Get Thee to a Nunnery

There is much to like about The Tragic and Horrible Life of the Singing Nun—a campy and over-the-top musical homage to Sister Jeanine Fou (aka Sister Smile), the singing nun and unlikely pop chanteuse who found herself catapulted to superstardom (and a Grammy Award) with her wildly popular 60's hit song "Dominique." The production, presented at the New York Musical Theater Festival, features an infectious score by Andy Monroe and a deliriously silly cast. Yet despite all its great qualities, it is undermined by Michael Schiralli's weak staging and Blair Fell's overwritten and disjointed plot. Nun recounts the story of Sister Jeanine (Laura Daniel), from her childhood in Belgium with her crazy Maman (Eileen F. Stevens) and true love/best pal Annie Nevermind (Tracey Gilbert), to her life in the convent, to her success as an international pop sensation. After leaving home for the convent, Jeanine encounters the aggressively competitive Sister Maria (Kristen Beil) and the delightfully inappropriate Mother Helen Lawson (Kristine Zbornik). A vision of Saint Dominique (Randy Blair) then leads Jeanine to write the song that will forever change her life. When the convent falls on hard times, sexy Father Lyon (Michael Hunsaker) and his former paramour, Sister Coco Callmesimael (Stephen Michael Rondel), record the song and turn her into a pop superstar.

The show is really quite amusing, thanks in large part to a very funny cast that is not afraid to look stupid. Zbornik hilariously channels Ethel Merman as the deliciously sinful Mother Helen. Stevens's Maman recalls Piper Laurie in Carrie with her hysterically exaggerated screams of "They're gonna laugh at you!," while Blair steals the show, playing Dominique as the love child of Paul Lynde and Charles Nelson Reilly.

Unfortunately, there are moments when the show is just a mess: the jokes become stale, the stage cluttered, and the "arched eyebrow" acting irritating. Many of the scenes come off as superfluous, and there are too many subplots to sustain focus. Schiralli's prosaic direction does little to advance the story. Under his guidance, scenes are stilted, and the actors don't connect.

Nun began life as a play, and one senses a reluctance to trim down the original writing with the later addition of music. As a result, Sister Jeanine's story goes from entertaining to tiresome while clocking in at over two hours. In the process, a great idea is lost and a comedic gold mine squandered.

Hard Knocks

Have a Nice Life, Conor Mitchell's new musical now premiering as part of the New York Musical Theater Festival, offers up little in the way of originality. And despite what the program notes purport, Mitchell's musical stylings are not revolutionary. Nevertheless, his show proves to be an enjoyable and lighthearted (if by the numbers) musical romp highlighted by Rhonda Miller's excellent choreography and a powerhouse cast led by the fierce Emily Skinner and the fantastic Nichole Ruth Snelson. The formulaic plot focuses on members of a therapy group who gather weekly to confront issues of anger, depression, loneliness, and love. They find their routine shaken when a newcomer arrives and forces them to finally confront their darkest secrets. Each fits a type: the tough, quiet guy; the lovable loser; the eternally unhappy, perky optimist; the angry woman scorned; the vengeful psychopath; the mysterious newcomer; and the group's sensible leader. The situations are contrived and the outcomes obvious within the first 10 minutes. Mitchell and co-writer Matthew Hurt stumble most during an inane Lifetime-esque story line involving postpartum depression and baby napping that takes up far too much of the show.

But as a composer and lyricist, Mitchell does offer up some very good songs. "Other Women" perfectly captures the rage and hidden hurt of scorned women everywhere. "Old Fashioned Romance" is a wonderful ode to the days of wine and roses. And the Cabaret-inspired "Hate Mail in the Morning" is a sensational, sexy number that brings down the house.

It is no coincidence that these songs also feature the show's best performers. Skinner is simply sublime as the rage-filled Jean. She delivers a brilliant performance with a soaring voice and comedic timing that befits a 1940s screwball-comedy heroine. Kevin Carolan is equally touching and funny as misfit Chris, while Snelson is divine as the deliciously unstable Barbara. The entire cast benefits greatly from Rhonda Miller's inventive and energetic choreography. She mines her dance catalog to create a thrilling roller-coaster ride of movement—the perfect remedy to Pip Pickering's pedestrian direction.

Nice Life ultimately does overcome its trite scenarios and staid direction. The outstanding cast even manages to overcome an ending that overstays its welcome. And while Mitchell may not be reinventing the world of musical theater, his show is a welcome addition to the genre.

Dark Side

Rabbit Hole Ensemble applies a minimalist approach to theater. The focus is on the performer, with particular emphasis on physicality and voice. The company brings this unique style to The Transformation of Dr. Jekyll, a curious rendering of Robert Louis Stevenson's timeless horror classic Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Created by Rabbit Hole, the stripped-down production reimagines the story of Dr. Henry Jekyll as he explores a world of rough sex and violence. His transformation from mild-mannered philanthropist to out-of-control murderer is chronicled in his visits to prostitutes, which quickly escalate from violent to deadly. As the police close in on him, Jekyll grows increasingly desperate and reckless.

Paul Daily captures Jekyll's inner turmoil, perfectly embodying his tortured journey into madness. Daily contorts his body, shades his voice, and displays the physical and emotional pain of the character's transformation. Amanda Broomell and Emily Hartford are excellent as Jekyll's many foils. Broomell camps it up as the inspector hot on Jekyll's murderous trail, going for over-the-top, PBS-style mystery sleuthing. Hartford is perfect as the clueless ingénue hopelessly devoted to Jekyll despite his disposition toward things most unsavory. Both actresses are also dizzyingly funny as society matrons whom Jekyll encounters throughout the show.

With minimal props and no set, Edward Elefterion's direction remains true to the company's "theater of essence" approach. Under his guidance, the actors are the sole focus, and Broomell and Hartford voice the production's many sound effects with great success. Elefterion wisely spotlights the humor amid the pathos, creating a particularly hilarious scene involving shadow puppets.

Ultimately, the story never takes off, despite the strong performances and direction. Like the group's recent offering, The Siblings, at the Midtown International Theater Festival last month, Dr. Jekyll is too much a concept. It would be interesting to see the company apply its stylings to an established play. Rabbit Hole Ensemble is clearly worth keeping an eye on; one just hopes for better material that it can sink its teeth into.

No Exit

Not much happens in the The Prostitute of Reverie Valley. A confusing mishmash of philosophical nonsense, Adam Klasfeld's new play purports to ask questions about the nature of our desires and dreams, and the ways in which we escape the humdrum of our daily lives with promises of answers that will disturb. If only. Instead, the audience is subjected to an hourlong exercise in tedium, highlighted by inaudible performances, messy blocking, and a preposterous script. An unnamed prostitute (Sameerah Luqmaan-Harris) packs up her life, preparing to leave her home and the town that has held her captive for so long. As she is about to flee the mysterious confines of Reverie Valley, a john (Robert Kya-Hill) arrives to stop her. The evening passes, and the two engage in a battle for the prostitute's soul. Secrets are revealed, and truths are proselytized.

Sherri Kronfeld's weak direction muddies the already confusing plot. Her arbitrary staging fails to tell a story. Basic rules of blocking are ignored, with the actors left to flail about the space in a mess of aimless crossing about the stage. Key moments are squandered, and dramatic beats are rendered silly. Kronfeld fails her actors, providing them with no guidance.

Luqmaan-Harris is far too passive as the fiery prostitute. She quietly plays the determined woman with a resignation that runs counter to the character's passionate resolve. Kya-Hill raises his voice to an angry level in all the wrong places and spends the rest of the show acting with his hands, gesticulating to the point of distraction. His character and motivations remain a mystery throughout. Both actors speak so softly that much of the dialogue is lost in whispers.

But the problems begin and end with Klasfeld's script. It simply makes no sense. The characters are ambiguous, and the plot is incidental, secondary to the playwright's self-indulgent notions about the human condition. With little to offer, The Prostitute of Reverie Valley rings hollow.

Storm Front

Time stops. It goes backward and forward. Minutes are days, and hours are years. Time is ephemeral. It lives in the distance. Time does not occupy the same space as Celestina, the mysterious heroine of José Rivera's frustratingly vague Cloud Tectonics. Now receiving an admirable production at the Culture Project, from Out of Line Productions, the play is equal parts curiously ambiguous and distractingly unclear. On a rainy night in Los Angeles, Anibal (Luis Vega) picks up Celestina (Frederique Nahmani), a pregnant hitchhiker. He brings her to his house for the night to rest. Anibal is captivated by her intoxicating beauty. They talk. They kiss. Time stops. She claims to be 54 years old. She says she has been pregnant for two years.

Then Anibal's brother Nelson (played by Julio Rivera) arrives on his doorstop after a six-year absence. Nelson falls in love with Celestina, vowing to marry her and raise her baby as his own after he returns from war.

Nelson leaves and the storm rages on. Anibal and Celestina almost make love, interrupted by Nelson's return. While only minutes have passed, Nelson is older and changed. He claims that years have passed and that no one has heard from Anibal in all that time. Is Celestina the key?

Rivera, the Oscar-nominated screenwriter of The Motorcycle Diaries, has written a haunting and lyrically beautiful piece. He creates intriguing scenarios of confounding depth. The character of Celestina remains an enigma throughout. Is she a dream? An angel? Or something sinister? Why does time stop around her? Why does she never age? Has she been pregnant for two years?

Unfortunately, the story never evolves beyond being intriguing, settling instead for frustrating. Rivera answers none of the questions raised by Celestina's presence, leaving the audience stranded. The prevailing sense of vagueness becomes less interesting and more distracting as the show progresses, to the point where one questions whether Rivera knows what is going on.

The actors fall victim to the script's uncertainties. Despite their appealing and strong performances, they are clearly as confused by the plot's ambiguity as the audience is. Still, Nahmani is radiant as Celestina. She delivers her lines in a wonderfully naturalistic manner, as if she were speaking them for the first time. With her girlish giggle and innocent expression, she perfectly captures the character's childlike abandon. But there is a disconnect in Nahmani's performance, a sense that she can't quite wrap herself around the mystery of Celestina. Ultimately, Nahmani is as undecided about her as the playwright apparently is.

Vega encounters a similar obstacle. After an unsteady start, his portrayal of Anibal becomes skilled and thoughtful. He is particularly effective in the later scenes, decidedly settling into the role and delivering a poignant performance in the play's final moments. But with only an unclear sense of who or what Celestina is, Vega has little to react to and is left to flounder.

Both the performers and the play become grounded with the arrival of Nelson, the outsider and the play's only certainty. He is a product of the real world—the world not affected by Celestina—and his arrival portends truth. Rivera does fine work as the testosterone-fueled Army grunt. Although somewhat heavy on the machismo in his first scene, he is perfectly haunting as the disabled war veteran in the play's second half. With his wounded eyes and blank expression, Rivera fully embodies the emotional and physical trauma his character has endured. The play makes sense around Nelson—he brings the clarity of the outside world into perspective. As a result, both Vega and Nahmani relax when Rivera's Nelson arrives, knowing they can at last grab onto something tangible.

James Phillip Gates's pedestrian direction is marked by awkward staging. His clunky blocking distracts, often leaving the actors to physically strain to deliver their lines. Gates does come through in the end, however, creating a beautiful and moving tableau that brings the play's emotional thrust full circle.

Out of Line Productions has made a valiant attempt to bring Cloud Tectonics to the stage. The company's passion, particularly its fondness for the script, is clearly evident, but after nearly two hours of vague uncertainties, the play's perennial limbo renders this production irrelevant.

21st-Century Chekhov

Anton Chekhov writes with such urgent simplicity that his plays have proved to be timeless. Their themes are as relevant today as they were a hundred years ago, and his characters speak a truth that is no less pertinent now. It is therefore no surprise that attempts to update and modernize his writings are frequent. The results vary, however, too often sacrificing character and story for mediocre reinvention. Such is not the case with Daniel Reitz's new play, Three Sisters, a fresh look at an established classic that is anything but mediocre. Inspired by the great original, Reitz has written an intriguing and witty update that effortlessly brings Olga, Masha, Irina, and Chekhov himself firmly into the 21st century.

No longer left to toil in the outer provinces of Russia and long for their beloved Moscow, the sisters have been exiled to the outer boroughs of Manhattan, where they long for their beloved Upper West Side duplex. Olga, Masha, and Irina have gathered to celebrate Irina's birthday in an East Village bar, where they drink wine and commiserate about their lives.

Olga teaches Italian and lives quietly, but she is so afraid of life she can't even place a personal ad online. Masha lives with a man she doesn't love but won't leave because they have a great apartment in Brooklyn's Dumbo neighborhood. She's also having an affair with a married man from her yoga class. Irina, an "actress" working three jobs to make ends meet, is slowly becoming a stranger in her own life. Like their turn-of-the-century counterparts, the sisters are unhappy yet helpless to do anything about it.

Reitz cleverly and seamlessly weaves Chekhov's story into his modern tale. The sisters bond over the loss of their Upper West Side home to their brother's horrible wife Natasha, much the same way they do when Natasha takes over their Russian home in the original. Allusions are made to Olga's bouts with melancholia. Irina is lost, swallowed up by work but never fulfilled. Masha stays with a man she doesn't love (Kulygin) yet longs for a mysterious stranger (Vershinnin). The sisters talk of taking a trip, of moving back to Manhattan, of reclaiming their beloved home. But they just talk; nothing tangible will come of their plans.

Daniel Talbott's efficient direction keeps the play focused. He hits every beat, finding the quiet in humor and the truth in adversity. He wisely incorporates the audience, casting them as patrons in the bar. The play unfolds around the audience members as they eavesdrop on the sisters' celebration.

The show benefits greatly from the strong portrayals by its leading ladies. As Olga, Masha, and Irina, Addie Johnson, Samantha Soule, and Julie Kline are wonderful. Each actress perfectly captures her character's center, delivering a fully realized and rich performance that is fascinating, intelligent, and funny.

Johnson makes Olga a woman surprised by the sound of her own voice. Longing to break free from her predictable life but afraid to take action, Olga is the most interesting of the sisters under Johnson's skillful guidance. The actress leaves you with the impression that she has only just begun to tell Olga's story.

Samantha Soule's Masha is a manic whirlwind, a mass of contradictions ready to either explode or collapse. With her rich voice, Soule commands attention, cracking her tough exterior to subtly reveal the fragile little girl beneath. Julie Kline plays Irina as a witness to her life, allowing the action to happen around her. Kline has a wonderful, fresh energy that serves the naïve Irina well.

In the mysterious role of Nicco, Denis Butkus delivers a charming performance as the sisters' ideal, but unattainable, man. For Olga he is Kulygin, the true intellectual who will love her for her mind. For Masha he is Vershinnin, the mysterious visitor who will take her away from her unhappy life. For Irina he is Tuzenbach, the great hope who will take care of her.

Ultimately, these subtle allusions to the original play are what makes Reitz's piece so captivating. He incorporates Chekhov's classic story and his most recognizable heroines effortlessly, leaving the highlighting and exclamation points to lesser writers. Reitz embraces Chekhov's Three Sisters while simultaneously making it his own. And Olga, Masha, and Irina are all the better for it.

Behind the Music

It seems more and more rare to find plays that are uniquely theatrical. The lines between the artistic mediums have blurred to the point that there exists little distinction. For every brilliantly reinvented Sweeney Todd revival that could thrive only on the stage, there exists countless generic, Lifetime TV-movie rip-offs masquerading as insightful dramas. Television shows are made from movies. Movies are made from television shows. Plays are all too often glorified sitcoms or disease-of-the-week melodramas—or, worse, forced musicals adapted from mediocre movies. That which was once unique to each medium, particularly theater, has become pedestrian. Kate E. Ryan's mock-rockumentary Mark Smith is a noble attempt at marrying the genres, transferring to the stage the This Is Spinal Tap/A Mighty Wind style of moviemaking. Produced by 13P, a collective of playwrights working together to produce 13 new plays by 13 playwrights, the piece is an intriguing union of documentary filmmaking and live theater, with a campy dose of E! True Hollywood Story. The results are a mixed bag.

Still, Ryan has created a funny and surprisingly touching story. The play goes "behind the music" to explore the rise and fall of an 80's rock star, Mark Smith, the lead singer of the band Cheetah, which has fallen into obscurity. The unseen filmmakers explore Mark's fictional hometown by interviewing people who knew him or were influenced by him. Included are his mother and sister, his high school music teacher, his hair stylist, his girlfriend, and a devoted fan, among others.

Ryan's writing is particularly effective when telling the story of the mother and sister. The former, Margaret, is half-paralyzed on one side and limps about the house showing off pictures of a young Mark and proudly telling stories about his boyhood. Meanwhile, his younger, timid, and jealous sister, now a grown woman working at a local store, keeps her place in the background, as she has her whole life. The two women's stories are the most real, equal parts funny (their personalities) and sad (their lives).

The supremely talented six cast members play multiple roles to great effect. Alissa Ford is especially effective as Mark's mother, transforming her body into that of an elderly woman, complete with physical limitations and an affected speech pattern. She gives a transcendent performance.

Melissa Miller also does fine work, as Laurie, the teenage fan obsessed with Smith and his band. Fidgeting and stammering with insecurity, Miller realistically portrays a shy teenager lost in her musical obsession.

Each of the six actors inhabits his or her roles with conviction, creating a fully realized and three-dimensional performance that holds the show together even during its weaker moments. At those points, the play loses focus, weaving in and out of stories with no connection to Mark (particularly the superfluous story line featuring Mark's music teacher and his band of musicians).

Remaining true to the jumpy patchwork of documentary filmmaking, the play is composed of short scenes that start in the middle and end shortly thereafter. This creates many obstacles, but Ken Rus Schmoll's inventive direction fills in many of these story line gaps. Schmoll takes us literally behind the scenes as the audience watches each set change. He also has the actors assume their places in the setup of the upcoming scene as the set is being changed.

The concept of image as a manipulated and prepackaged persona is a major theme of the play, and Schmoll touches upon this with the clever use of melodramatic music cues and the aforementioned set changes, evoking the laughably serious atmosphere found in so many celebrity exposés. But as the play goes on, these changes become self-indulgent and too long, lacking the quickness that the medium of film permits.

Ultimately, Ryan has overwritten the show, yet at the same time, she has underdeveloped the story lines, leaving the play unfocused. It's not about Mark or Margaret or the family or the community—or some of these or all of these. It's about the concept of writing a mockumentary-style movie as a play.

This uneven playwriting exercise emphasizes style over substance, and it's all very familiar in an age of behind-the-scenes schlock TV. Even so, Ryan has managed to create a rich and complex assortment of characters. Mark Smith and her writing excel when the talented cast is allowed to tell her stories.

Couples in Crisis

I'd Leave You...But We Have Reservations is a collection of four new one-act plays. The theme (sort of) is couples in crisis in restaurants (mostly). The setting is New York, and all the characters are very New York in that annoying highbrow way that exists only in theater. Produced by Living Image Arts and now premiering at the Linhart Theater at 440 Studios, this cobbled-together and tedious mishmash features some funny performances but little else. The first piece is Robert Askins's Past the Teeth, a pointless and tiresome Woody Allen reject about a couple celebrating their anniversary. The wife, played by Erin Kukla, is a whiny nag. The husband, played by Joseph Tomasini, is an annoying neurotic. Together, they are thoroughly unlikable. A restaurant critic on assignment, he takes notes about the restaurant as his wife prattles on about feeling neglected. She talks about their lackluster sex life—he feigns ignorance. There are lots of food-as-sex metaphors that have either been heard before or just aren't funny. The performers are not helped by Marco Jo Clate's uninspired direction, which runs the gamut from sitting with lots of arm movements to walking around aimlessly with lots of arm movements.

Jo Clate also directs the second piece, Jacqueline Christy's Lunch, an at times charming play about two old friends who meet for lunch to catch up. Maryanne, played by the woefully miscast Mia Alden, is a classic screw-up. Well into her 30's, she lives each day as if she were at a never-ending frat party. She gets drunk every night, has reckless sexual encounters with strangers and co-workers, pops pills, and is generally a frightful mess. Her friend Lucy, played by the talented Shelley McPherson in the evening's best performance, has it all, including a handsome husband and a house in Westchester.

As Maryanne unravels with each passing minute, Lucy listens attentively while offering advice, and ultimately takes pity on her. When Maryanne turns the tables on Lucy, the play devolves into a Lifetime TV movie about lesbians and eating disorders. Alden stumbles her way through the part and pauses at the oddest moments. But McPherson skillfully makes her presence known with a fully developed, three-dimensional performance that manages to make even the lesbian subplot touching. She deserves better material.

The longest and most hollow piece is Stephanie Rabinowitz's Nice Is for Dogs. Littered with literary references for the well educated, it wants to be an existential post-postmodern play so clever in its execution that the audience marvels at its construction. It isn't.

Sylvie, played by Rose Courtney, has dinner with her ex-lover Nate (Peter Marsh). She is a mess and unlovable, while he is in a new relationship and seemingly happy. They reminisce about their affair, and she tries to win him back. When he balks, she shoots him.

Dante, played by Greg Oliver Bodine, inexplicably shows up to taunt Sylvie in some sort of hell on earth metaphor. It is all very unclear. Sylvie then remembers another lover, also played by Marsh. He upsets her, and she kills him. Dante taunts some more. Perhaps she is in hell reliving a series of bad relationships? A third lover, Marsh again, lasts 30 seconds before being dispatched. Sylvie seeks solace in Dante, who turns out to be just like all the others. Director Christopher Schraufnagel tries to make it work, but he is outmatched by Rabinowitz's messy script. Schraufnagel does elicit a great performance from Rose Courtney, who embraces Sylvie's obnoxious personality and runs with it.

The evening's final play, Maria Gabriele's Club Justice, inexplicably abandons the "restaurant/couples-in-crisis" theme and is a forced and uneven attempt at social commentary. The title refers to a TV show hosted by a sadistic nutcase named Humphrey Balduc, played by Kyle Masteller. The show allows people who have been wronged to take revenge on their assailants.

Alexandra Lincoln plays Ziggy Haltegger, an uptight fussbudget who has been wronged. Ziggy comes on Club Justice to unleash her raging brutality on the foul-mouthed Lila, played with malicious delight by Heather Collis. When Ziggy's revenge goes awry, Humphrey turns on her, making Ziggy the TV show's target. It is a clever idea, but with Gabriele's unfocused direction and meandering script, the execution falters. Collis, however, does deliver a truly funny performance.

The problem with I'd Leave You...But We Have Reservations is that the four shows flounder with their lack of focus. Each play is a generic relationship piece populated by unlikable characters. Moreover, the production offers no connection to its audience, and its condescending attempts at depicting highbrow, cosmopolitan living ring untrue.

Shakespeare and Zombies

Sometime in the future or somewhere in the past, in the place where pop culture and legitimate literature meet, Qui Nguyen's Living Dead in Denmark is born. Under the direction of Robert Ross Parker, the play proves to be a highly entertaining, but ultimately uneven, full-out assault on Shakespeare in the form of B-movie madness and some seriously kick-ass stage combat. It is five years after the apocalypse. Mankind struggles to survive. Toxic waste litters the landscape, and zombies rule the night. A post-apocalyptic battle rages between two camps for supremacy. The human group is led by Hamlet's Fortinbras, and the zombies are ruled by Titania of A Midsummer Night's Dream and her reanimated lover, Hamlet. While Hamlet appears unstoppable with the help of his brain-hungry zombie army, Fortinbras has a secret weapon far more powerful.

Deep in his Danish lair, he has created the perfect fighting machines in the form of Macbeth's Lady Macbeth, Romeo and Juliet's Juliet, and Hamlet's Ophelia. It seems Fortinbras rescued the threesome from their respective suicide attempts, engineering them into an unlikely trio—think Charlie's Angels meets the Three Stooges, with fight moves that would make Buffy the Vampire Slayer jealous. These three unite to battle Hamlet's army of the undead.

Lady M (as she is called) and Juliet, with help from Hamlet's Horatio, convince the reluctant Ophelia to join their cause and save mankind. The estrogen is running high as the girls wield swords, throw knives, and kung-fu their way through a sea of zombie mutants. Everyone has a secret and no one can be trusted as the final battle looms on the horizon. Alliances shift, leading to the ultimate showdown between Fortinbras and Hamlet and forcing our heroine Ophelia to choose between love and duty.

Nguyen, coming off his critically acclaimed and haunting masterpiece Trial by Water at the Culture Project, shows off his silly side with his zombie-cum-Shakespearean parody. Nothing is spared in his assault on pop culture. Everything from Kill Bill and Brokeback Mountain to Paris Hilton and Snoop Dogg are gleefully skewered. Fortunately, Nguyen is also merciless in his attack on the Bard, using Shakespeare's own words against him and stripping away the pretense to reveal the often trite plot beneath the multisyllabic lines.

But Nguyen's riotous ability to spoof pop culture is also where the production breaks down. There are just too many inside jokes and clever references for him to sustain plot focus. He ultimately gets off message, abandoning his sharp characters and his inspired story for an unnecessary joke or another extended fight sequence. The production features dozens of scenes, many of which clock in at less than 60 seconds. Nguyen's plot structure, reminiscent of the modern sitcom with its setup, joke, and quick-cut construction, proves to be a challenge for Parker. Much of the play is mechanically boring, and Parker's stale staging becomes all too familiar with each passing scene.

The one exception is Marius Hanford's excellent fight direction. He approaches each of the finely detailed and riveting fight sequences as if he were choreographing a ballet. The result is an exhilarating ride that, although distracting from the plot, cannot be faulted for its precise execution or pure entertainment value.

Parker, however, does deserve credit for guiding his cast to outstanding performances. The entire cast of 10 excels, many in multiple roles, delivering joke after joke with bull's-eye precision. Maureen Sebastian is sexy and smart as the geek-chic Juliet. Melissa Paladino is all testosterone as the butch Lady M but gives Macbeth's take-no-prisoners wife a sensitive edge. Andrea Marie Smith is appropriately needy as Titania and nearly steals the show as she belts out a sexy torch song with her smoky, soaring voice.

Jason Liebman goths it up as the Prince of Denmark, playing him as a misunderstood monster with the soul of a tortured artist and the heart of a bad-boy rock star. As Horatio, Carlo Alban plays the hero full out, saving the girl in a swoon-worthy performance. Jason Schumacher takes on Fortinbras to hilarious effect, drawing on a rogue British accent and plodding about the stage as if he had just waltzed out of a bad James Bond movie.

Living Dead in Denmark revolves around Ophelia, from her rebirth in Fortinbras's lab to her final showdown with her savior and former lover. Amy Kim Waschke triumphantly brings this central character full circle. She imbues Ophelia with equal parts tough-girl bravado and lost confusion as she tries to make sense of the situation unfolding around her. Under Waschke's accomplished guidance, Ophelia's story remains grounded and compelling throughout.

Vampire Cowboys Theater Company's mission is to entertain by first engaging its audiences. It prides itself on keeping them on the edge of their seats, and with Living Dead in Denmark it achieves its goal. But not all audiences were brought up in an era of attention deficit disorder, and sometimes a good story goes a long way, especially one as good as this one. If Nguyen and Parker, Vampire Cowboys's co-artistic directors, had kept their focus more on substance and less on style, Living Dead in Denmark would be "can't miss" instead of just "should see."

Growing Up Ibsen

Ibsen is everywhere. First there was Heddatron at the HERE Arts Center, a hilarious sendup of Ibsen's "well-made play" Hedda Gabler featuring a cast of robots. Then in March, Cate Blanchett and her fellow Aussie actors invaded the Brooklyn Academy of Music, delivering a fascinating production of Hedda Gabler with Blanchett as the craziest Hedda this side of Bellevue. Now, with spring in full bloom, Wakka Wakka Productions brings us The Death of Little Ibsen at the Sanford Meisner Theater, featuring a cast of puppets and an Ibsen who is the craziest of them all. Strange, funny, and completely original, the play is a 50-minute joyride into the bizarre world of Ibsen's mind.

The Death of Little Ibsen fascinatingly and often hilariously deconstructs the famed Norwegian playwright's tumultuous life. The production chronicles Ibsen's life from his birth in 1828 to his death in 1906, and all of the play's characters, with the exception of his mother, are puppets. The title character, Little Ibsen, serves as an embodiment of the inner voice of Ibsen the man. And fortunately for the audience, Ibsen's inner voice is a little crazy.

The show begins with Little Ibsen's birth, a particularly amusing sequence, as he is literally ripped from his mother's womb. From there, Ibsen grows up. He attends grammar school and is accused of plagiarism. He fights with his demanding parents and leaves home. In his early 20's, he meets and falls in love with a servant girl, who seduces him and becomes pregnant.

Ibsen panics and flees to a university, where his radical thinking leads him to launch a newspaper. Soon his first play is published, and he is hailed by the people but reviled by the critics. He marries and has a child, then deserts them (on the back of a pig!) to concentrate on his writing. As the years pass, Ibsen gives up his mistress, returns to his wife and now-grown son, and publishes some of his greatest works.

Ibsen's plays are huge successes, but through it all Little Ibsen succumbs to his own inner voice (Littler Ibsen?). It seems Little Ibsen suffers from irrational bouts of paranoia and a monster-sized inferiority complex that grows worse with each passing success. Ibsen's paranoia takes the form of two devil puppets. These cynical devils mock and disparage him; acting as a chorus, they sing their negative messages in clever rhymes. The devils denounce Ibsen's writing, calling The Master Builder pretentious and sneering at Hedda Gabler. As for his inner-inner voice, it tells Ibsen to just die because he isn't really any good at what he does, and besides, the critics don't like him very much.

The unusual production benefits significantly from Kirjan Waage's brilliant puppet design. One of Wakka Wakka Productions's four members, Waage brings Ibsen and his puppet colleagues to dramatic life. With their oversized features and anatomically correct appendages, the puppets are in some respects grotesque. Little Ibsen is first seen naked with genitalia on display, and later his servant seducer exposes her breasts during a rather hilarious chase sequence.

The design and execution of these peculiar puppets is so convincing that they achieve lifelike realism with their eerily authentic movements and speech. The Little Ibsen puppet, in particular, successfully personifies Ibsen's personality, presenting a man who is at times interesting and amiable and at other times ornery and frightening.

The members of Wakka Wakka do it all—sets, lights, music, costumes. But they are exceptional in their roles as puppeteers and set designers. They manipulate the nearly dozen puppets with expert precision, becoming part of the scenery as they vanish into their puppet roles. David Arkema is particularly effective as Little Ibsen. Dressed in a costume identical to his puppet's, Arkema is flawless at bringing the playwright's neuroses to life.

The set design is inspiring, proving just how much can be achieved with limited resources. Consisting of two boulders, a table, a chair, and a wardrobe, the set pieces are covered in moss and various forest greens. Within this fantastical funhouse, the set comes alive, opening up into secret compartments and serving multiple functions.

What The Death of Little Ibsen gives its audience, albeit with tongue firmly planted in cheek, is the mind behind the man. The play masterfully exposes a truth about the great playwright: most of his plays are actually about him. In deconstructing Ibsen, Wakka Wakka charts his quest to find his true self. As he wrestles with ghosts from his real life as well as those from his writing, he arrives at his final destination—death. It's a fantastic, insightful journey that never fails to entertain.

Ibsen With Robots

Heddatron is an over-the-top, mind-bending, jaw-dropping piece of masterful camp. Everything about playwright Elizabeth Meriwether's new play is brilliant. Produced by Les Freres Corbusier, this outstanding production boasts an extremely original and well-written script as well as a magnificent cast, inspired direction, and flawless design elements, all of which combine to make this the must-see show of the season. In short, it is pure theatrical magic (with robots!) that leaves its audience slightly delirious and breathlessly wanting more. In suburban Michigan, Jane (Carolyn Baeumler), a depressed and pregnant housewife, reads Hedda Gabler. As she folds laundry and cleans her gun, she finds solace in Ibsen's words, identifying with the title character's situation. Weeks later, Jane's 12-year-old daughter Nugget (Spenser Leigh) prepares to give a report to her sixth-grade class on Ibsen and the "well-made play."

Meanwhile, in 19th-century Germany, a melancholy Ibsen (Daniel Larlham) plays with dolls as his sadistic wife (Nina Hellman), a severe woman who refers to her husband only as "Ibsen!," gleefully calls his manhood into question. Back in modern-day Michigan, mild-mannered Rick (Gibson Frazier) and his arms-smuggling brother Cubby (Sam Forman) prepare to rescue Rick's wife Jane, who has been kidnapped by…robots.

Images of a news report about the robot abduction assault the audience from every angle. Ibsen frantically works on his new play, pausing only to battle his loathed enemy, the sexually depraved August Strindberg (Ryan Karels), and to find momentary happiness with his slutty kitchen maid, Else (Julie Lake).

Nugget presents her report, advising her classmates that if they don't like Hedda Gabler, it's probably because they saw it on a bad night or are too stupid to understand it. Rick and Cubby, armed with an arsenal of illegal guns, head to the rain forest lair of the robots. Deep in the forest, Jane performs Hedda Gabler over and over again as her kidnappers, Tesman and Lovborg (named after characters in Hedda Gabler) and their fellow robots, swirl about her. That the four story lines converge during a group chorus of Bonnie Tyler's unrequited-love anthem "Total Eclipse of the Heart" is just further proof of this work's campy brilliance.

A mixture of wry observations, hilarious jokes, social commentary, and literary criticism, Meriwether's writing is sublime. Through Jane's story, Ibsen's imagined history, and the robots that tie everything together, Meriwether expertly deconstructs Ibsen and his play. Alex Timbers's direction successfully weaves together all the story lines, guiding his entire cast to polished, accomplished performances.

The acting is also exceptional. Leading the ensemble is the delightful Leigh. As Nugget, she holds the play together with her natural acting style and deadpan delivery, showcasing a talent well beyond her young age. Carolyn Baeumler mixes comedy and drama as the suicidal Jane, fully and often hilariously committing to each bizarre situation, particularly those involving her robot captors. She turns in a tender and heartbreaking performance.

Hellman stomps about the stage screaming "Ibsen!" and delivering putdowns with bull's-eye precision, stealing every scene she's in. As the lusty Else, Lake is perpetually surprised and clueless while delivering her lines with a high-pitched, helium-infused voice that provokes many laughs. In Lake's capable hands, Else's monologue about her mother's brutal rape is, surprisingly, a comedic tour de force.

Larlham comically captures the self-aggrandizing soul of the tortured artist; his conflicted Ibsen is a man more concerned with writing about life than living it. As the bikini-underwear-clad Strindberg, Karels hysterically swaggers about the stage, full machismo bravado on display as he conquers every woman in his path. Karels is the perfect foil to Larlham's neutered Ibsen.

Forman attacks the role of wannabe mercenary Cubby with psychotic abandon, earning many laughs as his insane kill-the-robots-scheme spirals out of control. As the quiet center of the play, Frazier appropriately underplays each moment, imbuing the clueless Rick with a dim uncertainty about what is happening or why his wife is so unhappy. Like Tesman in Hedda, Rick simply loves her.

The unsung heroes of Heddatron are the robots. Designed by Meredith Finkelstein and Cindy Jeffers, they perfectly capture the personalities of their Ibsenian counterparts. The Lovborg robot is hunky and brooding, Tesman is dumpy, and the others—well, they should be seen for maximum effect. The robots provide some of the funniest moments and are so well executed, they achieve lifelike dimensions.

In a city bursting with theatrical options, Heddatron is a welcome relief. Not settling for the status quo or uninspired mediocrity of so many Broadway and Off-Broadway productions, Heddatron dares to be more. And while the flash of the robots is certainly alluring, the production's real magic is all human. Meriwether, Timbers, Les Freres Corbusier, and the exceptional cast and designers have given the New York theater scene a remarkable gift.

Solo Turns

Four Women masquerades as a play. Playwright Cheever Tyler has assembled four unrelated monologues and ineffectually linked them together under the broad themes of love, loss, and destiny. But the monologues' only true connection is that they are told from the perspective of women. Under Christopher Carter Sanderson's pedestrian direction, the monologues meander and grow tiresome, failing to reach a point and often getting lost within Tyler's unpolished writing. The evening begins with "Dixie Glitter," a convoluted, mildly amusing piece about an uneducated trailer-trash yokel (a favorite type of woman in Tyler's monologues) who finds herself playing host to the spirit of Carry Nation.

Who? Exactly. Carry Nation was a quasi-famous prohibitionist during the early part of the 20th century. Her claim to fame was that she would take a hatchet and smash bars to pieces. The monologue spends a lot of time explaining this, as do the program notes. One day Dixie, a would-be psychic, has Nation's spirit passed on to her by another crazy local. The trouble is that Dixie is a good-time girl who loves her drinking as much as she loves her men.

Suffice it to say, she and Carry are quite the odd couple, and hilarity ensues…or is meant to ensue. Robin Benson throws herself into the role but can't overcome the flawed writing and lame jokes. After almost half an hour, even she appears to want the piece to end.

In the second monologue, "Albany Drive Thru Pawn Shop," a Southern belle named Celeste finds herself trapped in the past with her fragile sanity teetering on the brink. She is unable to recover from a soured love affair, and her problems are further compounded by the hardships of the Depression, which force her to sell off her family's beloved belongings to make ends meet. The monologue seemingly takes place over decades, but the time line is annoyingly unclear, and the resolution is a train wreck of psychobabble. As Celeste, Ninon Rogers is all demure Southern accent and genteel affectations, but little else.

The most troubling piece of the evening is "Inventory," featuring Charlotte, a physics professor struggling with the deaths of her husband and son. The monologue is an unfocused debate on the roles of science and religion, as Charlotte tries to reconcile her profession with her faith. Speaking to an unseen therapist, she calmly rails at the gods for taking her family while calling upon her scientific background to provide answers. Debbie Stanislaus does very little with the piece, aimlessly circling the stage and occasionally raising her voice beyond a calm whisper to show anger or confusion.

The show concludes with "Trip to New Jersey," an unfunny and borderline racist monologue about another trailer-trash heroine, Trumpet Vine, on the verge of marrying a much older Middle-Eastern man. Trumpet waxes philosophical about love and, more important, money as she explains why she is marrying her rich sugar daddy. Seduced by jewelry and his endless wealth, Trumpet decides life in a burka can't be all that bad.

Playwright Tyler makes sweeping generalizations about the Middle East, conceiving Trumpet's beau as a stereotypical "evil doer" complete with henchmen, oil fields, and a harem of beauties waiting at his beck and call. Kelly Tuohy revels in Trumpet's trashiness, almost making the audience forget how thin her monologue is. Ultimately, though, Tuohy succumbs to bug eyes and "golly gee whiz" deliveries.

Sanderson provides little direction for his actresses, most of whom wander helplessly about the stage wearing out the same 5-by-5 patch of space. Although hindered by Tyler's amateurish writing, the director fails to provide a beginning, middle, and end for each monologue, leaving his actresses stranded and stuck.

Four Women suffers from many problems, but its biggest obstacle is the script itself. Stale situations, underdeveloped characters, and empty dialogue prove too difficult to overcome and too uninteresting to care about.

Shock Value

Lenny & Lou, a new play by Ian Cohen receiving its New York premiere at 29th Street Rep, bills itself as a "brutal" comedy that takes a raunchy look at family dysfunction. Cohen and 29th Street Rep are quite taken with being "in your face." And while words like "demented," "debauched," "disturbing," and "shocking" are bandied about in the production's advertising to promote this supposedly edgy work, Lenny & Lou amounts to little more than a third-rate situation comedy at best, and an unfunny exercise in forced acting and weak direction at worst. Polar-opposite brothers Lenny (David Mogentale) and Lou (Todd Wall) can't get a break. They tend to their Alzheimer's-afflicted mother Fran (Suzanne Toren), bound together by obligation as they while away the days of their empty, meaningless lives. Irresponsible Lenny dreams of being a rock star. Stuck in a loveless, emotionally destructive marriage with mafia princess Julie (Heidi James), Lenny is nothing more than a pathetic, middle-aged wannabe rock 'n' roller.

The tightly wound Lou hasn't fared much better. Haunted by a love that got away, he hasn't had a date in 15 years. He works as an accountant, obsessing over his job to the point where he works through his vacations. When the inappropriate Fran goes too far, Lou finally snaps, sending the family smashing into a million little crazy pieces.

The problems start with Cohen's astonishingly unfunny script. Plagued by ill-conceived caricatures and a contrived plot, Lenny & Lou never has chance. Each of the five characters fits neatly into a stereotypical, and disturbingly ethnocentric, compartment. Lenny, Lou, and Fran are typical stock Jewish characters out of Neil Simon by way of Woody Allen. Lenny is the slacker. Lou is the neurotic. Fran is the crazy mother. Julie is the loudmouthed, pushy, domineering Italian princess. Fran's nurse Sabrina (Carolyn Michelle Smith), a Haitian immigrant, is the deeply religious, sane one caught in the crossfire. Not one of the characters ever amounts to anything beyond being a superficial type.

As for the plot, it is tedious. The first three scenes, where the characters are slowly introduced, establishes very little. The play only becomes engaging, albeit briefly, in the fourth scene with Sabrina's arrival. As Lou plays a cat-and-mouse game with her, the play and the actors momentarily spring to life with crackling dialogue and a fast-paced urgency.

The second act is overcome by too many subplots. What happened to Sabrina? Will Lenny and Julie work it out? Will Julie kill Lenny? Will Lou be found out? Will Julie and Lou find true happiness? The disturbing incest subplot is best forgotten. All this leads to the "surprise" ending that is anything but a surprise.

Much of Cohen's would-be humor comes not from the limp dialogue but from broad, stale situations. Unfortunately for him and the audience, this leaves the ball firmly in director Sturgis Warner's court. Under his anemic direction, Lenny & Lou flounders. The staging is pedestrian, and attempts at sight gags fall flat. Of particular note is a blatantly unfunny sex scene between Julie and Lenny, complete with gratuitous nudity that comes off as offensive and uncomfortable. Warner allows his actors to run amok, offering little if any guidance.

Mogentale and James suffer most from Warner's lax direction. As a sexually explosive, bickering couple who hate as much as they love, their chemistry fizzles. Mogentale struggles to find his footing as the immature Lenny, but ultimately succumbs to the script's many failings by relying on bugged eyes and cross-dressing to score laughs. James's Julie screams a lot and squints her eyes in anger, but manages a great accent and a well-executed tough-girl façade.

Wall finds a few moments of honesty in the loud script. He imbues Lou with an appropriately lost stare and an unwavering conviction that almost makes the character likable, despite his actions. As Fran, Toren makes the best of her largely underwritten role. Her character is decidedly unlikable, yet Toren commits to every moment, however salacious they may be. In one of the play's few bright spots, Carolyn Michelle Smith turns in a funny and engaging performance in the all too brief role of Sabrina.

Lenny & Lou wants so much to be shocking. From every trite vulgarity to each hackneyed scenario, it begs its audience to applaud its daring indecency. But in its efforts to provoke, the only thing brutal about this play is having to sit through it.

Trash to Treasure

Welcome to Objeté, the trash heap of the imagination, where bits of wood, tools, toys, and antique furniture litter the landscape, left to rot in a forgotten wasteland. Produced by the Cosmic Bicycle Theater and the creative genius of the multitalented Jonathan Edward Cross, the show is a visually stunning feast for the eyes that springs to magnificent life in an explosion of childlike abandon and brilliant imagination. Equal parts puppet show and Dada cabaret, it offers pure magic that will enchant children and stir to life the sleeping child within those older. Discarded objects populate the world of Objeté, telling the tender story of Johnny Clock Works (aka Jonathan Edward Cross) and his assistant, Emmy Bean. Johnny longs to experience the world, to fly away, but he remains confined to his little corner of the world with his faithful friend by his side. As the delightful twosome bring the forgotten denizens to life with a mixture of humor, hope, and music, the audience witnesses a wonderful transformation as waste becomes raw materials and decaying debris turns into living beauty. An old grandfather clock lays eggs. An enamel coffeepot becomes a belligerent man. The blades of a fan form wings to fly. An eggbeater and copper mold take the shape of a dancing chorus girl. An antique trunk becomes a boat.

Imagination gives way to Johnny Clock Works's story amidst the backdrop of a silly cabaret. Emceed by a gruff-talking, cigar-chomping baby marionette, the cabaret features a pair of Abbott-and-Costello-style prosthetic legs. Surmounted by fake teeth, the legs tell bad jokes while a sexy dancer, made up of shapely legs, an antique clock, and a red boa, cancans the night away. The cabaret comes to a conclusion with a heavenly chanteuse, in the form of an angelic baby-doll marionette, who sweetly sings herself to sleep. With the help of Emmy, Johnny finds his way through the trash heap into his imagination and beyond, fulfilling his dream to fly off and see the world.

Cross's imagination is nothing short of breathtaking. As writer, director, designer, puppeteer, and star, he displays a talent matched only by his boundless dedication to his craft. His inspiring vision culminates in a hypnotic 50-minute production that is often intriguing, always amusing, and genuinely wonderful.

The radiant Emmy Bean lights up the stage. Never saying more than a half-dozen words, she uses her body and facial expressions to create a fully realized character of affecting depth and humor. With her incandescent smile and sad eyes, Bean is a delightful foil to Cross's fumbling hero.

With this show, Cross has created a vivid reality out of a capricious fantasy. Talking babies, dancing clocks, and a dreamscape of poetic magic await the audience at every turn. Objeté will captivate both children and adults with its whimsical journey into the heart of dreams.

The Oddest Couple

While theatergoers flock by the thousands to see the limp Nathan Lane-Matthew Broderick revival of a Neil Simon play, the truly inspired "odd couple" is taking place just a few blocks away on West 43rd Street at Theater Three, where Candy & Dorothy Productions is premiering Candy & Dorothy. In David Johnston's flawless new work, two women who could not have been more different in life, Candy Darling (an Andy Warhol protégée) and Dorothy Day (the Catholic activist), find themselves trapped together in death. In the afterlife, they begin a journey that transcends time and space, soaring well beyond the heavens to create a story that is equal parts funny and poignant.

An occasional actress and "partial transsexual," Candy (Vince Gatton) lived life to the extreme as one of Warhol's many sidekicks. A sometimes Communist and Mao sympathizer, Dorothy (Sloane Shelton) gave her life to helping the less fortunate by working as the compassionate co-founder of the Catholic Worker movement. In death, Candy and Dorothy squabble over the present and the hereafter while reflecting upon the past.

Under the guidance of a disembodied voice (the pitch-perfect Brian Fuqua), Candy quickly takes to the afterlife, working her way up heaven's ladder as she becomes a caseworker for the newly arrived. Her first client is Dorothy. On a mission to earn her "wings," Candy attempts to teach Dorothy a lesson about her life on Earth. But her efforts are thwarted as Dorothy stubbornly helps a troubled young woman in New York City.

On Earth, 33-year-old Tamara (Nell Gwynn) is at a crossroads—literally—as she stands on the corner of First Avenue and First Street. Flat broke, stuck in a dull job, and having just had an abortion, Tamara is a mess. Her life is complicated even further when she stumbles into a relationship with a wise bartender named Sid (the very funny Amir Arison). On the verge of consummating her relationship with him, Tamara finds herself the focus of the two very unlikely guardian angels.

The heavenly duo quickly make themselves at home in Tamara's apartment, cleaning up the place, offering advice, and helping Tamara stage a protest rally. Realizing she is seeing dead people, Tamara fears she is losing her mind. Ultimately, Dorothy's otherworldly preoccupation with the living Tamara turns out to be both women's salvation. (Interestingly, Dorothy's real-life daughter was named Tamar.)

Johnston's crisp dialogue crackles with wit. He creates situations of laugh-out-loud hilarity, yet they're mingled with quiet moments of honesty. He also has a profound understanding of what makes human beings tick. Whether we watch his characters share a cup of coffee or are allowed to eavesdrop on the intimate conversation between lovers, Johnston's masterful dialogue resonates with truth.

Kevin Newbury's seamless direction is the ideal complement to Johnston's script. Newbury uses the tight space to full advantage, expertly creating a sense of claustrophobia as Tamara's life implodes. The small stage accommodates nearly a dozen settings with the addition of a simple set piece or well-placed prop.

Newbury also guides his five-person cast to polished, inspired performances. As the tortured Tamara, Gwynn delivers a thoroughly intense and raw portrayal. Brimming with excitement and honesty, she expertly finds comedy in tragedy as she displays her hilarious neuroses. As the humble Day, Shelton gives the character a dry wit and an incredulous smirk. Her deadpan delivery makes even the subtlest jokes crackle, and her natural performance never falters or hits a false note.

But even with a great script, outstanding direction, and magnificent acting, Gatton manages to run away with the show as drag queen Candy Darling. He never resorts to typical drag histrionics—no shrieking, no mincing, no letting his albeit fabulous costumes do the acting. Gatton fully inhabits Darling, disappearing into the role with such conviction and determination that you forget a man is playing a woman. It's the ultimate compliment to Darling, who wanted nothing more than to be accepted as a woman. Gatton honors that wish and Darling's memory with his brilliant rendering.

Candy & Dorothy is a hidden gem. With its combination of subtle emotion and uproarious humor, the play accomplishes the rarest of feats: it transforms you. As it leaves you with smiles and laughter, it also reminds you that a simple act of kindness can truly change one person's life. This production deserves to have a long life, and with the producers trying to move it Off-Broadway, here's hoping it does.

Destinations

The year is 1889, and a trio of intrepid Victorian female explorers stands poised on the brink of tomorrow. As these "sister sojourners" peer over the lip of the void, they are assaulted by the unknown

Deconstructing Monroe

Making Marilyn aspires to grand heights. Ken Cameron's play focuses on the legendary Monroe, adding into the mix a few obvious factoids about her troubled life, such as her addiction to pills and alcohol and her dependency on men. The result is a bizarre psychodrama, but one that benefits greatly from the seductive star power of Ashlie Atkinson. As the title character, Atkinson takes a disjointed, mediocre play and turns it into a captivating tour de force. The year is 1953, and Marilyn has come to the small town of Banff, Canada, to shoot her new film, The River of No Return. While filming the movie, the lonely star encounters a young teenager named Scout (Patrick Costello), who lives in a rundown house with his mother, also played by the beguiling Atkinson. The mother spends her days drinking and her evenings waiting for a husband who will never return. Her nights are spent entertaining the men of Banff. Although she tries to provide a stable environment for Scout, her inability to accept reality, coupled with her drinking and prostitution, creates a corrupted home life that the troubled youth longs to escape.

When Marilyn comes to town, Scout's dreams of a different life begin to take form. Their chance encounter blossoms into a tender friendship that eventually evolves into an intense sexual relationship, the ramifications of which prove tragic for both. Flash-forward to 1962, shortly after Marilyn's death, and Scout is speeding down a California highway. When an overzealous policeman (Robin Mervin) pulls him over, Scout's history with Marilyn, and his mental stability, begins to unravel in disturbing detail.

Cameron has intriguing ideas brimming with promise, but they ultimately fizzle in the execution. His depiction of Monroe as a boozy, pill-popping prostitute is particularly troublesome and narrow. The constant time jumping among three decades proves confusing and ultimately hampers the story. A sense of vagueness prevails throughout, with reality and fiction blurring to the point of distraction.

Robin A. Paterson's direction effectively creates a nostalgic aura that evokes a 50's movie. His use of movable screens to denote time and scene changes helps move the story forward and alleviates the confusion created by Cameron's script. Paterson also guides his cast of five to engaging and lively performances.

As Scout's tough-talking, whiskey-swilling mother, Atkinson is all swagger and attitude. Her Marilyn, meanwhile, charms and delights, making the play come alive with each movement and word. In an astounding marriage of technique and natural talent, Atkinson seamlessly transforms herself from one character to the next and back, often within seconds. She modulates her voice, lowering the register for Scout's mother and raising it to bring Marilyn's breathy whisper to vivid life. But Atkinson's most accomplished feat is her ability to physically transform herself; her entire body changes so convincingly, it is like watching two completely different actresses at work.

Patrick Costello initially impresses as the troubled Scout. He convincingly plays the character's many torments, and his flirtatious moments with Atkinson are appropriately awkward and touching. But his portrayal is so overly nuanced that its shine eventually turns into a glare: his attempts at depth give way to a series of predictable psychotic ticks and manic ramblings that detract from the story and ultimately appear false. In the end, it seems more like a bag of tricks, unlike Atkinson's organic performance.

Robin Mervin scores laughs as the self-important cop. He takes an incidental role and finds comedy in the banal, turning in a hilarious performance. Devin Scott and Reyna De Courcy lend credible support in a series of minor roles.

While Making Marilyn ultimately buckles under the pressure of its weak narrative, the Bridge Theater Company's production thrives thanks to the exceptional Ashlie Atkinson's considerable gifts. Ultimately, Cameron's new play makes for an intriguing, if laborious, night of entertainment.

The Return of the King

The Vortex Theater Company's production of Agamemnon is a feast for the eyes, ears, and even the nose as sight, sound, and smell join together in director Gisela Cardenas's bold new adaptation of Aeschylus's enduring tragedy. This innovative production is highlighted by strong performances and tight direction, and, despite a few wrong turns and an ending that overstays its welcome, it proves to be a unique theatrical event. Agamemnon tells the story of the great King's victorious return from the Trojan War. Anxiously awaiting him in Argos are his treacherous wife Clytemnestra (Linda Park), his faithful daughter Electra (Catherine Friesen), and his loyal citizens. Clytemnestra has ruled Argos during the King's 10-year absence with a secret hatred burning in her heart as she dreams of avenging her eldest daughter Iphigenia's death, a death for which Agamemnon (Jonathan Co Green) was culpable. With her new lover Aegistus (Seth Powers) by her side, Clytemnestra plots to murder the King upon his homecoming, with the impending action set against the backdrop of a great banquet.

Cardenas has written an inspired, if dense, adaptation. She reinvents the traditional Greek chorus as a team of chefs preparing Agamemnon's welcome feast. The Fates are transformed into three crudely mechanical dogs, brilliantly designed by Andrea Gastelum and maneuvered and "voiced" with excellent precision by a trio of actresses.

In addition, food is a major ingredient in this highly conceptualized adaptation. Much of the text concerns itself with food

Tabloid Victim

It is a great testament to Nelson Rodrigues's brilliance that his writings remain as relevant today as they were when first written nearly half a century ago. In his play The Asphalt Kiss, set in 1960's Brazil, Rodrigues takes on bigotry and media corruption. Forty-five years later, his meditations on homophobia and the media's propensity toward sensationalism over journalistic integrity are still very pertinent in contemporary America. The Lord Strange Company, as part of a monthlong celebration of Rodrigues's works at 59E59 Theaters, embraces this relevance with its premiere of a compelling new adaptation of The Asphalt Kiss. Considered a seminal figure in the Brazilian theatrical canon, Rodrigues was seen as a successor to Eugene Ionesco and a precursor to Harold Pinter. Full of rapid-fire dialogue, his plays deal with the dark side of human existence, featuring larger-than-life characters haunted, even obsessed, by their inner demons. With The Asphalt Kiss he created the carioca tragedy, a play examining the lower classes of Brazilian life, an idea that was unheard-of before Rodrigues's works.

The Asphalt Kiss explores how a simple act of human kindness is perverted by a scandal-obsessed society. As Arandir (James Martinez) and his father-in-law Aprigio (Charles Turner) prepare to cross a busy intersection, a man is struck down by a bus. When good Samaritan Arandir fulfills the dying man's wish and kisses him, an unscrupulous reporter (Joe Capozzi) who witnesses the event turns the compassionate act into salacious front-page news. Tabloid journalism spins into overdrive, and Arandir's life is turned inside out as his friends and family slowly turn against him.

As Arandir, James Martinez is a revelation. Imbuing him with a quiet resolve, Martinez delivers a multilayered and thoughtful portrait of a truly good man trapped in an impossible situation as his world disintegrates. It's a raw, compelling performance of astonishing depth.

As Arandir's lovesick sister-in-law D

The Other Woman

The Mistress Cycle, now receiving its world premiere as part of the New York Musical Theatre Festival, traces the lives of five very different women throughout history who share one common thread