing machine, a butter churner, and a dessert tray.

Not only does the play drown in its diffuse plot, but it is also troubled by a lack of focus on the central conflict. Rather than deepen the relationship between Avril and Terry (ostensibly the thing most at stake), Daniels has written himself mini-monologues in which he pontificates on the subject he loves most: jazz. However, these outbursts don't always make sense. For example, when the petulant Terry teaches Köhn to create rhythm, he exhorts him, "I didn't say smother it, brother!" This colloquial language, along with his frequent use of "man," creates a false familiarity between him and the tyrannical military man, a mercurial character who doesn't hesitate to raise (and use) his pistol at the slightest provocation. That he would be coddled with jazz-speak is hardly believable.

Daniels seizes every opportunity to exalt the spontaneity and bliss of jazz, a form that, for its players, "reflects their soul and suffering in the moment." Within this dramatic context, however, it's no substitution for the sufficient development of character. In the absence of dimensional performances and clearly defined relationships, this ambitious, emotional story frequently becomes melodramatic and overwrought.

Still, there is plenty of emotional and intellectual terrain within this story. Terry doesn't just talk about jazz—he uses it as a code to alert the French Resistance to the Germans' plans, an enticing development that is mentioned only fleetingly. And Terry's racial conflict—not feeling entirely welcome in either France or pre-civil rights America—is also briefly mentioned.

Perhaps due to the inconsistent material (and peripatetic accents), the performances are more faintly sketched than fully embodied. The Jazz Messenger is a promising riff in search of a solid bass line.

Note: This production is part of the 2007 New York International Fringe Festival.

Tru Ways

A sleek, fizzy cocktail of a show, A Beautiful Child captures an afternoon tryst between two ordinary friends in New York. But this is no ordinary relationship: on April 28, 1955, it was Truman Capote and Marilyn Monroe who strolled through the city, trading gossip, rumors, and secrets. Based on a work of nonfiction in Capote's collection Music for Chameleons, this eloquent and hypnotic play is a revelatory and unforgettable encounter with two very distinct and provocative celebrities. Gracefully produced by the Courthouse Theater Company, it is one conversation you don't want to miss. Capote and Monroe first meet up at the funeral of Constance Collier, acting teacher to the stars. Collier took on students only after they had achieved a certain degree of celebrity, and her pupils included two Hepburns (Katharine and Audrey) and Vivien Leigh. Capote introduced Collier to Monroe, whom Collier referred to as "my special problem"—"a beautiful child" whose essence, like "a hummingbird in flight," could be captured only on film.

Here, Capote acts as our camera; ever the persistent interviewer, he softens Monroe with alcohol, relentlessly coaxing away her façade. In a dingy Chinese restaurant on Second Avenue, they openly discuss their respective love affairs. But as Capote probes deeper (as we know he will—and want him to), Monroe's tinkling laughter fades into something darker.

Ben Munisteri's evocative choreography artfully whirls Monroe and Capote into various settings, and the trim production floats by under Linda Powell's precise and elegant direction. Joel Van Liew, peering out from behind owlish glasses, deftly captures both Capote's charm and his greedy celebrity worship. And Maura Lisabeth Malloy, who certainly has no easy task in representing the legendary Monroe, is simply mesmerizing as the doomed siren. In a subtly textured and heartbreaking performance, she delicately exhibits the vulnerability and insecurity that loomed so precariously behind Monroe's beauty.

Glimpsing a grandfather clock in a store window, Monroe is transfixed. Staring at this emblem of domesticity, she pronounces, as if realizing it for the first time, "I've never had a home." It's the sort of realization that unfolds only within the bounds of comfortable, familiar friendship. Thanks to Capote, and to this extraordinary theatrical aperitif, we too get a glimpse of this sparkling light before it was extinguished.

Note: This production is part of the 2007 New York International Fringe Festival.

Future Shock

As imagined 100 years into the future, New York City is both eerily familiar and radically changed. Developers threaten luxury hotels on Ellis Island, it's not atypical to reach age 137, and people subsist on hummus and bottled water. Everything feels a bit more dangerous: school violence has crept into kindergartens, where students attack their teachers with knives, and the blasts of detonating explosives regularly rumble through the air. Against this churning, splintering backdrop, Ethan Lipton examines the lives of five roommates in his hypnotic new play, Goodbye April, Hello May. There are the requisite couplings and wacky comic misfires, but Friends this certainly isn't. In Lipton's reckoning, New Yorkers will forever be self-absorbed and neurotic individuals. Human vanity is timeless and ubiquitous, and this cautionary tale warns of the emotional wasteland that just might be its legacy.

In a tiny Coney Island apartment, these young adults struggle for survival and labor to make ends meet, like typical New Yorkers. By placing their story a century into the future, however, Lipton prompts us to examine these lives with an objectivity that produces startling revelations.

Fleeing a bad breakup, Irene arrives in the city from Cincinnati in search of a new life. She moves into the apartment that her sister Paula shares with three men: Tom, a moody painter/bartender who lives in a gloomy closet; Harry, a drug dealer desperate for a new job; and Frank, Paula's boyfriend, who teaches school and comes home with various student-inflicted injuries. (His ever-present wounds become a running sight gag throughout the show.)

Irene finds a job in public relations, where, she nonchalantly reveals, she must occasionally sleep with someone to make a deal. It soon becomes clear that every character operates on some level of emotional sterility. Although Frank pleads for affection from Paula, who works late hours as a physician, he later shrugs her off, loudly complaining to Harry about her stony personality. Even Irene's poignant story about the end of her former relationship, related with dazzling sensitivity by Kelly Mares, is a falsehood, an empty event dressed up to appear like something that matters.

Erratic explosions inexplicably interrupt the occasional conversation, but they are never referenced by the characters—apparently they have become so normalized that they don't warrant comment. After Paula is badly burned in a nearby blast, Irene still prattles on about the minutiae of her love life to her bandaged and immobilized sister.

It's hard to tell if these bleak personalities are the result of the environment or an all-consuming narcissism, but Lipton gives us the chance to puzzle it out in the second act, when Paula and Frank move to the country.

Listening to friends discuss the minuscule details of their lives eventually becomes tiresome, and Lipton's dialogue also hits the occasional sag and snag. Most of the time, however, he deftly moves between pockets of wit and brilliance—the pervasive despair is enlivened by his devilish sense of humor and highly developed ear for authentic-sounding patter, as in the following exchange between Frank and Paula:

Frank: I got us tickets to a baseball game.

Paula: Do you think we should not be together anymore?

Frank: [Pause.] I think we should stay together long enough to go to the baseball game.

The script is given an enormous boost by Patrick McNulty, whose slick direction locates the show's grace and momentum. It's further enhanced by the extraordinary talents of its cast, all of whom turn in extremely focused and compelling work.

Gibson Frazier is especially winning as the wry and wary Frank, and he delivers his deadpan lines with masterful comic timing. His riff on New York City disaffection is particularly excellent.

As the tentative newcomer, Mares expertly captures Irene's early fragility and continues to show us glimpses of that timidity even as her character becomes tougher and more inured to city living. "I used to dream about helping people," she says. "What do you dream about now?" Tom wonders. "Outsmarting them," she replies.

The starched, anesthetic design underscores the chilly emotional disconnect that drives these characters. Jo Winiarski (set) and G. Benjamin Swope (lighting) contribute a sleek kitchen anchored by an icy tile floor topped with a large, multisectional fluorescent light. Beneath the fuzzy lighting, we squint along with the characters to try to see things clearly.

Eben Levy's original music provides still more texture. Warm guitar chords wrestle with frosty, bouncy electronic sounds, creating layers of dissonance and complexity that percolate along with the plot.

In many ways, New York City seems to survive on such waves of dissonance. Although it's impossible to know what the city will look like in 100 years, here's hoping that Lipton's invention will inspire a few souls to dodge the emotional scouring he predicts.

High Notes

In theater, it's rare—and fascinating—for the same characters to turn up in different shows—a bit like a surprise encounter with familiar old friends. This year, Tom Stoppard's trilogy The Coast of Utopia focused on a group of 19th-century Russian intellectuals who resurfaced across decades. In a lighter, but no less important, way, composer William Finn has tenderly developed the neurotic extended family that resurfaces throughout his ambitious musical triptych: In Trousers, March of the Falsettos, and Falsettoland. All three productions were performed as individual shows Off Broadway at Playwrights Horizons from 1979-1990; in 1992, the final two parts became Acts 1 and 2 of the Broadway musical Falsettos. Just in time for the first National Asian American Theater Festival, the National Asian American Theater Company (NAATCO) has revived its acclaimed production of Falsettoland, which it originally produced in 1998. Finn's seminal show (co-written with James Lapine) investigates such controversial topics as AIDS and homosexuality (especially provocative in the 1980s, when these characters originally appeared), and the grace and wit with which he handles this material give the show a timeless quality. Enlivened with an all-Asian cast, Finn's Jewish-themed musical takes on vibrant new life, and director Alan Muraoka has helmed an effervescent production that cuts to the heart of this poignant show.

Marvin is the conflicted center of Falsettos—he divorces his wife, Trina, when he falls in love with another man, Whizzer. In response, Trina promptly marries Mendel, Marvin's psychiatrist. By the time we reach Falsettoland, Marvin and Whizzer have dissolved their relationship, Mendel and Trina's marriage is a little stale, and Marvin and Trina's precocious son Jason is 12. As Jason's bar mitzvah approaches, Trina and Marvin try to keep their tempers in check, and when Whizzer appears at Jason's baseball game (invited by Jason), he and Marvin decide to try to make things work again. Add to this group Charlotte and Cordelia, the cheerful lesbian couple next door, and you meet one of the most odd and irresistible family units in musical theater.

The plot moves fluidly from song to song with little dialogue, and the brief show has a lovely lyrical quality to it—Finn's music can be both punchy and dreamy, and his often sweeping, impressionistic melodies are routinely interrupted by sharp, vivid epiphanies that wake up the characters. "The Baseball Game" is a particularly exemplary piece of writing. The peppy melody is deceptively simple, but the character development is densely layered—we learn an extraordinary amount about each character from minor asides and interactions (especially within Muraoka's deft staging).

The tragedy of Falsettoland, of course, arrives with Whizzer's AIDS diagnosis—"Something Bad Is Happening," warns Charlotte, who works as a doctor and watches the grave disease destroy the lives of healthy young men. Finn has a sensitive ear (and pen) for the subject of mortality, and he confronts his subject with a refreshing lack of the maudlin or clichéd. In the quartet "Unlikely Lovers," Marvin, Whizzer, Cordelia, and Charlotte ruminate on the stroke of fate that brought them all together, and music director W. Brent Sawyer has uncovered exquisite depths and textures within every crescendo of this moving ballad.

The cast rises to the occasion, and then some. Like Sarah Lambert's efficient set, which clicks into place with the simplicity and precision of Jason's Rubik's Cube, this group of performers is a colorful, interlocking, and delightful puzzle. Especially outstanding are Francis Jue, who achieves superb comic dexterity as the wiry Mendel, and Jason Ma, who uses his silky vocals to gently articulate Marvin's vulnerable qualities. This self-consciousness immediately surfaces whenever Whizzer is nearby, and it's easy to see why—Manu Narayan brings a glorious voice and thrilling sensitivity to a role that would be all too easy to oversimplify.

Ann Sanders (late of Avenue Q) turns in a fierce and fearless performance as the put-upon Trina. The unsung victim of this situation—just imagine planning your son's bar mitzvah with your ex-husband and his male lover in tow—her Trina is never pathetic, never self-pitying. Instead, she wrings the wit out of each circumstance, and in the thunderous ballad "Holding to the Ground," she proclaims her truth: "Life is never what you planned / Life is moments you don't understand." Still, the ties that bind Trina to this makeshift family are everlasting—this may be a dysfunctional group, but it's stuck together like glue.

As I watched this all-Asian cast romp through Finn's material, I wondered, What difference does this make? Sure, the Jewish jokes and references give us an extra wink, but really, one quickly forgets that these Asian actors are anything other than actors. But watching Sanders's vivid performance made me think again; if it weren't for NAATCO, she might never have played this role. The current revival of Les Misérables features several Asian performers, but it's only now that many Asian actors can expand their résumés beyond Flower Drum Song or Miss Saigon.

This powerful production is an important step in recasting and reimagining traditional roles. Finn certainly thinks so—along with Ann Harada (one of those Asian Les Miz stars), he contributed his own money to help fund this production.

Desperate Housewife

Easily one of the least sympathetic characters in classic literature, Emma Bovary cheats on her husband out of boredom, squanders his fortune, and plots her own tragic ending. Paul Dick has ambitiously adapted Gustave Flaubert's epic late-19th-century novel Madame Bovary, which chronicles the life of the infamous adulteress, into the most unlikely of incarnations—a musical. Despite his efforts, this version fails to capture the incapacitating madness that predicates Emma's astonishing actions. In a troubled and lethargic production, we are left with an impression of the despondent Emma that arouses neither empathy nor intrigue. Dick, who last year created a musical version of Wuthering Heights, obviously has an appetite for dark and twisty literary sources, and he pulls triple duty here, contributing book, music, and lyrics. Together with director Elizabeth Falk, he has created a brooding, melancholy, interminable dramatic affair that never focuses clearly enough on its extravagantly flawed heroine.

Almost immediately after marrying the older, upright, and uptight Dr. Bovary, Emma is restless and ready for a radical change of circumstances: "My life is slipping away," she laments. As she begins to spend time with the youthful, romantic Leon, she is seized by feelings of love inspired by their shared passion for poetry, music, and art. The two become confidants, but Leon leaves for law school before they have a chance to consummate their affair.

When the conniving Rodolphe Boulanger arrives in town, however, he recognizes the dissolute Emma as easy prey, luring her into his affections with slick—and obviously well-honed—acts of seduction. But when a marriage promise (and escape plan) goes awry, Emma finds herself a ruined woman, and she quickly runs into the arms of another man. At the same time, she naïvely purchases more and more gifts for her lovers from the local pharmacy, and the steadily increasing bill threatens her demise. "The Noose Tightens," Dick alerts us in one of the none-too-subtle scene titles.

And subtlety is certainly not de rigueur in this moody production. Characters proclaim their fervent emotion, and then sing about it—at often exhausting length. The stormy, cascading, and often beautiful melodies ebb and flow to reflect emotional grandiosity, but the score ultimately trickles out like one continuous vamp (seamlessly played by talented music director Russell Stern, who sits elegantly behind the onstage piano). Melodies percolate but never coalesce into any thrilling focus; instead of channeling emotion with moving precision, the music diffuses rapture into confusion.

As rendered here, the plot itself is similarly uneven, and the action lurches between lengthy, confessional ballads and clipped, choppy mini-scenes. One particularly baffling series of scenes chronicles Leon's unrequited lust for Emma as he encounters her and her husband in various scenarios. Although the sudden blackouts and fragments are obviously meant to chart Leon's romantic frustration, these structurally problematic devices do little to probe the depths of this odd romantic triangle. Instead, these strange scenes become unwittingly comic and rather ridiculous. In fact, they inspired unsolicited laughter from the audience on the night I attended.

Still, there is much that is rich in this production, primarily in the cast's excellent vocals. Nicholas Mongiardo-Cooper and Christopher Vettel offer exceptionally well-sung turns as Dr. Bovary and Boulanger, respectively, and Steven Patterson turns in a delightfully nuanced performance as the shrewd and conniving pharmacist Homais.

In the title role, Lauren Hauser showcases prodigious coloratura tones and a lovely, fragile presence, but her character's madness never reaches an appropriately feverish pitch. In her first big aria (gloriously operatic in tone, if not in dramatic delivery), she complains of the trials of her domestic duties, but as it concludes she weakly pummels a chair—a feeble action that fails to convey her ostensibly harrowed state of mind.

The production looks fantastic, and the designers have surrounded the cast with an appropriately lavish environment to reflect the domestic sphere of 1890s provincial France. Brian Garber's elegant set features walls painted in rich scarlet hues that match the fiery plot, and Noah Marin's costumes capture the dapper style of the Bovarys' social set.

Meghann Babo also contributes exquisite vocals as the Bovarys' servant Felicite, but as she sings the glorious ballad "Rain on the River," director Falk perplexingly keeps the actress hidden in the offstage shadows. It's this misuse of resources and continually misguided focus that doom much of this musical Madame Bovary. Here, with a character as audacious and controversial as any in the theatrical canon (if not more so), Emma Bovary's fire is extinguished in a swirl of tempestuous melody.

She-Man

The Gallery Players, Brooklyn's acclaimed theater company, typically mounts outstanding productions in its intimate venue, but the group wobbles a little with its latest effort, an uneven revival of the gender-bending romantic comedy Victor/Victoria. The show opened on Broadway in the mid-90s and played over 700 performances, thanks no doubt to its venerable star, the incomparable Julie Andrews. And what fun it must have been to see Andrews, the prim and proper ingénue of Mary Poppins, My Fair Lady, and The Sound of Music, transform herself into a drag queen. Or, to put it in the musical's terms, "a woman impersonating a man impersonating a woman."

If that sounds confusing, it's because it is, and the charade quickly loses steam, particularly in this sluggish production. The title character (well, the female half) is Victoria, a down on her luck American girl who stumbles into the path of an enterprising showman in a 1930s Paris nightclub. Toddy, who soon reveals that he is gay, takes her under his wing (and into his flat), where she dons the pajamas of his former lover. When the disgruntled rogue arrives to collect his belongings, he mistakes Victoria for a man, and Toddy has a brilliant idea: turn Victoria into "Victor," a talented, irresistible, and all too authentic cross-dressing act.

Feigning a "relationship" and sharing a bed, Toddy and Victoria crop her hair and dress her in a suit to create an enigmatic showman named Victor—taking the town, as they say, by storm. Terse questions about gender authenticity and problematic romantic interludes soon intervene and disrupt the show, most crucially when Victoria falls for King Marchan, who seems to be falling for her, or rather for Victor, as well. Victor/Victoria, like the much more dignified La Cage Aux Folles before it, aims both to celebrate and question how and why we fall in love.

In the hands of Blake Edwards (book) and Leslie Bricusse (lyrics), however, there's little substance to ground us in the plot. Lyrics like "There's no question he's a most attractive guy/The trouble is, so am I!" and "Though I don't even know him/I know him so well" fail to transform this gender subversion into meaningful material. Instead, the show becomes a trifle in which the characters are, for the most part, cartoons.

With its thin plot, Victor/Victoria depends heavily on its production numbers, and Stacy Moscotti Smith has created splashy and often witty choreography to accompany Henry Mancini's brassy, jazzy, ebullient score (played with flair by the small, but terrific, orchestra, led by Justin Hatchimonji).

But although director Matt Schicker has assembled an excellent ensemble of dancers, his leading lady lacks the charisma to infuse this production with electricity. The draw of the award-winning original production was surely its star's ability to channel a certain je ne sais quoi that made her/him irresistible to both men and women. Christine Paterson sings prettily, dances well, and breaks into a stunning smile at all the right cues, but she lacks, at least in this role, the smoldering presence that drives audiences wild. In a pleasant, poised, but rather bland performance, she gets lost in the glitzy swirl of the other dancers, when all eyes should stay involuntarily focused on her.

The other leads don't do much better. Thomas Poarch offers an appealing but wilted take on the King, and John Blaylock's Toddy is a lovably droll, if somewhat hollow, incarnation of Henry Higgins transforming his Eliza Doolittle.

In fact, almost every time the dancing stops, the energy also evaporates, and weak (often nearly inaudible) singing plagues the production throughout. The overambitious and problematic scenery also contributes its share to the problems, with awkward and near-catastrophic set changes that draw focus from the performers.

The exception to all of this is Allison Guinn, whose wise-cracking, fearless take on Marchan's dimwitted girlfriend Norma is a diamond in the rough. Only Guinn takes the production to its appropriately gauche level, and she sells the material for all it's worth. A sure-witted comedian, she scores first with the bawdy "Paris Makes Me," an ode to the city's decadence.

Later, she stops the show with the uproarious nightclub number "Chicago, Illinois." A crass and clumsy kewpie doll, she hurls herself across the stage with unabashed moxie, every twist of her hips and flick of her wrist a specific window into her character. In this production, the show should almost be renamed Norman/Norma.

Tainted with forced innuendo and oversimplified gender banter, Victor/Victoria can best be appreciated as a slight confection and, perhaps, a wispy excuse to dance up a storm. It's refreshing to see the often serious-minded Gallery Players take on a more fun and frivolous project, but here's hoping that their next effort, whether deep or ditzy, will deliver the polished quality of entertainment their audiences have come to expect.

On His Mind

The two musicals typically regarded as composer William Finn's best—and most autobiographical—work feature an intriguing alchemy: bright humor with a dark underbelly of despair. One is the legendary Falsettos, a touching examination of modern gay life that riveted audiences in the 1990s. The second is A New Brain, now being revived by the Astoria Performing Arts Center in a vibrant, impassioned production. In one emphatic breath, Finn captures the fantastical experience of a neurotic composer hovering on the brink of death. The intermissionless show follows Gordon Schwinn from the first sensations of a headache, to the hospital, through brain surgery, and into a coma. Within these bounds (and with eccentric characters to spare), Finn manages to capture a captivating slice of humanity and, for the most part, so do director Brian Swasey and his excellent cast.

Weary from composing silly melodies for a kids' TV show featuring Mr. Bungee, a man dressed as a frog, Gordon complains of artistic malaise over lunch with his manager, Rhoda. She encourages him to keep plugging along ("First kids' TV, then next the Broadway shows!" she enthuses), but Gordon suddenly slumps over the table. Rushed to the ER, he begins his journey back to life—and some sense of optimism.

On hand to offer advice, consolation, and sympathy are a kooky group of people who exist in both his real and imaginary life: Rhoda, forever glued to her BlackBerry; his overbearing mother, Mimi; his sailing-addict boyfriend, Roger; a tart and "thin" nurse, Nancy D.; her foil, the "nice" and "fat" nurse, Richard; a doctor; a minister; and a homeless woman with a knack for clairvoyance.

For the most part, the show, with a book co-written by James Lapine, shifts seamlessly from one song to the next. In fact, A New Brain fairly bursts with songs, the majority of them cleverly composed and craftily constructed. Finn excels at finding humor in the lyrical—"Sex is good, but I'd rather be sailing," confides Roger as he sings gorgeously. Finn also rips away surfaces to expose the honest desperation underneath: "I don't ask for hugs—just want money to buy more drugs!" bellows the homeless woman.

Of course, this is all filtered through Gordon's subconscious (and unconscious) imagination, so we're dependent on the central character to usher us through his adventure. As the neurotic Gordon, Joe Pace finds just the right mix of anxiety, narcissism, and self-deprecation—he's instantly likable, sings gloriously, and he watches with charming glee as his imagination spins the characters into increasingly absurd—and revelatory—arrangements. In Pace's controlled and moving performance, we watch a confused man define and redefine himself against his life's despair.

And he doesn't just react to the other characters' histrionics; in the confessional "And They're Off," Gordon recalls how his father gambled away massive sums of money betting on horses. With a wry and wistful look, Gordon remembers not only the pain but also the undeniable excitement of those family days at the races.

Swasey places the ensemble members (who sing backup) onstage with Gordon during this song, and they clutch metal walkers, which they use as percussive instrumentation. It's clever staging, but it distracts from Gordon's story and also underscores one of the production's weaknesses: as the music broadens into Finn's lush harmonies, the cast's powerful vocals often obscure the lyrics at the center of the song. This overexuberance often launches the music to deafening levels, and the group choruses—while undeniably exciting—would benefit from more tightly focused music direction. The cast was also occasionally out of sync (in pitch, in volume, and in rhythm) with the offstage orchestra.

Balance issues aside, the top-tier cast puts forth compelling performances. Justin Birdsong is irresistible as Richard, the nurse who complains of being "Poor, Unsuccessful, and Fat." Fresh out of college, Birdsong is a superb vocalist with a deft and original comedic touch that many actors work years to achieve.

Stephanie Wilberding offers a sharp comic reading of the harried Rhoda, and she winningly flits through the tongue twister "Whenever I Dream," in which she becomes the dummy to Gordon's ventriloquist. Lois S. Hart throws away much of Mimi's caustic comedy, but she delivers an enigmatic and unforgettable rendition of the haunting ballad "The Music Still Plays On," in which Gordon imagines how his mother will react to his death.

Designer Michael P. Kramer has constructed a simple and evocative set—rectangular boxes glow along the back wall (and later illuminate X-rays), and Swasey smoothly incorporates the simple hospital fixtures (sliding curtains, window blinds) into his inventive direction.

Finn certainly has a light touch, but he's painting with deep, rich colors, and the APAC production captures both the humor and depth of A New Brain: a small, everyday opera that just happens to surge into questions of eternity every now and then.

Baby Talk

Breeder, beware: Upon viewing Amy Wilson's snappy and entertaining solo show Mother Load, you may start to question every decision you've made as a parent. And that's a good thing. By sharing her personal bouts with compulsive, self-destructive parental perfectionism, Wilson encourages parents, would-be parents, and anyone who has parents to learn to relinquish control and stop sweating the small stuff. This frank, funny, and rather frightening adventure on the front lines of motherhood should be required viewing for the overachiever in all of us.

Wilson wrote Mother Load in response to the myriad voices (some real, some imagined) that surrounded her when she became a mother. An accomplished and educated woman with a college degree and a thriving acting career, she planned to tackle motherhood as she would any important task—with thorough research, careful planning, and hard work.

But as she soon discovered, things don't always work out as planned. A specific birthing schedule should be shredded when your hours of labor climb into the double digits, a screaming baby won't win you any friends at a postnatal exercise class, and overly detailed preschool applications may very well drain every bit of your time (and sanity).

Under the sharp and savvy direction of Julie Kramer, Wilson tells her story chronologically, beginning with issues of conception (the humiliation of infertility clinics) and ending as she sends her first son off to preschool. (She now has two sons and is pregnant with her third child.)

Wilson is brutally honest about her expectations, experiences, and reactions to modern parenthood, in which everyone from your aunt to a well-dressed stranger on the playground feels free to offer unsolicited advice. With so much information available at your fingertips, she points out, "there is no right answer."

Wilson also offers humorous (and all too brief) anecdotes about her husband, who responds to the early stages of labor by eating everything in sight. It would be interesting to hear more about her perceptions about the male approach to parenting, because, as Wilson tells us, there's certainly much more pressure on the mothers—men are more easily forgiven for their transgressions. "It's cute when dads screw up," she wryly surmises.

Horror film-inspired music and lighting effects provide witty and somewhat overwrought commentary on Wilson's supposedly dire parenting mistakes. Although we laugh at the absurdity of her experiences, they underscore the detrimental power of social expectations, which encourage us to live "in a pressure cooker."

A poised and confident actress, Wilson turns in witty portraits of a variety of characters. Especially entertaining is an avowed "lactivist" whom Wilson consults for breast-feeding assistance at a store called "The Breast of Everything." She attacks her subject honestly and with a sparkling sense of humor.

As talented as she is, Wilson is no show-off, and she wisely keeps the show at an intimate level, creating the effect of a conversation between friends. As she speaks to the audience, she wanders around the over-cluttered living room set, folding baby clothes and picking up toys. It's clear that this is a home overrun by the needs and wants of children, and as she clears away the mess, we begin to feel that she's finally finding some space for herself. But her efforts to clean up, we soon realize, reflect her attempts to be a "perfect mom." In Mother Load, at least, a messy, lived-in room is a treasure to behold.

Stroller, Sanctimommies, and Self-Control: Amy Wilson Takes on a Mother Load

Step on the sidewalk these days, and you'll run smack into the new culture of parenthood: strollers clog the sidewalks in Park Slope, flared jeans and halter tops wink from the windows at Baby Gap, and hipster parents teach their kids to rock out to Bob Dylan and the Clash. Or take a trip into cyberspace, where otherwise well-mannered women (and some men) stage vitriolic child-rearing battles on urbanbaby.com.

And then there's the rampant "mommy media." Pick up any magazine, and you'll find clear instructions on the right (and, more often, wrong) ways to raise your children. A recent New York magazine cover story even discussed the deadly ramifications of … praising your kids too much. (The latest issue spotlights "The Hot-Mommy Cult.")

When she first became a mother, Amy Wilson, author and star of the innovative, witty new solo show Mother Load, was ideal prey for the glut of baby expertise. She's a Yale graduate with a successful acting career, including stints in TV, film, and on Broadway. With such demanding, high-profile accomplishments under her belt, she reasoned, how hard could parenting be? And so the educated high achiever and self-described "perfectionist and control freak" set out to master her newest task.

Only this was no ordinary assignment. Unlike the pressures of college or the travails of forging an acting career, "motherhood was the first thing I've taken on where the standards are impossibly higher than anything else," she says.

Amy Wilson (Photo by Sue Barr)

Overwhelmed by the sheer volume of (often contradictory) information available, she realized she was not enjoying parenting; instead, she was merely "staggering through."

She quickly became frustrated and disgusted by the high-pressure bubble of urban parenthood, where preschool applications are often filled out before a baby's sex can be determined and a snooty mother (the notorious "sanctimommy") will snidely critique the ineptness of your child's inorganic afternoon snack at the neighborhood park.

Nowadays, there's not only a right way to be a mother, there's even a right way to be pregnant (think Angelina Jolie, perfectly toned with a stylish "bump") and a right way to give birth. And with titles like "The Right Start," "One Step Ahead," and "Leaps and Bounds," kids' catalogs immediately telegraph the desperate need to make the "right" choices to stay ahead of (and in) the game.

But, Wilson claims, "you can choose to ignore it." It's certainly not easy, but in Mother Load she skewers the cutthroat cult of competitive parenting, blending sarcasm and humor to concoct a frank, honest, "in the trenches" account of guerrilla mommyhood, without perfection or apology.

To bring her colorful stories to life, Wilson joined forces with longtime collaborator and childhood friend Julie Kramer, who directed and developed the production. The two theater artists—who previously collaborated on Wilson's show A Cookie Full of Arsenic—first presented Mother Load to a predominantly female audience in their hometown of Scranton, Pa.

The show was a hit, even if the audience couldn't directly relate to the pressures of urban parenting. To build on their success, Wilson and Kramer decided to bring the project to the big city, and they set off to further polish and embellish the material for audiences in New York, their adopted hometown.

Amy Wilson (Photo by Sue Barr)

Although the show takes aim at the particular problems of mothers, Kramer and Wilson also worked to make the themes more universal.

"So many of us can relate to the idea of wanting to do the best possible job that you can do [with anything]," Kramer says. "We all have so many options and opportunities, which is great, but it can also make us crazy."

Wilson agrees, recalling the reaction of her husband's Wall Street co-workers, who instantly connected with her hapless search for elusive perfection.

"This is a show about trying to listen to your inner voice and understanding that you know yourself and can trust yourself," Kramer adds. "You have to accept that there's only so much you can do."

Both Wilson and Kramer cite the trend toward having children at a later age as the reason for motherhood's hyper-professionalization. Having children in your 30s means you've had time to be out in the world pursuing life on your own, Wilson points out. And if you've excelled in your career, you're all the more determined to excel as a parent.

Rather than soberly investigating its topic, Mother Load unearths comedy from the drama of motherhood, according to Kramer, and this distinguishes it from much that is written about contemporary parenting. She also praises the show's dedicated theatricality as an invaluable tool for both communicating and connecting with audiences—Wilson plays various characters and uses her children's toys as props, creating an adult playground that nudges audiences toward whimsical exploration.

But playful props aside, this is theater with a purpose, and Wilson wants mothers to learn to relax and dismiss the critical voices that threaten to overwhelm them. She personally tries to live by a yogi master's mantra, "Be here now." But she knows it isn't easy.

The show, she says, has helped her learn to enjoy being a mom without constantly berating herself. It's a daily battle, of course, but well worth fighting. Now the mother of two young sons (2 and 4) with another baby on the way, she finds that focusing on the task immediately at hand is a good beginning.

"When I sit down to read stories to my kids and don't worry about my Treo, sit-ups, or the perfect healthy dinner, all of the other stuff goes out the window," she says.

Wilson has also created an interactive forum on her Web site, www.motherloadshow.com, where she encourages other mothers to share their stories.

"Women who are mothers often do not feel community on a daily basis," says Kramer. "Motherhood is something that is expected, but not admired or valued."

Fittingly, Wilson describes the audience's reaction as "the laughter of recognition."

"It's cathartic," she says. "People will be laughing, but the mothers will be howling!"

Mother Load runs from April 21 - June 16 at the Sage Theater. For tickets, call 212-279-4200. Visit http://www.motherloadshow.com for more information, including video clips from the show and an interactive forum.

Working Girl

In New York City, love across the tracks can easily become love across the river. Musicals Tonight! concludes its season of musical readings with Irene, a romantic comedy about a plucky Irish girl from Ninth Avenue who finds love on the wealthy, distant shores of ... Long Island. The show, which opened on Broadway in 1919 and ran for 675 performances, features songs by Harry Tierney (music) and Joseph McCarthy (lyrics) and a book from legendary writers Hugh Wheeler (Sweeney Todd and A Little Night Music) and Joseph Stein (Fiddler on the Roof). This charming musical is a hodgepodge of styles, and it calls up the homespun sweetness of Meet Me in St. Louis, which also centers on the dreams of a feisty Irish lass (and features a book by Wheeler). But unlike the Missouri-bound heroine, Irene isn't content to stay at home—she is an enterprising businesswoman determined to find success.

Irene's business is piano tuning, and she spends nights poring over business administration books (borrowed from the public library) to better learn how to attract clients. She dubs her company the "AAAAAA Piano Store"—ensuring that she will be the first entry in the phone book.

The first call (and job) comes from the Marshall Estate (on Marshall Drive, in Marshall Town, Long Island). There, she meets Donald, the young heir, and she overwhelms him with vibrant stories tinted by her fetching personality before realizing that he is, in fact, one of the "filthy" rich.

Impressed with her business savvy, Donald convinces her to manage the new enterprise of a fashion designer friend. Irene thrives with her natural business moxie, and, together with her two friends Helen and Jane, she also becomes a mannequin for Madame Lucy's work. Of course, the inevitable amorous emotions soon intervene, and Irene and Donald must sort out a relationship that is challenged by both social dissonance and their business partnership. In many ways, this is a story about ambition, rather than love, at first sight.

Although the dated plot sags a little in spots, the cast—adeptly directed and choreographed by Thomas Sabella-Mills—turns on the charm to put forth an endearing spin on this musical.

Leading the pack is Jillian Louis, who gives a gem of a performance in the title role. Feisty and determined, she shades the role with delicate, appealing, and original comic touches. "I've got a joooooooob!" she announces, capturing the many levels of potential in this development. Her voice and perky presentation often suggest a young Judy Garland, especially her simple, unaffected, and exceedingly vulnerable (and heartbreaking) rendition of the standard "I'm Always Chasing Rainbows."

Louis and her leading man, Patrick Porter, also do fine work on the duet "You Made Me Love You." Much of the fun of experiencing older and lesser-known musicals in their entirety is discovering how these classic songs (so often separated from their original material) actually fit into the plot of a show.

Many of the songs evoke the light and delicate melodies of the late 19th century, but the standouts are the more over-the-top and Irish-influenced pieces. As Madame Lucy (who is actually a man), Justin Sayre scores with the overripe and boastful "They Go Wild, Simply Wild Over Me." Sayre winningly channels a liberal amount of Nathan Lane to create his animated and effete Lucy, and the sassy song also forecasts the sensational antics of Roger DeBris in Mel Brooks's The Producers. (It's quite intriguing to see a gay stereotype even half explored in such an early musical.) A side note: George S. Irving, who won a Tony Award for the role in the 1973 revival (alongside Debbie Reynolds), was in the audience the night I attended.

Irene chimes in on an entertaining duet with her mother (Jane Carroll, saddled with the challenging task of playing both Irene's mother and Donald's mother). "Mother Angel Darling" features Louis and Carroll chucking good-natured barbs back and forth, and these affectionate insults capture the rough-hewn love between a mother and daughter—a relationship that has become worn and comfortable through the years.

As Irene's friends, Katherine McClain and Jendi Tarde turn in top-notch comic performances and stellar vocals—they each find just the right amount of pluck, punch, and personality in their supporting roles.

The action problematically rushes toward a breathless conclusion, and it would seem that Irene—especially as rendered through Louis's exemplary and complex performance—deserves a more considered and pointed ending. Still, the rather scatterbrained plot doesn't distract us too long from the irrepressible Irene.

This semi-staged production requires that the actors hold scripts, but they manage to fully commit to their roles, and the scripts quickly become nearly invisible. With simple sets and costumes, producer Mel Miller brings his latest season of musical revivals—a must for any musical theater aficionado—to a delightful conclusion.

Little Orphan Anne

Red hair may go in and out of fashion, but a certain plucky, redheaded orphan named Anne (with an "e") has made an indelible mark on the imaginations of children both young and old for nearly 100 years. Sprung from the beloved and best-selling Anne of Green Gables novels of Canadian author Lucy Maud Montgomery (first published in 1908), Anne has appeared across the media in various and sometimes unlikely forms: television movies, television series (including a cult Japanese anime version), stage adaptations, and countless fan Web sites. Anne has also inspired something of a pilgrimage, as many Green Gables devotees make the journey to Prince Edward Island to traipse across the nostalgic backdrop of Montgomery's descriptive work. A long-playing musical attracts tourists visiting the island; now, Theatreworks has produced its own Anne musical, a cheerful and brisk accounting of Anne's most memorable escapades, enhanced by the blithe and lyrical songs of Gretchen Cryer (lyrics) and Nancy Ford (music).

Intended for young audiences but enjoyable by all, the 90-minute show begins when elderly brother and sister Matthew and Marilla decide to adopt a boy to help work on their farm. When the orphanage delivers Anne instead, crotchety Marilla wants to send her back immediately. Soft-hearted Matthew, however, quickly develops a fondness for Anne's wild imagination and dreamer's personality, and he persuades Marilla to let her stay.

The most enduring characters in young-adult literature (Harry Potter, et al.) often triumph over dismal circumstances, and Anne is no exception. Orphaned and blessed (and sometimes cursed) with an overactive imagination, Anne must earn the love and support of the town of Avonlea—a community that is not used to accepting outsiders. Much of the joy in watching Anne arrives when she gets into scrapes and then digs her way out.

Book writer Cryer has abridged and adapted Montgomery's writing into a coherent, yet often breathless, coming-of-age story—we follow Anne through school, friendships (most notably, "bosom friend" and neighbor Diana Barry), the devastating loss of a family member, and the first sparks of love. At times, Cryer has perhaps shoehorned too much exposition into single scenes or bits of dialogue, depending too heavily on the (young) audience's comprehension. Happily, most of the show moves along smoothly, and she has cleverly spliced together stories to yield additional witticisms. (Die-hard Anne fans will love the vegetable she uses to describe Anne's newly—and mistakenly—dyed-green hair.)

Tyler Marchant's brisk and playful staging keeps the production zipping along, as do Dave Hab's jaunty orchestrations. If not every tune is memorable, the songs invariably work to prod the story along. Especially appealing are Anne and Matthew's bouncy duet "Kindred Spirits" and the surprisingly witty schoolroom number "The Use of the Colon." Anne and Gilbert Blythe also share a lovely duet called "It's Nice to Know," which lightly documents their slowly growing affection. Music director W. Brent Sawyer sits at the piano and gracefully conducts the small orchestra (cello and woodwinds).

Piper Goodeve makes an ebullient Anne, fiercely embodying both her irrepressible hopes and her melodramatic tirades. Her giddy solo "I Can Stay," in which she celebrates Marilla's decision to keep her at Green Gables, is a triumph of voice, personality, and athleticism. The little girls seated around me let out contented sighs at their favorite Anne moments—they clearly embraced this live and rambunctious version of their heroine.

The other seven performers offer Goodeve strong support, and Dustin Sullivan is particularly winning (and in lovely voice) as the "incorrigible" Gilbert.

Within an inviting oval proscenium, the design is as colorful and charming as a greeting card. Beowulf Boritt's simple set is dotted with vibrant red flowers, and Clifton Taylor's gorgeous lighting makes use of a sumptuous palette of pastels (he also does fine work creating rain and snow). David C. Woolard and David H. Lawrence contributed the iconic and eye-pleasing costumes and wigs, respectively.

If the design fails to call up the glorious landscape of Prince Edward Island, it's fitting for a production that—like its heroine—flies on the force of imagination. It's likely that Anne herself wouldn't have it any other way.

A Theater of Diversity: Nicu's Spoon Launches New Season With Lost Formicans

"I need a wheelchair," Stephanie Barton-Farcas once heard a casting director say during a panel discussion on casting diverse actors.

"You personally need a wheelchair?" she queried. "Or do you need an actor in a wheelchair to play a role for you?

"They're not called wheelchairs," she corrected him. "They're called human beings."

Since 2001, Barton-Farcas's theater company, Nicu's Spoon, has worked to de-objectify its diverse base of performers to create a dynamic and proficient group of artists. With a proven commitment to working for social change in theater by populating it—both onstage and backstage—with performers of all shapes, sizes, colors, ages, and abilities, Nicu's Spoon has produced risky and thought-provoking productions, earning kudos from both audiences and critics.

And now, following its production of Constance Congdon's quirky and poignant comedy Tales of the Lost Formicans (which opened March 28), the company will move into a new home—an entire floor at 38 West 38th Street that is, by design, fully accessible to anyone.

Formicans kicks off a season dedicated to investigating disability issues onstage. A creative reimagining of Shakespeare's Richard III will premiere in the new venue this summer, followed by Kosher Harry, an absurdist comedy animated by both hearing and deaf artists. (Previous seasons have focused on the lives of female refugees and the multiracial casting of classic dramas; next season will address women and identity.)

Congdon's play focuses on the breakdown of communication within a family, powerfully underscoring the destruction of community on a more global level. When a woman discovers that her husband has been cheating on her, she leaves her life in New York to move back to her childhood home in suburban Colorado. With her angst-ridden teenage son in tow, she arrives home to help care for her aging father, whose health is decaying rapidly from Alzheimer's.

As the father moves in and out of lucidity, the family must confront a world in which their most vital anchor is drifting away. And when a group of aliens arrives, they provide an objective and almost anthropological perspective on the sometimes twisted ways in which human beings cope with life and death.

With Formicans, Brett Maughan makes his mainstage directing debut in New York after helming several readings for the company, and he has uncovered plenty of incendiary topics to probe within the script. "It's a question that doesn't go away for us," he says. "What do we do now that our community and families are falling apart?"

The company's namesake is an abandoned boy whom Barton-Farcas took care of in Romania in the 1990s. Although Nicu was 5 years old, he couldn't walk, talk, or feed himself. "They told me he was deaf, autistic, and retarded," Barton-Farcas remembers. "I got angry and said, 'I'll take him.' "

Six hard-fought months later, he could both walk and talk, and Barton-Farcas was captivated as she watched him bounce sunlight off of his spoon, the first utensil he was able to use and the tool that brought him back to life both physically and emotionally. Although he would die from HIV complications five years later, he was able to enjoy his brief life to the fullest.

"Nicu's spoon became the symbol for all the impossible things that were suddenly possible," Barton-Farcas says. A theater company was born—and christened.

Through Nicu's Spoon, Barton-Farcas makes the impossible possible for many of New York's disabled performers, and she is thoroughly committed to casting actors of all physical abilities. Last Fall, Nicu's Spoon offered an opportunity to a disabled actor in last fall's production of Sam Shepard's Buried Child, in which Darren Fudenske, who is deaf-mute, appeared onstage in his first speaking role. His presence intensified the level of denial in a family that—in this production—couldn't bear to acknowledge that their own son and brother was disabled.

Although Barton-Farcas concedes that "it's exploitative when you have a token disabled person" in a production, she quickly points to Nicu's Spoon's continued commitment to capitalizing on the multiple strengths of its dedicated artists. She stresses that she never casts actors only because they are disabled—she casts them only if they are brilliant artists.

For her part, she draws out the multitaskers and encourages people to contribute in whatever way they can. "I'm a big advocate of, 'Well, you can do it now!' " she says, laughing.

The work is sometimes easier said than done, however, and she admits, "It's challenging when you have to convince them that they're still artists."

But it's a challenge Nicu's Spoon will be able to address on an even larger scale from its new permanent location. Barton-Farcas looks forward to sharing the company's space and resources with other like-minded groups (such as the Brooklyn-based New York Deaf Theater) that might not otherwise have the means to put on a production in Manhattan. Free from the added physical and financial stress of loading in and out of various venues, she is eager to focus her energy on answering the needs of the community, including facilitating audition classes for disabled actors.

As she looks to the future, Barton-Farcas cites this year's Oscar nominees (the most diverse pool to date) as an example of how the entertainment industry is slowly evolving to embrace a broader, more expansive range of artists that reflect the country's diversity.

"The future of theater and film is going to be a meshing of everybody," she predicts. "Our job is to take all of those people and put them onstage."

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For more information, visit the company's Web site: http://www.spoontheater.org.

Singing Wilde

Countless musicals open on and off Broadway each year, and while a few make lasting impressions, others play out small respectable runs and live on only in the memories of the audiences who embraced them. Of course, there are often original-cast recordings to fall back on, but the ambitious company Musicals Tonight! goes even further, producing simple yet faithful revivals of long-forgotten musicals. Its latest foray, Ernest in Love—an adaptation of Oscar Wilde's The Importance of Being Earnest that ran for 111 performances at the Cherry Lane Theater in 1960—is a lively and entertaining romp of falsified identity and misdirected love. Briskly directed by Thomas Mills, this production delivers a handful of marvelous performances—it's also an intriguing study of how musicalization can both enhance and weaken an exemplary play.

Set in and around London in 1895, the story centers on two young bachelors, Algernon Moncrieff and Jack Worthing, who invent names (and sometimes friends and family members) to allow them to carry on their romantic adventures in and out of town. Jack is smitten with Algernon's cousin Gwendolen, who claims to love him because she believes his name is Ernest; her mother Lady Bracknell blocks the way with questions about his cloudy parentage (as a baby, Jack was discovered in a handbag). Algernon becomes attached to Cecily, Jack's young ward, who is also convinced that she loves a man named Ernest.

Wilde deftly spins the plot with tart and delightfully smart language. Anne Croswell's book and lyrics follow Wilde's script quite faithfully, and Lee Pockriss's jaunty, lyrical music mirrors the operetta-influenced style of the late 19th century.

The songs that come off best bring out the larger-than-life qualities of Wilde's delicious characters. When Lady Bracknell scolds Jack about his dubious upbringing, she attacks him while clucking a patter song: "A handbag/a handbag/is not a proper mother/not a proper mother/not a proper mother!" With a nod to the gossiping ladies in The Music Man, Croswell and Pockriss heighten the hyperbolic drama of this overbearing mother while endearing her to the audience through song.

They also succeed with "My Very First Impression," a caustic, delightful duet for Gwendolen and Cecily's first meeting, in which they express mutual undying devotion until they realize they are both (ostensibly) in love with the same man. Here, the songwriters deploy Wilde's satire at its finest, exposing the duplicity and vanity that lie just behind the facade of good manners.

Ernest in Love also rewards its supporting characters (who are rather neglected in the play) with meaty material, and Cecily's tutor Miss Prism and Dr. Chausuble enjoy a sprightly intellectual flirtation in "Metaphorically Speaking." Still lower on the social ladder, the servants Effie and Lane sing the spirited "You Can't Make Love," in which they celebrate their freedom to enjoy conjugal bliss while criticizing the more corseted romantic choreography of the wealthy.

It's only when the writers bow to the most blatant—and limiting—conventions of musical theater that Wilde himself might have sneered. An early—and overlong—duet between Jack and Gwendolen finds them both obsessing about what to wear for what they both assume will be the moment of their engagement. As he agonizes about his cravat, she worries about her hat (obviously, the rhymes are begging for song), but here the extended melodies rob the language of its wit. Wilde's adroit language requires one's complete attention, but in many of the musical passages, one can drift a bit. The cheesy "everybody sing" finale also feels distinctly un-Wildean, but perhaps appropriately musical theater-ized.

The cast rises to the occasion to portray even the silliest moments with, well, earnest dedication. As the sparring and swooning Gwendolen and Cecily, Lauren Molina and Melissa Bohon present razor-sharp and exquisite character studies. Molina finds remarkably fresh readings of some of Gwendolen's most famous lines—her reactions to the subject of Jack's name are especially engaging. Her performance is precise and delicate throughout, and she is matched by the sharp comic timing of Bohon, who makes a delightfully buoyant and winsome Cecily.

Blake Hackler is charming as the straight-laced Jack, and Deborah Jean Templin winningly pours forth Lady Bracknell's dour barbs and sour expressions. Only Nick Dalton misses the mark as Algernon; he's appropriately peevish, but his overt narcissism makes Algy appear less lovably rakish than awkwardly lecherous.

In this spare production, the actors hold scripts to remind us that this is not a fully staged revival, but they certainly aren't fully dependent on them. Colorful placards and simple set pieces announce scene changes, and the costumes are striking, if not lavish.

Musicals Tonight! is an invaluable gift for dedicated musical theater enthusiasts. Like taking a real-time, live-action record off the shelf, Ernest in Love is a glance back at the musical landscape of 1960, a year in which, producer Mel Miller reminds us, The Sound of Music debuted on Broadway and The Fantasticks began its epic Off-Broadway run. The actress who played Gwendolen in the original production of Ernest in Love was in the audience the night I attended—yet another reminder of the powerful connection between musicals past and present.

Spoken Tribute

Forget a séance. The best way to resurrect a writer—as prodigiously argued by the respectfully rendered and intelligently incarnated new theater piece Spalding Gray: Stories Left to Tell—is to let his words speak for themselves. A relentless storyteller, explosive performer, and inveterate writer, Gray took his own life in 2004, two years after a car accident threatened his health and mired him in an unshakable depression. After his untimely death, his widow, Kathleen Russo, teamed with Lucy Sexton, a director known for her work at P.S. 122, to construct a collage of Gray's work for an intimate performance on what would have been his 65th birthday.

The benefit—culled from both Gray's published writing and his personal journals, letters, and informal scribbles—was met with unbridled enthusiasm, and Russo and Sexton decided to present the work to a wider audience. The Minetta Lane Theater is now home to what can only be called the Spalding Gray event—a heartwarming and heartbreaking evening of theater performed by five dynamic performers. More than a simple "greatest hits" collection, Stories Left to Tell is both eulogy and meditation—a loosely and gracefully constructed testament to Gray's eventful life and artistic legacy.

The five actors take on various aspects of Gray's experience—Love (Kathleen Chalfant), Adventure (Hazelle Goodman), Journals (Ain Gordon), Family (Frank Wood), and Career (Fisher Stevens at this performance; guest stars will rotate throughout the show's run). Perched atop, around, and among stacks of black-and-white composition notebooks (a Spalding Gray trademark prop), the actors seem to literally spring from his writing like animated figures in a pop-up book. Set designer David Korins takes this idea even further with his backdrop—a tapestry of handwritten pages that enigmatically absorb and deflect Ben Stanton's evocative lighting design. Lest we forget, Gray's writing holds this production firmly in place.

The performers take turns reading from Gray's work, and while they only intermittently respond to one another, they always listen attentively. Chronologically, the production is anchored by Gordon, who sits behind a table and reads directly, and intimately, into a microphone. This was Gray's classic oration style, and it's here that we return to connect with his most emotionally bare musings and observations.

Not that the rest of his writing isn't suffused with intimate details. Gordon is mirrored by Stevens, who plants himself behind a microphone to spin career-driven stories that are both darkly sardonic and richly humorous. The other actors are more mobile, as Chalfant touchingly reveals amorous epiphanies, Wood keenly renders fond—and fatal—family memories, and Goodman blazes her way through Gray's most intrepid encounters.

Together, the excerpts form a complex weaving of genre and subject that creates a stirring representation of an entire life span—wit, sadness, and grief move fluidly into one another like Christmas lights on a string (to borrow from Gray's reflection on the love he finds in his once broken but newly complete family):

"No, there was a new kind of love going around in this new family. It was so different from the one on one, the only love I'd known before. This love alternated like a chain of broken circuit Christmas lights. I loved Marissa for the way she loved her brother. I loved my son Forrest for the way he loved his mom, and turned her into a mother before I could, leaving me to know and love her for the woman she is."

That such an intimate and poignant discovery can coexist with a ribald tale of stage flatulence is testament to the breadth of Gray's observation and ingenuity. Whether slapstick or stirring, his writing has an immediacy and truthfulness that makes you want to grab a pen and take notes.

And this reactive appreciation is exactly what Russo and Sexton would wish; unlike many posthumous productions, Stories Left to Tell doesn't try to cram its material into a tidy box. Instead, this is an invitation to share in Gray's process of uncovering the drama of the everyday.

After a funeral, guests often return to a cozy living room where they reminisce about their lost loved one. This involuntary reflex serves to bring the deceased back to life, so much so that the person's presence fills the room. In the case of Spalding Gray, this audience seems exhilarated at the opportunity to convene with an old friend—welcomed into the warm glow of one man's life, learning, and legacy.

Fools for Love

"Shakespeare has damned us all!" shouts a passionate actor at the onset of Now That You've Seen Me Naked, a collection of 15 thin vignettes about the joys and travails of romantic relationships. With a manic laugh, the actor (Chris J. Handley) announces that the Bard has doomed us with his tales of melodramatic, tempestuous, and eternal love. In the tradition of such revues as Off-Broadway's I Love You, You're Perfect, Now Change, Now That You've Seen Me Naked strives to make light of our amorous fumblings by showing us how silly our expectations can be. It's neither as witty nor as satisfying as its peers, and, although it has moments of the crude and profane, the tame content is no match for its salacious title. These fluffy scenes make for an entertaining, but often frustrating, evening of theater.

Written by a team of 10 writers (including three members of the small acting ensemble), these scenes can usually be reduced to one hackneyed phrase. For example, "men and women should have their own bathrooms," "men prefer less complicated food choices," and (surprise!) "during the same conversation, a man and a woman might really be thinking about completely different things."

With so many narrative voices, the scenes vary in scope and success. Director Evan Heird keeps things moving at a sprightly pace, but the jokes often fall flat and too many of the wispy songs lack solid melodies. The actors also represent a wide spectrum of acting abilities, and their levels of conviction differ as they execute this uneven material.

Still, there are several creative takes on relationships and a handful of memorable performances. In "I've Been Replaced," a man (the energetic Handley) sings a frenzied song of anxiety when he accidentally discovers an instrument of manual stimulation in his girlfriend's nightstand. Handley winningly whines and gesticulates with the elongated purple prop.

The comedy also succeeds in the short, pithy "Vending Machine." When a woman (Rachel McPhee) inserts coins, she ejects two men (Ryan Hyde and Handley) who reward her with the things women wish men would say. "I see your point, and, what's more, I understand it," the men coo. The woman reacts with orgasmic glee.

And in one of the longest—and best—scenes, two sleazy men compete for the title of "Mr. Lounge Lizard." Brilliant comedienne Amy Albert slurs her words admirably as the furred and sequined host, and the competitors (Hyde and Perryn Pomatto) compete in the categories of pickup line, loungewear, and talent. Selected members of the audience vote for their favorite at each performance, and Hyde took the title the night I was there. The award was well deserved: with studious, gum-snapping appeal, his lecherous stares, smarmy pickup lines, and persuasive ballad created a compelling and precise comic parody.

The performance achieves a snappy ending with "Love as Performance Art," in which the black-clad ensemble writhes about the stage as an esoteric beatnik group. As the performers shout out bizarre phrases that all ostensibly link back to love, the scene makes a witty comment on the absurdity of our attempts to describe romance.

But although the performance seems to end here, it continues with the lackluster "Coffee Break," in which the ensemble extols the virtues of coffee to the tune of Handel's "Hallelujah Chorus." This lengthy interpretation craftily substitutes "cup of java!" for "hallelujah!," but the scene's uncertain motivation brings the production to an unsatisfying conclusion.

So where does any of this leave us? Now That You've Seen Me Naked makes a sweet—if slight—impression, but it would be refreshing to see a revue that explores relationships in more novel ways and with less slavish devotion to tired assumptions about the myopic ways of male/female couplings. If Shakespeare has truly primed us for failure, then perhaps we should write ourselves new stories instead of perpetuating the ones we already know by heart.

Not Your Servant

The indomitable Capathia Jenkins recently dazzled Broadway audiences with a solo in which she commanded, "Let a big black lady stop the show." She went on to do exactly that, and in the context of the tongue-in-cheek Martin Short: Fames Becomes Me, the song was an irreverent comment on typecasting and our stilted theatrical expectations. Now Jenkins has resurfaced as another big black lady—Hattie McDaniel, most renowned for her Academy Award-winning turn as Scarlett O'Hara's feisty Mammy in Gone With the Wind. But instead of simply stealing the show and soaking up the applause, Jenkins portrays a woman who clearly stole the show but then had the show stolen away from her.

In (mis)Understanding Mammy: The Hattie McDaniel Story, McDaniel appears in her hospital room, coping with the breast cancer that would eventually take her life. She still has a bone to pick with her most vicious enemy, however, and she conjures up the ghost of NAACP leader Walter White. It's a revenge fantasy worth indulging, and playwright Joan Ross Sorkin's clever framework gives McDaniel fervent motivation to tell her story. This smart and persuasive drama reveals the complex history behind one of Hollywood's most important actresses.

McDaniel first began performing on the vaudeville circuit in Denver, where in the thriving hustle of a "boomtown" race wasn't a complete limitation. But when she moved on to Hollywood, she found herself cast predominantly in stereotypical "mammy" roles. Still, McDaniel was happy just to be working, and then she landed Gone With the Wind.

McDaniel was the first black actress to attend the Academy Awards ceremony, and even though she also became the first black actress to win one, she was segregated from the other guests and relegated to the back of the venue. Signed by a film studio, she soon became the go-to actress for mammy roles. But when White began to attack "mammyism" and its harmful consequences, he eventually had McDaniel blacklisted.

To our contemporary eyes, the ever-grinning mammy character is obviously derogatory, but McDaniel puts up a robust defense of the roles that defined her career. "I'd rather play a maid than be one," she points out. In fact, she felt that her performances were progressive--not only did she "reinvent" the mammy figure, making her less subordinate and full of strength and personality (in one movie her maid character even had her own day job), but she also campaigned fiercely--and successfully--to remove the "n" word from the script of Gone With the Wind.

None of this mattered to White, however, and he resolved to eradicate an egregious stereotype. But as skittish producers began to fear White's persecution, reliable film work for black actors became severely limited.

Jenkins plays McDaniel with conviction and grace, and her best moments, perhaps unsurprisingly, surface when she embodies McDaniel in song. Naturally bright-eyed and bubbly, with an enormous smile that reflects the spotlight, Jenkins, as McDaniel, unabashedly glows when remembering the exultation of a live audience. Still, in her visceral rendition of "Lady Luck Blues," the depth and devastation begin to trickle out, and Jenkins contorts her sunny face into an ugly, grotesque twist. Her throaty, rangy voice unflinchingly probes the dark, complex corridors that lined McDaniel's life.

Director David Glenn Armstrong's simple and effective staging is buttressed by Jenkins's ardent performance. The narrative loses steam during a few over-expository passages, but it is thrilling to watch McDaniel steadily circle White, gathering together the seminal moments of her life to defend both her career and her humanity. What McDonald most wanted is respect, the play tells us, and here we have the opportunity to watch her fight for it.

Most tragically, White turned black people against McDaniel, who considered herself a pioneer for her race. Although neither Sorkin nor Armstrong makes much effort to connect these events to our contemporary moment, the implication is clear. Already, pundits are questioning presidential hopeful Barack Obama's essential "blackness" and how his race might affect his political career. Our national obsession with casting certain people in certain roles, it seems, is hardly a thing of the past.

At War

"Facts are better than truth, and revenge is better than sorrow," declares Mejra, a self-appointed figure of redemption. But are there limits to vengeance? Can we ever fully pay for our crimes? When Saddam Hussein was executed this month, many of his victims' families rejoiced. But for all their glee, it is finally impossible to completely undo war's heinous crimes, and even the death of a killer did nothing to bring back the lives that were lost. Canadian playwright Colleen Wagner tackles the potent themes of redemption, crime, and consequence in The Monument, which is being chillingly presented by Clockwork Theater under the stalwart direction of Beverly Brumm. A soldier waiting for his execution is suddenly granted a second chance when a mysterious woman appears and pronounces herself his savior. The only catch: he must obey her every command for the rest of his life.

Stetko, the young soldier, gratefully accepts Mejra's offer, and she brings him back to her home in a relentlessly devastated land. But instead of inviting him inside, she chains him in her yard like a dog and beats him mercilessly.

It seems that Mejra wants Stetko (whom she callously dubs "Stinko") to atone for the horrific deeds to which he confessed, including the rape and murder of at least 23 girls. Rather than paint him as a crazed murderer, however, Wagner reveals a complex man whose insanity has been manufactured by the machinations of war. Stetko—whose relationship with his own girlfriend has yet to be consummated—claims that the other soldiers forced him to participate in their nightmarish death campaign and that his own survival was dependent on his ability to play his part.

He admits, however, that he lost this ability to perform when confronted by the innocent, imprisoned faces of young girls, but although he remained sexually impotent, he assiduously faked his way through his obligations.

Exactly what Mejra requires from Stetko is not immediately obvious, but a powerful secret looms behind her tortured, hollow eyes and beneath the mounds of earth that cover Efren Delgadillo Jr.'s artfully barren set.

As the unlikely confidants, Jay Rohloff and Ramona Floyd turn in commanding and decisive performances. As Stetko, Rohloff is particularly gripping when immobilized in an electric chair in the opening scene. With his muscular body coiled and inert, he conveys bravado, fear, and remorse in his beefy voice and gasping breath. Floyd is unflappable as the steely Mejra, and she smartly calibrates her performance to gradually reveal shards of her hysterical grief.

In many ways, the plot is as convoluted and confusing as a battlefield; locations and nationalities are deliberately ambiguous and imprecise, ostensibly to emphasize the universality of war and its often sadistic power dynamics. Unfortunately, this is often frustrating from the audience's perspective, and it is difficult to place the events in a satisfying and relevant context.

Yet the script doesn't shy away from a very visceral display of war's gruesome horrors, and Wagner boldly leads her actors to the very edge of their emotions. Floyd and Rohloff—a former student of Brumm's when she taught acting at SUNY New Paltz—approach their roles with confidence and grace. And Benjamin C. Tevelow's exquisite lighting emphasizes the dreamy, trance-like qualities of the play's world, where streaks of sunlight hover above a land in which pain and grief are no longer surprising. On this lonesome terrain, Stetko and Mejra construct an eerie monument that memorializes war's deadly price with the bodies of its often unheard victims.

Romance and Reverence

Musical theater loves a good romance. Tevye and Golde, Curly and Laurey, and Porgy and Bess are just a few of the couples that live on in stage history. But to these immortal unions I would add the names of Jim Brochu and Steve Schalchlin, who in their intoxicatingly fresh and unstoppably delightful musical, The Big Voice: God or Merman?, make a case for themselves as a musical theater couple for a new generation. A case they've certainly won, hands down. (Or, waving with showbiz fervor, as the situation might demand.)

A bravely autobiographical and sincere study of the ups and downs of a relationship (one that careens realistically between ardent love and something short of hate), The Big Voice is the story of two men growing up feeling displaced from who they thought they would be, until they meet each other and things get even more confusing.

In New York, Jim grew up Catholic and was convinced that he would one day become a priest. But his fixation on the Church's ornamentation (costumes), paraphernalia (props), and atmosphere (set and lighting) began to suggest more theatrical leanings, crystallized by his immediate and life-changing obsession with all things Ethel Merman. (He even met her after a performance of Gypsy, which had been condemned by the Catholic Church.)

Like Jim, Steve also longed to hear the "big voice" in his life, but instead of hearing Merman he began to write music. A Baptist from Arkansas, he expected that God's thunderous voice would guide him; instead, he snapped himself on the wrist with rubber bands whenever he began to have impure (i.e., homosexual) thoughts.

The friend who accompanied me to the show—who is at least 25 years younger than Steve—recalled the rubber band technique from his own youth, which suddenly made The Big Voice seem more like a call to arms. With its encouragement to decipher and celebrate the things that (really) speak to us, the show entreats its audience to embrace religious experiences in whatever form they come—instead of "hiding like a superhero has to do," as Steve dourly remembers from his shamed days in the closet.

As the true Merman lover, Brochu is, appropriately, larger than life and more boisterous than his counterpart (both in presence and voice). He is almost ruthlessly gregarious, and many of his bawdy childhood anecdotes are comic gems.

Schalchlin is more reserved, but his crackling, dry line readings and mild-mannered approach intertwine beautifully with his partner's brashness. He also has a sweetly distinctive voice, and his musical delivery hits with a poignant emotional precision. He's particularly moving as he shares the first song he ever wrote as a young boy, in which he aspires to make music his entire life. He's clearly made his dreams come true, and seems honestly bewildered by his good fortune.

Brilliantly and smoothly staged within the walls of the Actors' Temple by director Anthony Barnao, The Big Voice boldly questions the separation of church and theater (and, by extension, the free expression of sexuality). Brochu's lyrics deftly draw parallels between the religious experiences to be found in theaters and those in churches, and yet, when Steve tries to tell a friend that he is gay, he finds it easier to admit to being an atheist.

But for this performance of The Big Voice—which has played in venues across the country and won several awards—Brochu and Schalchlin have, quite literally, taken over a house of worship, and the audience members, seated in their padded seats, were almost reverential at the performance I attended. They rarely applauded after songs, as if they knew that something special was brewing and they needed to absorb every word—a bit like a sermon, but from a pulpit with a built-in keyboard and two men determined to be honest about themselves, their relationship, and the religious experiences that have defined them.

Squaring Off

Subtitled "A Heterosexual Homily," John Patrick Shanley's The Dreamer Examines His Pillow debuted in New York some 20 years before his significantly better-known (and better-written) polemic seared his name into theater history. Doubt, an impassioned examination of child molestation allegations against a Bronx priest, took home a handful of Tony Awards and the Pulitzer Prize. As in Doubt, Shanley uses a small cast in this earlier work to explore psychological problems. But the resulting personality and ideological clashes, at least as rendered in this tedious production, lack the intensity and urgency of his later effort. As he pushes a cast of three actors through three interconnected scenes, Shanley charts a doleful path in probing the possibilities and trappings of love, sex, and relationships. Mired in his slovenly apartment, the reclusive, brooding, and slightly depressive Tommy (Joe Petcka) alternately talks to himself and to his refrigerator (a somewhat animate object itself, later on) until he is visited by his livid ex-girlfriend Donna (Eleni Tzimas). She immediately begins to berate him—for not taking responsibility for his actions, for not taking ownership of his life, and (certainly not least of which) for sleeping with her younger sister.

Tommy responds by offering up a flimsy remnant of their romance; he initiates physical contact, which she deflects. "Know thyself; then maybe we can talk," she charges, before racing off to seek assistance from her father.

"It's my daughter, come to make me a parent," Dad (David Ditto Tawil) wryly announces upon her return. A moody artist who retired from painting after his wife's death, he speaks candidly with his somewhat estranged daughter about sex and relationships. Donna's fear? That Tommy is a younger incarnation of her father. Desperate to thwart destiny, Donna demands that her father visit Tommy and physically beat him up if he recognizes his own vices in the younger man. She wants to know if he's "curable."

At this point, the implausibility of these events seems largely incurable. But then the characters experience puzzling epiphanies that launch them into even more meandering dialogue. Stagnantly directed by Rusty Owen, the actors frequently square off at one another from opposite sides of the stage, barking across the set with little deviation or motivation.

Moreover, each seems to have uncovered one dominant emotion and fastened onto it. As the caustic Donna, Eleni Tzimas displays a brittle anger with every line. Even the importunate "I miss you; I'm lonely for you" is relatively passionless, lacking shape and commitment. Joe Petcka can't break free of Tommy's despondency, and his overwrought egotism completely usurps his latent charm. Most important, in this production there is no clear indication that Donna and Tommy are still in love with each other, nor is there much reason to think that they should be.

As Donna's itinerant father, David Ditto Tawil turns in the most nuanced performance, but overplays the character's often hazy eccentricity.

Packed with crude language and colorful sexual metaphors, The Dreamer Examines His Pillow is a fascinating, if frustrating, backward glance at a developing playwright's early work. In his 1986 New York Times review, Mel Gussow called the play "an extended, incommunicative conversation in the guise of theater." Unfortunately, this production does little to disrupt that definition, but we can be thankful that, after incessantly batting around words like "love" and "relationship," Shanley's dramatic ramblings eventually led him to write a work of greater theatricality and significance.

Urban Angst and Auld Lang Syne

After an acclaimed stint at Ars Nova last winter, the band GrooveLily hits New York again with its sensational seasonal offering Striking 12, a contemporary retelling of "The Little Match Girl" set to a bewitching score and performed by three multitalented performers. This year, they have set up shop in the cavernous Daryl Roth Theater, but Ted Sperling's inspired and careful direction has both preserved and enhanced the magic and intimacy of this little-show-that-could. In truth, it would be a herculean task to dim the lights on any of these three actor-musicians. On electric violin, Valerie Vigoda is vivacious and captivating as she portrays the Match Girl and her contemporary alter ego—an eccentric woman hawking strings of light bulbs on New Year's Eve. And behind the keyboard, her husband and collaborator, Brendan Milburn, is still lovably cranky as the grumpy guy who refuses to go out and celebrate with his friends.

Gene Lewin, the third band member and drummer extraordinaire, fills out the show in a variety of smaller roles, and his performance has grown and deepened over the year. Dryly sarcastic and refreshingly witty, Lewin seems even more comfortable as the backbone—and beat—of Striking 12. (He also still gets his trademark tour de force number, "Give the Drummer Some," where he steals the spotlight to show off his formidable percussive prowess.)

The rest of the score is virtually intact, with a few minor changes that include the addition of the soulful "Red and Green (And I'm Feeling Blue)," the rhapsodic "Wonderful," and the air-tight harmonies of "Picture This." The new music blends seamlessly into the rest of the material, which reflects GrooveLily's signature palette of pop, rock, folk, jazz, and blues. This is a group that refuses to be pigeonholed, and its members continue to create an unmistakable, boundless sound that is all their own.

Together with designers David Korins (set), Jennifer Caprio (costumes), Michael Gilliam (lighting), and Robert J. Killenberger (sound), Sperling has nestled Striking 12 comfortably into this larger space. If the costumes are more stylish (and coordinated) and the wacky props look less spontaneously scrounged up, Gilliam's dynamic lighting has only heightened the dramatic tension. Most notably, he throws Vigoda's shadow against the back wall to create a haunting effect during her aggressive and athletic performance of the powerful "Can't Go Home." Gilliam has also subdivided the enormous back wall into panels of color and light, which constantly shift to reveal a matrix of small sparkly orbs, adding dimension while pivoting with the story.

Even with such impressive production values, the strength of Striking 12 still lies in the remarkable synergy of musicianship, acting, and attitude created by Vigoda, Milburn, and Lewin. Vigoda and Milburn co-wrote the show with Tony Award-winner Rachel Sheinkin, and although this story doesn't attempt to move mountains, it does aspire to reach the heart with its exploration of urban isolation and its detrimental effects. Without being preachy, the performers unearth cheer from malaise—a freshly modern holiday message.

Vigoda and Milburn received the 2006 Jonathan Larson Award for their musical theater writing, and Striking 12 continues to advance Larson's intrepid, renegade spirit. They're already at work on a new concert-musical, Wheelhouse, about their experiences in a used RV, and one can only hope they will continue to explore, reinvent, and electrify the genre for years and New Years to come.