Gangster Rap

It seems that, nowadays, the twentieth century is not to be looked to in reverence, or wonder, but in mockery. Plays that take place in a fixed point in recent time satirize the look and mindset of the era (a la Xanadu), and an original piece set in days of not-too-old makes as much of a statement about then as now." Grayce Productions' latest, Say Your Prayers, Mug!, puts a little too much effort into the joke and not enough faith in the material, resulting in a slightly forced show. In Say Your Prayers, Mug!, writer/co-director/actor Todd Michael dallies in two eras: New York in 1954 and in 1935. As he and Thom Brown portray Dottie Haines and Skip Rayburn, the glamorous married co-hosts of a '50s morning movie program, they seethe with dysfunction, stir up jealousy, and shamelessly hawk the products of their sponsors.

Their interplay is interspersed with scenes from the titular '30s gangster drama, in which police sergeant Dan Gargan tries to put away Sonny Rocco and his gang while also trying to resist the wiles of no-nonsense broad Platinum Kane. Their patter is stuffed five ways to Sunday with the rat-a-tat-tat slang of the era. (Playwright Michael clearly knows his way around a colloquialism.)

All of this winking self-awareness becomes wearying as the show wears on, especially since there are a few genuinely funny moments when bits of dialogue are played straight. Anyone who's ever seen a film that takes itself too seriously knows how humorous something can be when it's not trying. Granted, by writing something that could be deliberately construed as pompously amusing, one is trying - but not as hard as an actor affecting an overdone ethnic accent or a male performer playing too much the bitchy female. (For a master class in period acting by a man in a woman's role, see anything starring Charles Busch.)

Notable in the cast are Jimmy Blackman as Sgt. Gargan and Jill Yablon as Platinum Kane. Blackman's Humphrey Bogart-esque hangdog face and straight man delivery mostly triumph over the style of the piece. Jill Yablon has the requisite smoky voice and icy blonde demeanor of the love interest, and could pass for an actress of the era.

The show is set in a theater but relies too heavily on a theatrical style. Characters enter and exit awkwardly, rather than "appearing" in the way that they do on TV and in the movies. If style parody is the game, why not mimic the rigid blocking of single-camera films, or rely on the multi-camera staginess of the television program?

Besides the great use of jargon in the movie script, the one other aspect of the homage that is executed flawlessly is the costuming. David Zwiers has put together a great selection of glad rags, particularly Dottie Haines' fuschia dress and nightclub singer Kitty De Villiers' blue polka-dot number. All of the ladies' wigs are also perfectly selected.

The current trend in pop culture is that "sincerity is the new irony." It's now socially acceptable to admire something or someone outright, with a commentary-free homage. Were Say Your Prayers, Mug! to allow itself to be as sincere and as adoring as it clearly wants to be, the show would become more than a snarky look at our past, and instead be a sentimental look at ourselves.

Too Close for Comfort

Presenting challenging material onstage takes a certain amount of finesse. When discussing shows of this nature, one uses phrases like "selling" or "putting over" a concept to acknowledge the persuasiveness that is needed. It's important to respect the playwright's motives in creating this world while also respecting the audience's sensibilities by not sensationalizing the material any more than is warranted. In Wendy MacLeod's The House of Yes, the audience meets the Pascal family from suburban D.C.: single mother Mrs. Pascal and her children, the high-strung Jackie-O and college dropout Anthony. They are preparing for Thanksgiving, an oncoming hurricane, and the return of Marty (Jackie's twin brother) from New York with a surprise guest - his fiancee, Lesly.

This close-knit clan has seemingly little respect for boundaries or social mores, and harbors very dirty secrets indeed. But how does a director introduce them and their lifestyle in a realistic way while also giving the audience permission to be shocked and skeptical?

Samsara Theatre Company tries to play it safe in their production, now running at the Roy Arias Theatre. The actors are subtle, the sets are simple and the costumes are mild. But by underdoing it, the show loses all edge and comes off two-dimensionally. The text has a sense of Tennessee Williams as played by the Kennedys, but its lush theatricality is missed by all by Maire-Rose Pike, who, as Jackie-O, comes closest to connecting to the world of the play.

Pike's mellow voice and polished attractiveness suit her role, and while she seems a bit unfocused at the beginning, she finds her bearings as the show goes on. Of course, as the recipient of the most delicious lines in MacLeod's script, Pike is given ample opportunity to shine.

The other actors come off as flat, or affected, or wooden, or a combination thereof. There is no chemistry between the characters, making it unclear why Jackie-O and Lesly are so devoted to Marty, why Anthony is smitten by Lesly, and why anyone is protective of Jackie-O.

Director Jason Kane, perhaps fearful of chewing up the scenery in their intimate theater space, curbs these performances when he should have drawn them out. The actors also seem to have blocking issues, resulting in a broken wine glass at one performance that had theatergoers concerned about potential injury to two cast members during the climactic scene.

According to the program, Samsara Theatre Company has been formed to showcase the talents of its cast and crew. Certainly, The House of Yes, with its small ensemble and daring subject matter, is a good vehicle for this aim. It's unfortunate that this production did not allow itself to be bold enough to meet the company's goals. How can you expect to stand out from the crowd if you insist on blending in?

Punk'd

A show with a negative word in its title, like the verb used in the New York Musical Theater Festival's Love Sucks, risks having its title turned against it if the show is subpar. But the only thing that sucks about Stephen O'Rourke and Brandon Patton's punk-rock retelling of Shakespeare's Love's Labours Lost is that the show's run ends on Oct. 6. This is a brash, thrilling new musical that deserves an open-ended run downtown with wild, adoring crowds. Set in the East Village in the 1970s, the show follows two bands: the all-boy Molotovs and the all-grrl Guttersnipes. Band leaders Big Joe (Molotovs) and Patti (Guttersnipes) try to put music before mating by placing a limit on the amount of times a band member can have sex with someone in order to ward off rehearsal-killing relationships. When the groups cross paths and boy meets girl (times three), love blooms, and it's up to the others to convince former pals turned bitter rivals Big Joe and Patti that they're meant for each other.

The stage features a full band setup and a blue/gray brick-esque backdrop tagged with graffiti and a picture of the Bard. Moveable pieces are brought in for more elaborate locations. However, the most impressive sets in this show are the ones done by the bands. Most of the actors are in bands and/or write music, which lends believability to their performances. Any audience members arriving late to the show who walked in during the Molotovs's first number, No More Girlfriends, could not be faulted for believing they had walked into a concert by mistake, as the band's chemistry and precision seem the result of years, not weeks, of rehearsals.

Of course, great music would (one hopes) be a given in a show like this. What was really surprising was how romantic and sweet the courtships were, even as they started from a base of mutual physical attraction. When Big Joe tries to turn on the charm around Patti, it's played out more naturally and adorably than in any rom-com, chick flick, or cutesy-named love story genre that comes to mind.

Actors Nicholas Webber and Rebecca Hart really bring it in these roles, and are excellent frontpersons for their groups to boot. (It should also be noted that Heather Robb, as the love 'em and leave 'em Kate, has a great rock voice, acts her role brilliantly, and is smolderingly gorgeous.)

Couples, if you're looking for an alternative to the standard dinner-and-a-movie date, consider paying a visit to Hell's Kitchen this weekend to see this show. Producers, if you're looking for an alternative to yet another over-exposed theatrical chestnut, consider paying to remount this show in a gritty, below 14th Street venue. Love Sucks rocks.

Amateur Theatrics

At the heart of most satire is a begrudging affection for the object of its pointed wit. So it is with Austentatious, a musical set within the insular world of community theater. The show's creators pay tribute to the egotism, misguided instincts, adorable amateurishness, and, yes, the abiding passion for theater that characterizes nonprofessional productions. That the show is able to poke gentle fun at the ridiculous while also being sublimely funny speaks to the considerable abilities of its cast and creative team. The Central Riverdale Amateur Players are set to work on their first show since John, the group's driving force, left for a flashy directing gig at a regional theater. The resulting power vacuum has left pretentious, pathetic Dominic helming domineering dancer Emily's unorthodox version of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice. Emily's re-imagining, which features dance-offs, exotic locales, and oversimplified dialogue, has been aptly rechristened Austentatious.

Inexplicably, only four people show up for the one day of auditions, with a fifth (David) there to read with his actress girlfriend (Lauren). Emily claims the role of Elizabeth Bennett, for which she competes against petite blonde Lauren and Jessica, the group's regular/eternal supporting role player. (All of the actresses are dreadful, but Emily's intimate relationship with Dominic gets her the part.)

Bookish David's understated line reading and romantic soul win him the role of Mr. Darcy, much to his surprise, and the ire of Lauren, who is cast in the smaller role of Elizabeth's younger sister Lydia. Jessica's choice of monologue—that of an elderly woman—again relegates her to the sidelines, as elder sister Jane. Stoner twentysomething Blake, coerced into auditioning by his social worker, gets cast as Mr. Bingley simply because "there aren't enough guys."

Overseeing this group is Sam, the no-nonsense stage manager who gave up on acting after a scarring experience in a college production. She comes to rehearsals early, leaves late, and makes sure that, despite the writer/director clashes over script changes and clog dances, the ship sails smoothly into port (i.e., opening night). But even Sam has difficulty keeping up with the increasingly outlandish revisions to Austen's book, particularly because of her devotion to the source material. (Hilariously, Dominic considers that to be "the movie," which we presume to be the most recent version, starring Keira Knightley.)

In its depiction of community theater antics, the script gets two things wrong that would greatly help in establishing reality at the top of the show. As the actors wait for auditions to start, we do not get a strong sense of who knows whom. Community theater groups are traditionally tight-knit, and a relatively small circle of people goes out for shows on a regular basis. Auditions are all about friends from previous productions reuniting, evaluating strangers on their abilities based on their looks and preparedness, and gossiping about their rivals.

Playing into this would seem to be an ideal way for the writers to establish exposition, character, and past history in a very economical way. It could be done as part of the interjectory recitative in the show's opening number, "Audition."

The other detail that did not ring true was the small number of auditioners. While it makes sense to keep the cast small in order to develop each character's arc—which is done very successfully throughout the show—an explanation of the poor turnout is needed. There could be a clearer line about people turning their back on the group after John left. (This is hinted at in the second scene, which is too late.) Who has ever seen an audition with a turnout of fewer than a dozen people?

Fortunately, the script is propped up by bouncy songs, unexpected and funny lyrics, and a game, talented cast. Former Avenue Q puppeteer Stephanie D'Abruzzo (Sam) is the most believably unglamorous actress playing a stage manager I've ever seen, and the song "I Manage" seems to have been tailor-made to showcase her strong, emotion-soaked voice. The other standout is Stephen Bel Davies, whose dithering Dominic gets some of the production's funniest lines. (Presented with a tap-dancing number in a scene, he recalls that the original version was "more mouthal and not so leggy-tappy.")

All of the actors have wholeheartedly embraced their characters' talent levels and shrunk or outsized their personalities to match. Their conviction is so strong that it's almost a shock to read their professional bios in the program!

For the show's ambitious players, their goals range from a good run to fame and fortune on a larger scale. The goals for the production's creators are less clear. This is a diverting, crowd-pleasing piece that would do well in limited runs at small houses in big cities with a theater culture. Despite its similarities to Noises Off!, which has run twice on Broadway, it doesn't have the presence to command a large commercial venue. But, to borrow the title of the Act I closing number, perhaps scoring a run at the New York Musical Theater Festival is "the next best thing."

Children's Hour

As the New York International Fringe Festival has grown, so have the ambitions of the productions that are a part of it. The "Urinetown effect" (which may be too antiquated a reference for New York newbies) has begat shows with high-profile actors, writers, and directors; strong production values; and serious artistic goals. Whatever happened to the kooky downtown shows of old? Some of that scrappy aesthetic is still kicking about in Princess Sunshine's Bitter Pill of Truth Funhouse. A nouvelle vaudeville for the snark set, this adorable confection features a small, talented cast of performers who sing, mug, and clown their way into audience members' hearts.

The driving creative force behind this piece is Princess Sunshine herself, played by Juliet Jeske. She is responsible for the show's script, songs, costumes, backdrop, and spark. While it's clear that she could put on great shows for kids—and, according to the program, does so as her day job—her wicked sense of humor and world-weary act make her a hit with adults as well. She's also got a knockout belt/legit voice, and can play a mean accordion and ukulele.

Jeske is joined onstage by her husband Joel, a clown by trade who is equally adept at verbal and physical comedy. His creepy Uncle Fun and intense Science Guy provide a little Borscht Belt and Bible Belt humor, respectively. Rounding out the ensemble is Brenda Jean Foley, possessor of a beautiful voice that harmonizes well with Jeske's, and Timothy James O'Brien, who plays a delightfully sulky Upper East Side teenage girl.

Together they make music, make jokes, and do a little puppeteering. (The hand puppets, created by Joel Jeske, are whimsical and backed up by great vocal work, though if they were equipped with rods for arm movement they would be even more appealing.) There are morals aplenty, but certainly not the kinds you get from Mister Rogers. If childish fun (with a devilish spin) is your cup of Fringe tea, why not have a drink with Princess Sunshine?

Herd Mentality

When a writer chooses to adapt a classic work, the purpose is to bring the piece's characters and theme to a modern audience using language and locations to which they can more easily relate. At first, this seems to be the idea that writer/director (and Tony winner) Dan Fogler had in mind when writing Elephant in the Room!, now playing as part of the New York International Fringe Festival. Using as a model Eugene Ionesco's treatise on the iconoclast as the last sane man in an insane world, Fogler swaps rhinoceroses for elephants and 20th-century France for 21st-century New York. The opening scene, in which the slovenly, unemployed pothead Bern is berated by clean-cut worker bee John in the particular vernacular of twenty-something males is funny and fresh while also hewing fairly closely to the original text.

But as the play unfolds, Ionesco acolytes realize that they have been bamboozled. Instead of extolling the virtues of being nonconformist, this show portrays the people who resist the transformation from man to elephant as stubborn and blind to the realities of current events. Why else would one of the last people to change be a certain Republican elected official who lives in the White House?

While this switcheroo is an interesting twist to the proceedings, especially for those familiar with Rhinoceros, it doesn't entirely fit in with the production. Once the last doppelganger scene of the source material is over, there are strange interchanges tacked on at the end, and an absurd (not in the good way) world threat that comes out of left field and is far too moralistic for what once was a subtle work.

According to Fogler's program bio, this adaptation was a reaction to the re-election of George W. Bush. But turning the play's protagonist into a misguided antihero does no justice to the purported message, or to the original show's intent.

Hellraiser

When is a play about Satanism not a play about Satanism? When it's Mac Rogers's Hail Satan, now playing at the Bleecker Street Theater as part of the New York International Fringe Festival. Sure, there's unholy doctrine, hooded figures, and a ritual, but this story is more about fathers and daughters than Lords and Dark Lords. Tom, a copywriter who's average in every way, finds himself quickly hired by the tight-knit clan working in an office in a high-rise. Unafraid of long hours (albeit afraid of fatherhood), he's accepted immediately into the group, and is even invited to join in their Sunday religious services. But when he realizes that these services involve worshiping Satan, he's unnerved, though not enough to quit, or even to avoid getting involved with co-worker and Satanist Kristen.

Tom ends up making it to their church after all and fathering the Anti-Christ, who appears as a cute blonde named Angie. But can Tom really expect to save Angie from her destiny? And why is he more worried about her (and work deadlines) than about his role as the stepfather to the Devil's child?

Playwright Rogers creates a believably mundane office environment as well as a realistic religious group. (Note that they are not affiliated with the Church of Satan but are their own sect with different ideals.) While the worship scene runs a little long while going over the tenets of Satanism, it's important for the audience to understand (and maybe even relate a little) to what these people believe. You're meant to like them, and then to be disturbed that you like them.

The actors play it low-key and naturalistic. In particular, Sean Williams, who plays group leader Charlie, runs so warm- and cold-hearted that it's easy to forget that he's diabolical until his words slap you in the face. Director Jordana Williams's occasionally static direction (in the name of realism) is vindicated by the pacing and performances she gets out of her cast.

This show has some gore, but is not strictly horror. It also has some laughs, but it's certainly not a comedy. What we have here is honest-to-goodness adult drama, with a little genre thrown into the mix. It's a refreshing change of pace from the emptiness of summer entertainment and will stay with you when the bright lights of the Fringe have dimmed.

Name Game

One of the hallmarks of a typical New York International Fringe Festival production is a subversion of culture, be it of the classical or "pop" variety. Trading on a recognizable brand name is one way for a Fringe show to stand out from the 200 others playing in the same 12-day span. Depending on the strength of the gimmick, the result can be anywhere from "Oh, O.K., I get the reference" mediocre to "Look how funny this sacred cow is!" clever. Coming into Lost: How a Certain TV Mega Hunk Stole My Identity, your typical Lost addict is looking for a fix in the face of another six months without new episodes of the ABC mega-hit. (Or maybe it's just me.) On that point, the production does not disappoint. There are liberal uses of the show's incidental music as well as a video cameo by Michael "Ben Linus" Emerson.

However, the story is mainly about Josh Halloway, a monologist from New York who is amused and then threatened by the similarity between his name and that of Josh Holloway, the actor who plays roguish con man Sawyer on Lost. Because of his grandfather Harry Hurwitz's last-minute search for a new, non-Jewish surname before his vaudevillian debut, Halloway ("with an A") has become one of the "nomenclaturally challenged." He struggles with self-esteem, a girlfriend who tries to make him over into Josh Holloway's (with an o) image, and has an uplifting meeting with Peter Sellars ("with an a"—not the dead Pink Panther comedian but the opera director).

There is a nice mix of reality and surreal bits in the piece. One could make a comparison to Woody Allen's early stand-up routines, but every skinny, intellectual-looking Jewish comedian gets that label these days, and the last thing that Halloway needs is to be confused with another famous guy. The bottom line is that it's a funny, entertaining show. You don't need to be a Lost fan to get it, but it helps.

Through the Years

Everybody has turnoffs when it comes to theater. For some, nonintegrated song-and-dance sequences (as when a song is shoehorned into a musical rather than fitting in organically) are a mood killer. Others are left cold by a heavy-handed use of deus ex machina. My theatrical turnoff is when a show begins with actors acting "natural" onstage, preparing for a show—especially when they're wearing "crazy" apparel like suspenders and bowler hats. Fearing that I'd walked into a production of Godspell by mistake, I was greeted by such an entrance at the Rising Sun Performance Company's new work, DeCADEnce. Though I tried to shake off the contrived prologue, the rest of the show, unfortunately, lived up to my grim expectations and then some, as a high-concept, poorly scripted, under-rehearsed, and overly long bit of self-indulgence.

The show's aim is to shed light upon the excesses and dirty secrets of the 20th century through a vignette from each decade, introduced by a title card projected on the wall. From the murder of an elephant at Coney Island in 1903 to President Clinton's infidelity in 1998, the show mostly goes for a presentational and artificial style, with misguided forays into realism that the costumes and performers cannot sustain.

The two segments that are most effective are the melodrama "Arpeggio" in RadioPlay (1934) and the filmed sitcom "The Jaunts of Jare-Bear" in TVPlay (1955). Both take a satirical look at the popular leisure activities of the time and their insistence on putting forth an unrealistic view of the country's economic situation and the typical nuclear family, respectively. These pieces seem to have benefited from extra rehearsal and direction, and it shows in the performances as well as the overall finished product.

In MinstrelPlay (1913), the segment started off promisingly with a look at a middle-class black couple. The husband, a Shakespearean actor, is not being taken seriously by critics or the public, and his wife beseeches him to move into the song-and-dance medium, which is the only genre that accepts black actors. He is appalled by the suggestion that he swallow his pride and play one of these denigrating roles.

Then two white actors present a piece in blackface, meant as a counterpoint and an illustration of the mean-spiritedness of this so-called "entertainment." What should be an offensive and uncomfortable look at our own sordid past is instead a feeble stab by actors who are either too embarrassed or ignorant of the performance style to emulate it properly. The characters are not broad enough, the accents are wrong, and the musical number seemed slapdash and rushed. If you're going to do blackface, go all the way. And if you're not comfortable with it, show a real example from a film, such as Holiday Inn, Dimples, or Babes in Arms.

As a whole, the production seemed more caught up in its message than in presenting it in a coherent way. The segments were not polished enough, so that the point of view was either lost in the shuffle or pushed awkwardly to the front.

There were also performance problems, with actors rushing their lines, other actors going up on their lines (two weeks into the run, no less), choreography that wasn't yet automatic, and, worst of all, no sense of knowledge about the time periods from the cast. During the 60s segment (LovePlay), there seemed to be no understanding by the actors of the spirit of the times. Putting on a tie-dyed shirt and spouting Jefferson Airplane lyrics does not a hippie make.

It's admirable when a theater company decides to work on new pieces developed with its ensemble, as the Rising Sun Performance Company was formed to do. However, there needs to be someone, whether writer or director, with a clear vision that is seen through the collaborative process. Too many cooks are apt to spoil the broth, and sometimes they run onstage in their "street clothes" and spoil the show for some of us.

Pool Party

For many New Yorkers, the summertime experience is not complete without a trip outside the city. Getting away from the crowds and the noise and seeing water can be a powerful restorative, even for those who thrive on the aforementioned hustle and bustle. But if your bank account (or boss) says "no" to your vacation plans, consider joining Impetuous Theater Group for a pleasant evening poolside at Swim Shorts 3: Are You In? High atop the Holiday Inn Midtown, with skyscrapers and setting sun as a backdrop, five short plays are presented by a youthful, attractive cast. The shows in July are different from the ones in August, as are the writers, directors, and actors. In the July series, the writers tackled suicide, double-crossing friends, starvation, infidelity, and the Cold War, but all in a lighthearted, semi-serious way.

"Joe the Lifeguard" starred the titular whistle-bedecked hotel employee as he first ignored, then tried to save, a distraught woman from trying to drown herself under his watch. It's a troublesome premise for a sketch, as self-annihilation is a conceit that, when used, must be acted upon, much like the rule about guns onstage having to be fired by the end of a play. The audience members don't want a character's actions to be thwarted, and yet they don't want someone to kill herself either. However, as this is a 10-minute comedic short and not 'Night, Mother, things resolve themselves, comedically though awkwardly, toward the end.

The pool is a stand-in for quicksand in "Forgiveness," as one man (Herb) jumps willingly into the muck and then pulls another man (Steve) in with him in order to talk. Herb and Steve's literal quagmire is also a literary one, as the script doesn't give these two-dimensional characters enough motivation for their ridiculous actions, or legitimate conversation, or even a reason for being anywhere near quicksand in the first place. If Mallory, the guardian angel, didn't appear in full costume later on, the piece could pass for a meandering bit of improv. (Someone should add "pit of quicksand" to "the moon" and "Hell" as another classic example of a bad location to set an improv scene.)

"Jettison" pits man against the elements as three men (Steve, Bob, and Gary) struggle to stay alive in a lifeboat after their ship sinks. The casually coarse dialogue and the personalities of the guys give a semblance of realism to the situation, even as their lifeboat is tethered to the pool's ladders. It's a sad and amusing piece.

In "A Proverbial Affair," the audience is back at a hotel pool as vacationers Kent and Diane meet the sensual body-piercer Nino. While Kent is offended by the free-spirited Cuban, his fiancée Diane begins to shed her Virginia-bred conservative veneer and gets back in touch with her buried Caribbean roots. There is a campy sense of fun in the piece, and it was enjoyable for the audience to be acknowledged as other poolside guests during the scene.

The best of the shorts ("Der Eisbar") had the most fantastical use of the pool: it doubled as the cold waters of the Arctic during the 1980s. American sub meets Russian sub meets German sub—all of them a few feet long and pushed by two actors sporting the costumes and accents of their countrymen. The story was clever, the jokes were funny, and the performances were strong—especially that of the blond actress playing Viktoronov, whose accent was as dense as a frat boy in a Smirnoff-induced stupor.

Of course, if the shows and the atmosphere aren't enough to relax you, an extra $7 for a post-show swim (or a visit to the bar) might just do the trick. It's not the Hamptons, but an elevator trip up 10 floors beats being stuck in traffic on Long Island. Maybe all of those tourists currently flooding Times Square had it right all along.

The Exorcist

There are many reasons why people write and perform in a one-person show: to engage in a very public therapy session, to tell a story that hasn't been heard onstage, and, obviously, to showcase their acting/writing talents. For Bob Brader, his reason was more pressing. He needed to exorcise the demons of his past—specifically, his father, who is the titular evildoer at the center of Brader's Spitting in the Face of the Devil. Growing up in eastern Pennsylvania, Brader was "Little Bob" to his dad's "Big Bob." But the elder Bob's joviality and popularity with his extended family and friends was at odds with the belittling, abusive monster whom his son and wife knew at home. As Brader dispassionately charts his coming of age and realization that his father is the Devil, he relates experiences both charming (when he figures out that he wants to be an actor) and disturbing (his father's way of handling Brader's bedwetting habit). As the truth behind Big Bob's behavior comes out, will Little Bob be able to escape his father's grasp, and his legacy?

Brader employs a linear structure to his storytelling, starting from the news of his father's death and then running through major events of his youth and early adulthood. Though the show runs 90 minutes—a little lengthy for a solo piece—Brader's tale and his energy in telling it keep the audience from growing restless. The set (a black desk and chair on a black stage) and Brader's position (seated behind the desk) never change, but the performer's pauses for a sip of water or coffee work alongside Douglas Shearer's lighting design to note scene shifts and changes in tone.

Brader's impersonations of his mother, father, younger self, and friends are judiciously minimal, evoking the characters without turning into silly impressions. The actor mostly underplays the drama of the story, but the events in his story, coupled with Brader's driving need to tell it, make for compelling theater.

There is catharsis to be found when opening up to the world. While Brader admits to having worked on much of his past in therapy, it's clear from Spitting in the Face of the Devil that this production is not just vanity or exhibitionism but a way to expunge any remaining residue from his gritty past. As for the audience, some might get a voyeuristic thrill from the proceedings, or a feeling that "the grass isn't always greener" (their childhood wasn't so bad after all). But most important, they are part of one man's healing process.

At Obie Awards, Thrills and a Touch of the Bittersweet

The downtown theaterati were present, and maybe a bit giddy from the cocktail hour, for the 52nd annual Village Voice Obie Awards on Monday, May 21. Each year, The Village Voice's chief theater critic, Michael Feingold, heads up a committee to honor the actors, writers, directors, creative staff, and theater companies who've had an impact on Off and Off Off Broadway over the last season.

Besides the winners of the Lifetime Achievement and Sustained Achievement awards, none of the honorees know they're being feted, which makes the show a guessing game for the attendees. The announcement of each name was preceded by whispers and gasps as the audience learned the award recipient's identity. There are also no categories such as Best Actor in a Play, as the Obies follow the principle that "creativity is not a competition."

Though the mood was undoubtedly positive, there was a bittersweet note to many of the acceptance speeches since the winners' shows had closed before the ceremony. Many people voiced the sentiment "I wish more people had seen it." However, for the winners—many of whom had never before won an award—it was a thrill for the production, and their part in it, to be noticed at all, and they were glad to be part of such a tight-knit community.

Some highlights from the ceremony included:

• Michael Feingold relating a story in which a friend said "the five most wonderful words in the English language: 'Take me to the theater.' "
• Ron Cephas Jones, as the winner of one of the Sustained Excellence in Performance awards, quipped that during his career, he's been "trying to be excellent at sustaining myself as an actor."
• Betsy Aidem said that this recognition was gratifying because she "thought of [herself] as a member of the witness protection program for character actors."
• Andre De Shields serenaded the audience with his "anthem" ("If You Believe" from The Wiz.
• Judith Malina gave an impassioned speech claiming that "the world is in a lousy situation, and we, everyone in this room, is here to make it better!"
• Steve Ben Israel followed Malina's speech with a shtick-y Borscht Belt stand-up act. (It wasn't entirely clear if it was performance art or a guy taking advantage of a microphone and a captive audience.)
• Roslyn Ruff received one of the largest laughs of the night when she referred to "the glaze that comes over your eyes when you don't necessarily connect with someone onstage." (For the record, she said this was not the case with her Seven Guitars cast mates.)

The evening drew to a close, two hours and 45 minutes later, with the presentation of prizes and grants to one playwright and four theater companies. One of the winners, Synapse Productions, drew inspiration from quotes posted on the walls of its office. A quote from Winston Churchill seemed especially appropriate to anyone toiling away in the not so glamorous world of the downtown scene: "If you're going through Hell, keep going."

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For a list of the 2007 winners, go to http://www.villagevoice.com/obies/index.php

Italian-American Reconciliation

There's a delightful perversity in the fact that America was founded by people escaping their past, only to have it dragged up again by their curious descendants. For Susan Ferrara, an Italian-American actress, the desire to understand the question "Where do I come from?" turned into the solo show Peasant, now running as an engaging, evolving workshop piece at Chashama. Ferrara tells the story of three Italian sisters who come to the United States as teenagers during World War I. The eldest, Assunta, narrates most of the story, which is trigged by a question from her young granddaughter Susie for a class project. Assunta details the conditions in the town of San Marco; the travails of her husband, Francesco; and their problems with their too eager to assimilate son, who rejects traditional values for the lure of a fast buck. As Ferrara changes perspectives—portraying Assunta, her sisters, Francesco, Susie, and several other characters—the audience gets a full picture of the way that America changes her and her family through two generations.

The language of the piece is lyrical, full of short sentences and repeated evocative phrases. Perhaps because Ferrara is the writer and performer, she is able to deliver this material effectively, avoiding a singsongy or affected delivery. The piece's structure is a little shaky at the start, without a clear idea of the show's protagonist, but the narrative finds its groove as it's taken over by the strong-willed Assunta.

Overall, there is more shaping to be done here with regard to the order and importance of the stories. Fortunately, Ferrara's acting carries the play. Her transitions between characters are fluid and blissfully unmannered. She has a strong command of accents; although at the start the elderly Assunta skewed somewhat Russian to my ears, Ferrara seemed to modify it and ably handled the many dialects of the other characters. She also changed her center of gravity and posture to capture the tale's players. Once the ensemble had been established, there was never any doubt as to which role she was essaying.

The show is performed in a black-box space, with Ferrara wearing a simple layered dress and clutching a white cloth. Yet the dialogue and characterizations paint the stage with scenery and do not leave the audience feeling visually shortchanged or understimulated. Dale Heinen's direction keeps the show moving along with a sense of importance—not an easy task when the subject is someone's personal history and there is no particular urgency or secret involved in its telling.

At the end of the performance, it is not clear whether these people are presented accurately or if Ferrara has taken poetic license with her relatives' histories. But her creations are so lively and soulful that they seem real. While there is a lot of heartache in Peasant, the act of storytelling is a redeeming one: her past becomes our past, and we are the better for it.

Shrinking Responsibilities

Have you ever seen a movie and knew immediately which year it was made? The film stock used, the actors' clothes and hairstyles, and even certain themes can be as blatant a clue as a time and date stamp flashing in the corner of a home video. Anyone who attends Heiress Productions's first show, Lunch Hour, will not see any braided hair or leisure suits to give away the show's 1980 birth date. Yet its focus is on psychiatrists, fad diets, and extramarital affairs, all hallmarks of its dramatic era. The show may have spoken to the audiences of its time—it originally ran for seven months on Broadway—but, seen through a 21st-century perspective, it comes across as a dated novelty.

While spending a week in their Hamptons vacation home, thirty-something married couple Oliver and Nora can't seem to get along. Nora leaves for a trip to her mother's so Oliver can finish working on his new book on relationships. (He's a marriage counselor.) But his tranquility is interrupted when young, neurotic Carrie knocks on his door.

Her puppy-dog neediness grates on Oliver's nerves, but gradually he warms to her, despite her revelation that Nora is carrying on an affair with Carrie's husband, the rich playboy Peter. Carrie suggests that she and Oliver pretend to have their own affair in order to make their significant others jealous. While such a pretense conflicts with Oliver's professional ethics, Carrie sees it as the only way to get the two marriages back in line. But which pairings really belong together?

The show's first act is dragged down by exposition and doesn't have enough at stake to give it any dramatic tension. Much is made of the fact that Nora's suspicions may be aroused by Carrie's presence in the house with Oliver. Yet Oliver is too asexual and Carrie too harmless to make anyone doubt their motives. It is only in the second act, when Carrie and Oliver start opening up to each other and we see Nora with Peter, that any of these characters reveal a softer side that would elicit any audience concern.

Scenic designer Josh Zangen's expansive, detailed set affords director Maura Farver lots of different spaces for her actors to use. Farver has Oliver doing a lot of cleanup and manipulating of the items onstage; this prop play lent Oliver an ownership of the home, which added to the naturalistic staging. The dual lighting designers (Joel E. Silver and Travis Richardson) effectively established the time of day throughout the show in the outside/inside lighting without dramatically noticeable, or scene-stealing, shifts.

While the acting came off as a little forced in the first act, the cast settled down enough by the end of the show to provide good performances. Morgan Baker, who doesn't appear until the second act, is appealingly smarmy as the lazy, acquisitive Peter. As Nora, Mary Willis White oozes privileged selfishness, which is tempered by her girlishly love-struck self when in Peter's company.

Jeff Pagliano's Oliver journeys from stressed yuppie doctor to something approaching a human being, finally showing he has feelings, although his attachment to Nora is not made clear. Laura Faith plays Carrie as a verbal-tic-less "Annie Hall" in skirts. While Carrie's pursuit of acting is a poor excuse for the theatrical way that writer Jean Kerr has crafted the character, the convention serves its purpose. Kerr does tone down Carrie's dizziness in the latter half of the play, allowing Faith to transition to "human being" as well.

The show's program notes that Heiress Productions was formed to "raise awareness and funds for cancer organizations" by staging shows. Lunch Hour was chosen as the premiere production because, in 1980, it marked the stage debut of Gilda Radner, who passed away nine years later after battling ovarian cancer. It's an interesting move for Heiress to dust off an old piece in the name of fund-raising. One hopes, however, that instead of continuing to revive the past, it might be inspired to produce new stories, or even recent ones, that deal directly with the disease. Wouldn't a play about cancer raise twice as much awareness?

Getting Along

What if you gave a war and nobody cared? This is the central question in Five Years Later, a post-9/11 dramedy that gets its timeline and its punch lines all wrong. Produced by Point of You Productions, this ensemble piece stars a group of self-absorbed caricatures who get bumped off one by one by an invading horde that they're mostly ignoring.

In the sitting room of a Manhattan apartment, WASP-y, wasp-waisted debutante Oblivia is busy fussing over the arrangements for a post-funeral party in honor of her late father. Already in attendance are lecherous, addled Uncle Kracklekraw and his ward, the fast-talking, gum-chewing teenager Gabriella. Expected to arrive are sarcastic, black-clad theater company directors Brian and Shamus, dumb blonde model Petunia, effeminate gay nurse Blane, butch lesbian personal trainer Bruna, hippie "spiritual adviser"/orgy organizer Love, and technology-addicted CEO Bill.

While it may come off as dismissive to use such easy adjectives to describe these characters, they are, in fact, described as completely here as they are in the play's 90-plus minutes. These are intentionally obnoxious and stereotypical characters, with echoes of No Exit-inspired personal dynamics.

The allusion to that Sartre play becomes more apparent when a group of well-armed marauders attacks New York City, forcing the group to stay in the apartment. But an utter disinterest in any subjects besides themselves, coupled with their dysfunctional interpersonal relationships, gives these misguided folks the courage to wrestle with the demons outside (the apartment) instead of the ones inside (their minds).

Yes, this lofty message is conveyed, but in a vehicle that doesn't have enough gas to go the distance. In order to make the point about working in deliberately broad strokes, the writer and director should work together to make the characters' behavior larger than larger-than-life, and their dialogue atrociously offensive. Jeff Love and Marc Adam Smith don't go that extra off-putting mile in their script, and since Love does double duty as director, he won't fix what he doesn't perceive to be broken.

Most egregiously, this cast–which, according to the members' bios, has logged a lot of hours in improv classes–spends most of the evening saying "no" to each other, breaking the Golden Rule of Improv ("yes and"). Granted, the script is responsible for their words and actions, but one of those playwrights is an improv teacher, no less. Rather than rebuff each other so often, why not have them misinterpret things based on their total self-focus?

Five Years Later is clearly trying to go for a larger theme, as spelled out in a monologue by the character of Love (who not-so-coincidentally shares the co-writer/director's last name): "Remember five years ago? When the crap hit the fan here? Remember what everyone was like when the dust settled? We were nice. We were helpful."

She wonders why it takes "a tragedy of historical importance" for people to get along. Yet in this show, when freedom and people's lives are at stake, the characters are not nice. They are not helpful. They do not get along. Is it this production's opinion that, five years (or, really, five and a half years) after 9/11, we as a species are no longer able to band together as we did back then? The message and the play are unclear.

It's a noble and awfully Pollyanna-ish approach to focus on the renewed brotherhood of man in the aftermath of the World Trade Center attacks. But it's hard to love and respect your fellow man when he's a selfish jerk. Perhaps the message in this show shouldn't be about being nicer to each other, but being a better person in general. Some might argue that America's own myopia got these characters into trouble in the first place.

Theater of the Disturbed

In Suburban Peepshow, a pair of cubicle dwellers discuss their ambivalence toward plays, dismissing the genre with the comment "They're not good." In their estimation, the staged shows they've seen pale next to the late 80s/early 90s oeuvre of actor Charlie Sheen. Theaterphobes like these might enjoy Nosedive Productions's latest presentation, a double bill that flays the formulas in films and theater through a deconstructed, absurdist take on popcorn cinema and kitchen-sink drama. The red-draped performance space of the East Village's Red Room sets the stage for this exhibitionist exhibition.

The evening begins with playwright Mac Rogers's theatrical amuse-bouche Trailers. A dizzying number of light and sound cues are employed in this bare-bones depiction of the bare-bones plots of populist films. The action is alternately framed by the proscenium arch (wide shots) and a black cardboard frame (close-ups), with a cadre of actors changing wigs and costume pieces in the background.

This short piece amusingly illustrates the interchangeability of the performers and scenarios in this type of entertainment. Audience members who are still wedded to political correctness might be astonished by the way one particular series of films escalates in shock value. They should remember, however, that Rogers's target is not the group of people involved but the group of people writing inane Hollywood scripts. Anthony Bertram presides as announcer and unwilling enabler to this celluloid trash.

At the end of Trailers, the company exits, with costume and props in hand. A carnival barker appears to introduce us to the Suburban Peepshow that awaits, the freak show that is … ourselves at the dinner table. A mother, a father, and a son have the most natural-looking meal that can be eaten on a stage with prop food. But then the family acknowledges the barker, the fourth wall is broken, and absurdity seeps through its cracks.

It turns out that Bill (the father) may be getting a promotion due to the firing of his colleague Jack. Bill speculates that Jack was let go because of some hidden depravity, and his musings shape the character of Jack as he appears later in the show.

The Playwright appears, as does a co-worker masquerading as the Director. Besides Bill, Jack, and Bill's son Jeremy, all of the characters are named after their function in the script: Office Guy 1, Therapist, Pool Guy, and so on. Bill's affair with New Girl (a new co-worker) sends Mother (Bill's wife) to Therapist, who vies with Pool Guy as potential lovers. When pink-slipped Jack hears of Bill's assumption of his old job, he swears revenge.

Though Bill has a direct cause-and-effect relationship with the show's proceedings, he's only the main character because Playwright has put him in that position. However, even the Playwright answers to the disembodied Voice coming from the light booth. Who's in charge here? Exactly.

Writer James Comtois—who doesn't appear as Playwright but does have a memorable cameo in his show—has an admirably complex concept that sometimes gets away from him. A few scenes stretched to yawn-inducing lengths, and some of the jokes were spread Family Guy-style thin (they played well past the point when they were funny). But this production, when paired with Comtois's previous work, The Adventures of Nervous Boy, shows he has a fine ear for the dialogue and personal problems of his generation, and a dark sense of humor that is willing and able to exploit them.

Imitation of Life

The renaissance of 1980s pop culture has hit a fever pitch in recent years. The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles are now playing in a movie theater near you. The Transformers are on their way to screens later this year. Strawberry Shortcake and My Little Pony merchandise is now being bought for the children of adults who grew up with these brands. Clearly, Generations X and Y have a soft spot for the trappings of their youth. Riding on the wave of New Wave nostalgia is The Facts of Life: The Lost Episode, which returns to New York after smaller sold-out runs last year. The original series, centering on a group of girls (Blair, Tootie, Natalie, and Jo) and their middle-aged housemother (Mrs. Garrett) at a private school in Westchester County, dealt with serious issues in its nine-year run. But their PG-13 escapades are tame compared with writer Jamie Morris's funny, but not fully fleshed out, fictionalized episode, which would be rated R for raunchy.

A budget crisis is forcing the Eastland school board to close the dorm housing the four girls and to demote Mrs. Garrett from housemother to assistant cook in the cafeteria. The only way to keep the group from splitting up is to raise the funds needed to balance the budget. How are four adventuresome teens and their feisty confidante going to earn so much so quickly? Why, by engaging in the world's oldest profession!

Women-only private schools can inspire erotically charged fantasies on their own. When the ladies are played by lads (as is the case here), sex is even more in the forefront of the viewer's thoughts. The characterizations range from subtly hilarious impersonations (Brooks Braselman's joyful Natalie) to comically out-there takes (Jaquay Thomas's hysterical Tootie and Jamie Morris's game Mrs. Garrett). As tomboy Jo, mullet-topped Charlie Logan speaks in a butch baritone and gives an amusingly sincere performance.

Christopher Kenney's Blair is the least similar to the original television character. In this production, Blair is portrayed as a libidinous hoochie, whereas in the show she was an "anything but" girl, due to the strong religious beliefs of TV actress Lisa Whelchel. However, Kenney is the most believable as a slutty teenager with a heart of gold, and he makes one bodacious blonde.

The script is focused more on sending up these beloved characters and getting them into naughty situations than on plot development and settling on its structure. It takes a lot of exposition to get the ladies to setting up a whorehouse, and the story machinations are a little mechanized. A simpler setup would've allowed more playtime with the characters.

During the earlier scene changes, the audio from old commercials played, which was an excellent solution to the ongoing problem of dead time during the changes. Yet it wasn't continued throughout the whole show, perhaps because of the overabundance of scenes. With the commercials giving the show the feel of a sitcom, the musical numbers that popped up later seemed to be coming out of left field.

This production would've been more successful if it had stuck to the conventions of a sitcom or a musical rather than trying to be a hybrid piece. Of course, it's difficult for a writer (Morris) and a director (Kenney) to get the proper perspective when they are also the show's stars. An outsider would've been able to look at the show as a whole, thus shaping it while allowing Morris and Kenney to focus on their dance steps and costume changes.

There is money to be made in peddling the past—just ask the guys who created the Ninja Turtles. Sadly, an interest in doing something innovative is never the reason for recycling old entertainment. If the creators of The Facts of Life: The Lost Episode had put more creativity and inspiration into their endeavor, perhaps this episode would've been as special as the "special episodes" it emulates.

Man and Superman

Over the past 60 years, the role of American comic books has morphed from a means of escapist fantasy to a mirror reflecting grim reality. Instead of providing a primary-colored version of the world populated by clearly defined heroes, graphic novels now mimic the murky shades and morality of modern times. Story lines about secret identities and megalomaniacal geniuses have been swapped for plots about the Superhuman Registration Act and multiple universes. What's a lover of fun and spandex to do? Vampire Cowboys Theater Company finds the balance between light and dark in its jubilantly nerdy new show, Men of Steel. With this origin story that riffs on familiar genre archetypes, the "VC comics universe" makes excellent use of the talents of the company's own dynamic duo (writer Qui Nguyen and director Robert Ross Parker) in a kinetic, hilarious production.

Our story begins with good gal Liberty Lady's battle with and takedown of Captain Justice, her partner in (fighting) crime. From there, we are guided backward in time by the narrator, Maelstrom, through the early days of the Captain. As a child, Justice was a scrawny kid named Jason whom Maelstrom (then known as Malcolm) protected from schoolyard bullies.

Though the details of their lives change wildly—Jason agrees to take part in a government experiment to gain superpowers and gets married, while Malcolm grieves over the murder of his parents and lives alone—their mutual desire to fight the good fight leads them to the same occupation. But it's the reason that they fight, as well as the consequences of their personal lives, that shapes the way they approach their work and causes trouble for Jason/Justice.

Besides the main narrative, there are stories about other super-heroes, super-villains, and super-wannabes that weave themselves into the fabric of the tale. Bryant, who can feel no pain, allows himself to be a whipping boy for paying strangers. Los Hermanos Manos ("the Hand Brothers") step up as Bushwick, Brooklyn's own crime fighters because the big guys only battle baddies in high-profile areas. Yet amid all of this heaviness is a fantastically silly low-rent "cartoon" of Captain Justice and Liberty Lady, starring Lego men and a sometimes visible pair of hands.

Playwright Qui Nguyen's script is a mix of wisecracking asides and melodramatic dialogue that takes the most fun and the most self-indulgent aspects of the genre's writing and blows them up to match the life-sized world onstage. Director Robert Ross Parker has his actors strike ironic comic-panel poses now and again but smartly doesn't stick to freeze-frame blocking. Marius Hanford's fight choreography was a little too "safe" at times in the second preview performance I saw, but it will undoubtedly become more fluid and impressive with each night. (For an audience member, it's preferable to notice someone pulling a punch than to be concerned about potential injury.)

Fortunately, the actors have already found their groove. It's tough to sell a line when you're wearing a bright, skin-tight costume, but the eight-person cast of Equity and non-Equity performers do so with panache. Each member of the ensemble finds the humanity and super-humanity in his or her roles and, when required, can tell a joke and dodge a fist with ease.

Two men who did double duty in minor roles—Tom Myers and Paco Tolson—brought a lot to their characters. Myers managed to be heartbreaking and funny as the dim and indestructible Bryant. As Anderson, a frat boy turned cop, the actor never fell for the stereotype, instead making the audience's sympathies shift for and against him. Tolson made for a giddily inept bad guy as The Mole. When playing Damon (one-half of Los Hermanos Manos), he came off as a well-meaning kid lacking in street smarts but with a healthy dose of self-confidence, rather than just another dumb urban kid in the 'hood.

The widespread popularity of TV's Heroes shows that the market for these kinds of good versus evil stories is larger than the traditional teenage boy/aging boy fan base of old. Similarly, Vampire Cowboys's Men of Steel is not just for comic geeks. This production has fighting, sex appeal, pathos, jokes, and a double dose of Abba on the soundtrack. Truly, it caters to the geek in all of us.

Paradise City

New York and Los Angeles have engaged in a scrappy rivalry for years. As the entertainment capitals of their respective coasts, they are the nexuses of the theater (NYC) and film (LA) industries, and are always dipping into each other's talent pools. Yet despite the surface differences, meteorological and otherwise, they share a common underbelly. Both attract scores of unconventional people who reject or are rejected by their hometowns. These cities are shaped by their large population turnover—by people coming to pursue their dreams, and people fleeing from the harsh realities involved in that pursuit.

A nonstop emigration from sorrow is the focus of Los Angeles, a dark, fish-out-of-water story by Julian Sheppard. The narrow, subterranean black-box stage of Downstairs @ The Flea is the perfect venue for this lurid, sex- and drug-filled tour of the fringes of the movie trade. Playwright Adam Rapp puts down the pen for a turn in the director's chair for this chilling mood piece.

Twenty-something Audrey reluctantly agrees to move with her boyfriend from Seattle to Los Angeles. What is supposed to be a "fresh start"—and an escape from the banalities (and some vaguely referred to problems) of Javatown—results in a jettisoned, skill-less Audrey fending for herself in an itty-bitty apartment.

Living in a big city without friends or money would be a tough situation for anyone. Unfortunately, Audrey is also coping with speed addiction, daddy issues, no ambition other than to be loved, and a touch of post-traumatic stress disorder. As she sinks lower and lower, unable to save herself or be saved, two thoughts comes to the perceptive viewer's mind: Has she gone through this before? How many times will she go through this again?

Onstage for the entire hour and 40 minutes, Katherine Waterston, in a fierce and vulnerable performance as Audrey, sheds the "daughter of Sam Waterston" label that is invariably attached to her name. The Flea's current crop of Bats (its resident acting company), who play the users and abusers that wander in and out of Audrey's life, create vivid portrayals without stealing focus from the main character.

The background characters come off as mostly remembered figures from a dream. Though the events play in chronological fashion, they seem to be told as a series of hallucinated flashbacks "narrated" by a growly female singer in a clingy black dress who comes on during scene changes. Amelia Zirin-Brown's sexy vocals about nonsensical things were backed by a pianist and drummer; the music's grunge-era sound provides an apt soundtrack for Seattle-expatriate Audrey's addled head.

The Flea's use of bright orange chairs and blue hand props, which are undoubtedly a concession to the eyes of elderly audiences in an all-black space, also contributed to the trippy environs. Rapp's staging, encompassing the full length and width of the playing space (even using the front of the seating section as a nightclub's bar), completes the pixilated picture.

Sheppard's script was slightly hampered by its protagonist. Sometimes the repetitiveness of Audrey's behavior and the low lighting had a numbing effect, making one question the length of the show. Also, an intervention and a father-daughter scene, while probably true to the story and accurately scripted, seemed a little tired.

It would've been interesting if the playwright had explored the idea of Audrey being trapped in a cycle of destructive behavior in different cities. Perhaps the scenes could be tampered with so that not all of the memories read as truthful ones. These are notions that could have vaulted a good show into great status.

During the curtain call, Waterston had difficulty getting out of character after 100 minutes in Audrey's skin. Los Angeles is also hard to shed. Days afterward, her performance and bits of dialogue linger like club smoke in the fibers of your coat—and make you glad that you're living in New York.

Noir Song

What defines a Broadway musical? Is it a big, relatable love story set to popular music? Is it full of romantic and character roles perfect for filling with the stars of the day? If you speak to regular theater patrons, they all seem to have a sense of what is and is not suitable for the Broadway stage, even if they cannot elaborate on the criteria used to make the distinction. A successful commercial run depends not only on the show's quality but also on its being produced in the right-sized venue. Adrift in Macao, a film noir parody musical created in an inspired alliance between writer/lyricist Christopher Durang and composer Peter Melnick (grandson of Richard Rodgers), is now enjoying its long-awaited New York premiere Off-Broadway at 59E59 Theaters. While the caliber of the collaborators could have earned the production a spot on the Great White Way, opening at an intimate Off-Broadway house is a great move for this little show. Adrift in Macao has the music and energy (but not quite the script) for a Broadway bow.

Durang's clever though slight story involves a corrupt port town (Macao, China), a nightclub, and its unflappable owner, Rick Shaw. There is also a sultry blond chanteuse (Lureena), a mysterious loner (Mitch), an opium-addled showstopper (Corinna), and an inscrutable Asian manservant/intentional caricature (Tempura). All of them either work for or want something from Rick, and all are being kept from pursuing their own happiness.

There are lots of wordplay-based and "fourth wall"-breaking jokes, such as the response given when one character expresses hope about seeing another character again: "Well, it's a small cast." The thin plot threads fray a bit now and then but are strengthened by the dynamite songs. Melnick's music and Durang's lyrics combine in ditties that recall the jazzy/witty numbers from City of Angels. But while Cy Coleman and David Zippel (also working in noir territory) crafted dark-edged, syncopated songs in minor chords for Angels, Melnick and Durang's songs are bright and "majorly" catchy.

The small cast really sells this material. Rachel De Benedet (Lureena), Michele Ragusa (Corinna), and Orville Mendoza (Tempura) were all Barrymore Award winners for their roles in Philadelphia Theater Company's 2005 production of the show, and, two years later, they are still in fine form. De Benedet is comely and blond enough to look the part of the femme not-so-fatale, and her smoky voice and Mae West way with a double entendre only enhance her appeal.

Ragusa is like a gleefully gone-to-seed Rita Hayworth, with a great comic energy and a glorious belt. Mendoza's Tempura is a wily customer who deals with the racism around him by playing games with people's expectations, defying them or living up to them based on how they benefit him. New York additions Will Swenson (Rick Shaw) and Alan Campbell (Mitch) were a mixed bag; while Swenson and Campbell nailed their low-key characters, they often faded into the background when the ladies or Mendoza came into the picture.

Ninety minutes went by like a pleasant breeze, but the show could benefit from a little more structure. Although critics of musicals often direct their ire at the creaky plot lines in poor examples of the genre, that doesn't mean the shows would be better served without them. There wasn't enough character motivation or action to sustain this show, resulting in a few theatrical bald spots.

However, director Sheryl Kaller and choreographer Christopher Gattelli picked up the slack by keeping the performers and performance in motion. Somehow, Gattelli managed to use retro dance moves in both a tongue-in-cheek and organic way, in some of the handiest choreography I've seen Off-Broadway.

Adrift in Macao isn't as theatrical as Phantom of the Opera, as polished as The Producers, or as full of heart as ... well, no examples come to mind. Perhaps if the script were beefed up, the ensemble expanded, and the budget tripled, it might become one of those big Broadway shows. The question is, Would it be as enjoyable? Macao is a scrappy, off-the-wall tuner that is completely self-aware and succeeds in delighting the socks off its audience. This B-musical brings its A-game.