Before the Revolution

Marie Antoinette: The Color of Flesh is Joel Gross's tale of a love triangle involving the ill-fated queen during the two decades leading to the French Revolution. Superbly directed by Robert Kalfin and beautifully acted by a cast of four (one in a nonspeaking role), this romantic drama presented by Earl Productions is history made intriguing and delicious. There are inherent dangers in the creation of historical drama. If it's too heavy-handed in the history, nuanced human characterization suffers; if it's excessive in the emotional drama, the political element seems like the awkward, hollow context for a romance novel. Assisted by Kalfin's well-tempered direction, Gross gracefully sidesteps both potential pitfalls. The result is a drama in which the social and political standings of each of the characters are as wickedly intertwined as lovers' limbs and as crucial to the tale as the trio's amorous intentions.

The play opens with a scene early in the acquaintance of the social-climbing portrait artist Elisabeth le Brun (Samantha Ives) and one of her subjects, the rakish but politically idealistic nobleman Count Alexis de Ligne (Jonathan Kells Phillips). As the two eventual paramours, Ives and Phillips banter with audience-winning charm and verve. Even as their carefully stoked sexual tension renders their romantic entanglement a mere eventuality, they convey the agendas nearer their hearts. Le Brun wants to parlay the association into an introduction with the ingénue Queen in hopes of becoming the Queen's portrait artist, while the Count speaks starry-eyed of empowering the peasant masses.

Enter Amanda Jones as "Toinette" the sheltered daughter of Empress Maria Teresa of Austria, bred to please family and King and to symbolize the relationship between two nations—but also to keep her nose out of political affairs. As the naïve, homesick Queen yearning for friendship and the sensation of feeling like a desirable woman (yens fulfilled, respectively, by le Brun and the Count), Jones conveys a royal's dignity and a schoolgirl's delight. Convincingly transitioning from innocent to disillusioned in this 20-years-in-two-hours tale, Jones impresses throughout. Perhaps most memorably, she sparkles in a hilarious scene recounting the Queen's first sexual experience.

Ives and Phillips demonstrate range as well. As the Count, Phillips is no one-note playboy. Years fighting in the American Revolution under Lafayette turn his debonair idealist into a man of convincing depth and understated innocence lost. Ives balances ambition with sincerity and seems equally comfortable with drawing-room wit and boudoir intimacy. A bit of a quibble, but a slight increase in le Brun's early Machiavellianism would yield a more powerful payoff when, in the midst of revolution, she eventually declares her loyalty.

The fourth cast member, Hugo Salazar, serves the pragmatic function of setting the stage before each scene, but in this nonspeaking servant role he also reminds the audience of his class's pivotal voice in the outcome of the story. To his credit, Salazar embodies the positive aspect of the cliché about there being no small roles—wordless, he is variously dignified, endearing, and comical.

Directorial and design choices succeed in alluding to the lavishness of the play's locales without distracting from what must be the highlight of the presentation—the actors' apt portrayals of Gross's carefully drawn characters. Sumptuous costumes by designer T. Michael Hall are the production's one perfectly chosen concession to the expected visual drama of historical romance. As the backdrop for a few easily rearranged furniture pieces, Kevin Judge's simple, off-kilter white scenic space is an effective and versatile design choice for a play that might have tempted a lesser designer-director team into counterproductive opulence.

Paul Hudson's lighting design achieves its task with similar elegance; projected title cards and the outline of an imposing Versailles window are the few elaborations in a space whose lighting options are limited. Merek Royce Press's sound design transports the audience from ball to opera to garden with a few well-chosen and modulated ambient tracks.

Though the tale is fictional (especially regarding the Count), the three characters' predicaments make for a compelling, passionate, and memorable lesson in history and the heart. As historical drama, this succeeds where many in the genre disappoint. In short, if history lessons were all like this, no one would ever cut class.

Post-'Streetcar' Stanley

As I'm sitting in the second row, taking mental notes on an impressively kinetic performance, a bucket of water is thrust into my hands. I'm asked—no, commanded—by this man, performer, character, this animated metaphor of want, desire, and energy, to throw the water in his face. He is so dynamic, there's no way to refuse. I grab the bucket and douse him. Who is he? The obvious answer is "Stanley," but that serves mostly to introduce the many Stanleys and the ever-shifting nature of their identities in Stanley (2006). But fear not; in the capable hands of co-creators Lisa D'Amour (text and direction) and Todd D'Amour (performer), multiplicity becomes a virtue.

Stanley (2006) is a contemporary Stanley Kowalski, the brash brother-in-law antagonist to Blanche DuBois in Tennessee Williams's A Streetcar Named Desire. This lusty, working-class figure has seeped into popular consciousness, largely due to Marlon Brando's portrayal in the 1951 film. So while all revivals and adaptations necessarily shoulder history, bringing Stanley Kowalski to an audience means excess baggage. Rather than shirk it, the sibling creative team of Stanley (2006) takes it on, transforming potential extra weight into substance.

So who is the man demanding to be drenched? First, he is a man, and he has hungers—metaphorically evident in both Williams's text and Lisa D'Amour's when Stanley tosses a package of meat to his eagerly awaiting wife, Stella. In all incarnations, Stanley exudes virility, and D'Amour's direction aptly takes advantage of the intimate theater space to ensure that the audience knows who the man of the house is. Todd D'Amour delivers a performance of driving physicality, and his dangerously brooding masculinity is crucial to the role and precisely conveyed.

His Stanley prepares to deliver a motivational lecture on losing everything and still coming out on top, "from a man who knows." After all, he's a post-Streetcar Stanley; Stella has taken their child and deserted him. But it's not Stella whom he desires—it's Blanche. No matter that Williams's Stanley raped her and had her carted off to a sanitarium; this Stanley claims he fell in love with her during the rape, and he's now on a quest to find her. And we believe him.

The motivational lecture concept provides a structure that accommodates the video (both prerecorded and live), text (not "lecture-y" at all), and movement that demonstrate Stanley's tragically passionate commitment to this quest. All these elements gel admirably. And while the character may be searching for Blanche, the audience members are on a search for Stanley.

Projected on a 9-by-12-foot screen behind the main playing space is video of Stanley's quest, conceived by video designer Tara Webb. Todd D'Amour is seen silently searching through ravaged city landscapes and rural ones, accompanied by Jeremy Wilson's sound design, which pays homage to the expressionistic soundscape that's specified in Williams's Streetcar text. The siblings D'Amour are from New Orleans and say their deep connection with the city formed one of this project's emotional foundations. Hurricane Katrina's destruction of the city, a devastatingly timely coincidence, adds another layer of significance to this Stanley's quest.

Yet another Stanley is Brando's interpretation from the movie. Fittingly, D'Amour takes on the identity of Brando-as-Stanley at various points. The uncanniness of his Brando yields deserved titters, but the presentation functions on a level deeper than impersonation for its own sake.

Webb, as the Camera Operator, also interacts with D'Amour. Poised on the stage's periphery, she supplements his live performance and the prerecorded search video with a live video feed that provides a visual intimacy with the performer's body and facial expressions, as only a camera and a large screen can. Yet those images are seen in the context of Jeremy Wilson's set—the playing space is a makeshift lecture hall, surrounded by debris, junk, and theater equipment that's artfully arranged to seem hastily cluttered. The audience's attention is drawn to the larger-than-life video images, only to find it pulled back, again and again, to D'Amour's often literally in-your-face performance.

Then there's Brando's portrayal as a touchstone of Method acting, a style where the performer uses emotional memory and personal experience to create a character, ideally making character and actor virtually indistinguishable. D'Amour's demand to be drenched during his climactic attempt to find Stanley's character demonstrated his facility with the Method's tools. Yet with this character many times refracted, the Method's relevance to contemporary experimental theater is called into question.

The man soaking wet is easily identified as Stanley—but he is also many Stanleys. Todd D'Amour is a performer in search of the character, but Lisa D'Amour is just as much a seeker: a writer and director in search of a performer in search of Stanley. In the end, whether Stanley finds Blanche is less important than the fact that we've found him, in an entertaining and intelligent work of theater.

Last Confession

A solo performance, Tokyo Vampire is presented as the predator's last confession before he commits suicide by exposing himself to the sun. Spinning tales of blood-thirst, friendships destroyed, and tragic romance, he guides his audience chronologically from his vampire birth to the impetus for his decision to do the one thing that can end his otherwise interminable life. Throughout the 45-minute monologue, Dwayne Lawler easily commands the stage. With the demeanor and diction of a classically trained actor, he suffuses the character with an Old World dignity befitting this archetypical gothic antihero. The juxtaposition of his dignified presence with the bestial words he delivers is effective and will no doubt be appreciated by those with a taste for horror.

Adding to Lawler's natural stage presence is the flowing black costume he conceived, which melds influences from the goth subculture, samurai tradition, and the world of the Visual Kei—a popular Japanese musical subculture comparable to glam rock. To complete the image, a single red overhead light highlights the performer.

Slightly jarring, however, is the contrast of the classical acting with the simplicity of the writing style. Lawler, also the writer and director of the piece, declaims deliberately and with ample dramatic pauses. While both of these techniques can help performers clarify florid and archaically worded texts to modern audiences, they occasionally feel belabored when paired with this author's contemporary writing style.

Despite this incongruity, the production succeeds by delivering the voyeuristic horror thrills that most fans of the macabre eagerly expect from a vampire's tale. The performance achieves this through old-fashioned storytelling and without the presence of the vampire's victims—or any blood, for that matter. That is a feat that a lesser performer could not hope to replicate.

Out of the Woods

The Siblings, Rabbit Hole Ensemble's riff on the classic Brothers Grimm fairy tale "Hansel and Gretel," is an eerily resonant theatrical meditation on the power and pitfalls of faith. Presented according to a stripped-down aesthetic that the company's artistic director, Edward Elefterion, calls "Theater of Essence," the production enchants with minimal artifice or technical assistance. This adaptation, written and directed by Elefterion, finds the title characters and their parents the apparently lone human inhabitants of a barren planet, taking direction from Him, a voice that speaks in dreams and directs them in their survival. Family unity dissolves, however, when He instructs Mother to leave her children in the dangerous woods, and tells daughter Gretel to avoid going into the woods at all. The foursome's faith effectively pits the parents against their own children.

The ensemble is uniformly strong. Kathryn Velvel Jones (Mother) displays the slippery manipulativeness of the self-righteous. As the father figure, Arthur Aulisi invites the trust of his children and the audience alike, but displays range enough to cue us when something is amiss.

Paul Daily's Hansel is childlike without sacrificing the knowing air of the older brother and the scientist—though science here consists of the foresight to drop those reflective rocks as a path to lead the siblings home the first time they are left for dead. Catherine Siracusa imbues the Old Woman with such a fiendish delight that she convinces the audience—if only for just a second—that a little boy and girl would make a very delectable meal.

It would be remiss, however, not to note the especially memorable quality of Amanda Broomell's turn as Gretel. Without upstaging her cast mates, she utilizes each facial expression, gesture, or word to draw the audience deeper into the ensemble's sweetly spun fairy-tale world.

Elefterion's minimal-design aesthetic makes a virtue of the technical limitations typically expected in productions at a festival. The performers are lighted by a few low-tech clip-on footlights, and the starkness contributes to the production's overall feeling of barrenness. A bench is the show's single set piece.

The black-clad Emily Surabian, credited along with the performers as "Props" in the playbill, sits in front of the stage and provides normal stage crew assistance (such as moving the bench) in full view of the audience. Additionally, she walks onstage to hand the performers the few necessary props and provides a few blatantly human-made sound effects.

The one design concession Elefterion makes is to wardrobe. Costumer Erin Murphy sets the tone and location with an aesthetic that can be described as postapocalyptic chic. Gretel's schoolgirl uniform is tattered and accompanied by legwarmers. Hansel sports a preppy look, though his blazer's sleeves appear to have met an unfortunate demise.

Only one incongruity provides a brief distraction from the show's spell. Immediately following a scene in which the family bemoans the lack of any living animals for them to hunt and eat, especially pheasants, Hansel and Gretel find themselves abandoned in the woods. As in the original, Hansel had believed that a trail of dropped breadcrumbs would lead them home, but Gretel reminds him of the birds. "The birds thank you," she remarks with no hint of irony, quashing her brother's hopes. At this performance, some audience members looked about quizzically, as if to ask, "What birds?"

This is of small consequence, though, within the context of the production's significant accomplishments. The woods are a dark and dangerous place here, but fortunately for theatergoers, we have the Rabbit Hole Ensemble to guide us.

First Date

With Nerve, playwright Adam Szymkowicz ventures into the minefield that is online dating and emerges with a wickedly entertaining and darkly comic romance. Cyber-dating may be rife with tales of nightmarish encounters with neurotics and sociopaths, Szymkowicz seems to say, but don't sociopaths deserve love, too? Anyone who sees Nerve will be inclined to say yes. Presented by Packawallop Productions and the Hypothetical Theater Company, the play invites its audience to look in on the first date of Susan (Susan Louise O'Connor) and Elliot (Travis York), a soon-to-be couple whose interaction so far has been limited to a series of e-mails. The two drink round after round of beer as they become accustomed to each other's real-life personas, divulge personality quirks, and navigate toward their first kiss and, eventually, couple-hood.

The show's moments of first-date awkwardness will be eerily familiar to anyone who's ever wondered what the person who just bought the last round of drinks could possibly be hiding. "What are your quirks?" Susan inquires, a seemingly innocent icebreaker. But Elliot, with more than just an oddity to hide, is on to her. He retorts, "That's the seemingly harmless way of asking, 'What's wrong with you?' " Elliot, of course, is right, as the ensuing conversation vacillates between witty banter and the disclosure of the singles' darkest, best-left-as-a-surprise character traits.

Director Scott Ebersold demonstrates an intimate knowledge of 21st-century mating rituals as he deftly orchestrates the subtle dance of two people alternating between the impulse to protect themselves and the desire to get to know (and touch) each other. O'Connor and York balance their characters tantalizingly on that fine line between lovably quirky and flat-out scary.

Szymkowicz demonstrates a keen ear for the ways in which dating jitters can translate outright compliments into something accidentally backhanded. "You're clever and smart and good," Elliot begins with the best of intentions, and receives a beaming smile for his efforts. But, to Susan's consternation, he continues, "I'm surprised you're even human!"

Susan forgives the questionable wording, but has Elliot learned his lesson? Not exactly. Much of the character's charm lies in his inability to recognize when he is ahead and should therefore quit talking. York's delivery ensures that Elliot's alternating overeager compliments and thoughtless phrasing are always balanced with a boyish sincerity that's impossible for Susan (or the audience) to begrudge. This unfortunate habit yields a slew of frustrating first-date moments for Susan, but a great deal of twisted amusement for onlookers.

Susan, for her part, isn't an ideal catch, however. O'Connor perfectly captures a combination of capriciousness, vulnerability, and world-weariness that transforms the normally introverted Elliot's unsubtle ardor into something understandable. Delightfully girlish in a flouncy skirt ensemble assembled by costume designer Jessica Watters, O'Connor also slips easily into the naughtier role of temptress. Sure, it's alarming that Susan made room for a knife in her tiny handbag, but how could her date not be seduced when O'Connor says, "A good kiss can't help but hurt you"?

In fact, if there is anything to criticize in this production, it's that the director and cast did not take fuller advantage of the actors' range later in the show. York radiates Elliot's genuineness and foot-in-mouth charm, but he also ably channels an appropriately dominating sexual energy when called upon. O'Connor embodies the wounded coquette, but her passion is equally tangible. As the play draws to its climax, exposing the characters' more disturbing aspects and possibly pushing this couple toward a premature breakup, the production too quickly returns to safe emotional territory without carrying its audience to the furthest boundary of what this dark comedy could achieve. Elliot and Susan are obviously two very passionate people, magnetically drawn to each other. Delving deeper into their darker energies and sexual chemistry in these crucial moments could only serve to underscore all that is irresistible about them and the production itself.

Set designer Nicholas Vaughan distills a typical city bar down to its bare minimum—two high stools, a small table, and a neon sign, but the design's apparent simplicity is deceptive. As the play unfolds, previously unobtrusive stage nooks—playfully illuminated by lighting designer Sarah Jakubasz—are revealed, along with Elliot's and Susan's inner lives. Sound designer Brian Hallas provides a wittily appropriate pop/rock soundtrack familiar to any barfly, peppered with dance-friendly tracks that appeal to Susan's inner diva. Choreography is provided with no small measure of tongue-in-cheek humor by Wendy Seyb.

To "ask somebody to love you takes a lot of nerve," the show's playbill quotes from a Paul Simon song. Elliot and Susan have nerve aplenty. For providing a laughter-filled evening that can make anyone feel better about his or her own dating nightmares, these lovable sociopaths deserve love.

Law and Disorder

Laws based on Christian precepts, a leader with a penchant for enforcing the letter of the law, and citizens enraged at having their morality legislated: contemporary America or Shakespeare's 17-century Vienna? The correlation is easy to recognize, and it's made even more apparent in Hipgnosis Theater Company's modern-dress production of Shakespeare's Measure for Measure. Though the show suffers somewhat from stylistic unevenness, most of its elements work well enough for the production to succeed. A clash of acting styles involving two characters pivotal to expressing the play's theme is the main culprit for the stylistic jaggedness. Angelo (David Look), whom Duke Vincentio (Nick Brooks) deputizes to enforce the Viennese law against fornication before going undercover as a friar to get to know his subjects, is the very embodiment of the governmental hypocrisy that gives the play its immediacy today.

Look's subtle, naturalistic portrayal of the character, however, gets overshadowed by the more declamatory delivery and sharply rendered characterizations rendered by some of his cast mates. Failing to depict this villain in sharper relief is a missed opportunity to drive home the play's theme with greater punch. Ditto for Brooks's portrayal of the Duke, who, as the play's protagonist and Angelo's superior, is uniquely placed to balance his deputy's nefariousness.

It is hard to tell whether this discrepancy is a result of the performers' independent decisions or directorial design. But either way, a more pronounced delivery on the part of these two performers would have allowed the production to strike a more resounding chord.

Separately, however, most aspects of the show work admirably and provide considerable entertainment for a modest ticket price. Justin Steeve radiates a leading man's charisma as Claudio, the young man condemned by Angelo to death for premarital sex with his betrothed, Julietta—portrayed by the ethereally sweet Adelia Saunders. Claudio's chaste sister, Isabella, who is faced with the prospect of yielding her virginity to the lust-tempted Angelo in exchange for her brother's life, is played with grace, passion, and command by Erika Bailey.

Doubly cast John Kevin Jones is equally impressive as the fastidious lord Escalus and the absurdly abhorrent executioner Abhorson, while Julian A. Rozzell Jr. delights as the shady, ethically challenged Lucio. Elizabeth Mirarchi, as the nun Francisca, demonstrates a comedic flair in her facial expressions and body language despite limited speaking lines, and Wayne Scott's booming voice and domineering physicality make the prisoner Barnardine's short stage time memorable. The purity and emotiveness of Sarah Sokolovic's singing voice made me wish that the Bard had further indulged his musical fancy with the character of Mariana, the woman whom Angelo had previously planned to marry and who assists Isabella and the friar (the Duke in disguise) in their plan to have Angelo answer for his hypocrisy.

Director John Castro's decision to stage the play in the round provides the audience with an intimate look at the characters' ethical dilemmas, aided by Steeve's additional contribution as lighting designer and the combined efforts of Steeve, Rozzell, and Lara Evangelista as scenic designers. The audience surrounds the playing space, while a rectangle of regularly spaced flats painted to appear shabby surrounds the entire set and provides ample entries and exits that are well suited to the logistical complexities of producing Shakespeare.

The drab gray and light-green walls, dotted with the dull metallic luster of cheap industrial wall lamps and complemented by the paint-splattered wood floor, effectively evoke the seedier areas of town where the sex trade—one of Angelo's targets—occurs. Though the lighting equipment is limited, Steeve makes apt use of what is available to define different locations and enhance mood. In addition, composer and bassist Luke Mitchell provides, by himself, a gut-grabbing live soundtrack.

Costume designer Krista Thomas playfully translates Shakespeare into the present day with ensembles that speak to the characters' societal roles and defining traits. Angelo is appropriately staid in stark black, Escalus stuffy in seersucker and a bow tie, and brothel proprietor Mistress Overdone (the saucy Kate Dulcich) tawdry in a hot pink bustier.

A unifying acting style might have tied this production's disparate yet successful elements more tightly together, but as it stands, Hipgnosis's take on Shakespeare's examination of the crossroads of law and morality provides entertainment and insight, each in good measure.

Theater in the Light

Bone Portraits, Deborah Stein's ambitious new drama presented by Stillpoint Productions, melds gothic horror, romance, vaudeville, and contemporary theatrical experimentation with seeming effortlessness. This multidisciplinary ensemble effort is an exquisite piece of theater, condensing the years between 1893 and 1905 to show how scientific discoveries revolutionized society and set the spirit for the new century. The play's point of origin is the X-ray, discovered by German physicist Wilhelm Roentgen (Michael Crane) when he unwittingly radiographed his wife's hand. The discovery so gripped the popular imagination that soon fashionable young couples began posing for X-rays, known as "bone portraits."

Thomas Edison, portrayed here as a slick, vaudevillian charlatan by Gian-Murray Gianino, capitalizes on the fad, hiring a lab assistant named Clarence Dally (Adam Green) to take the portraits. The plot follows two couples as their lives are affected by the era's scientific zeitgeist and the X-ray specifically: Clarence and his wife Josephine (Jessica Worthman), and Myrna and Edward (Miriam Silverman and Michael Craine), a seamstress and a journalist who meet at the Chicago World's Fair.

Green radiates the idealism and trustworthiness of any business's star employee, but he also brings a sensuality to his scenes with his wife. Worthman's performance makes Josephine's love for her husband palpable, even if it is also as phantasmal as the bone portraits that eventually take his life. Silverman and Craine also do an excellent job of rendering the emotional and physical connections between lovers.

Other characters include the noble Roentgen and the spry Nana, an elderly woman who at first provides a foil for the period's scientific spirit but slowly embraces it by exploring the World's Fair and the bone portrait fad. Nana is also played by Silverman, who demonstrates a notable physical versatility, while Craine slips easily and convincingly into a German accent as Roentgen.

The two love stories form the backbone of the drama, but to ignore the show's other elements would be to grossly oversimplify what Stillpoint achieves here. The cast of five, billed as co-creators and expertly directed by Lear deBessonet, demonstrates versatility and physical agility in a variety of vaudeville-inspired songs, dances, and comedic skits. To the credit of both the company and the playwright, these elements, rather than hindering the show's momentum, further develop the already-established characters and also demonstrate the effect of the X-ray's discovery upon the average American.

The production also stands out by utilizing design not as an afterthought but as an integral element. Because cameras and projectors were also newly invented during the late 19th century, the use of film and projection here adds to the feeling of scientific wonder. Film and video designer Gregory King and projection designer J. Ryan Graves transport the audience to the World's Fair, where Myrna and Edward fall in love. Ghostly projections that replicate X-rays are a visual focal point as each character experiences a bone portrait.

Scenic and lighting designer Justin Townsend, along with his associate designer, Peter Ksander, elegantly and effectively divide the stage space into performance areas that convey emotion as well as location. The show begins on a small platform in front of a curtain, in the style of vaudeville, but as the story's emotional depth is revealed, so too are areas farther upstage with the removal of hanging sheets. Stark light accentuates the white fabric, calling to mind the excitement of scientific discovery. Yet when the effects of radiation exposure ultimately destroy several lives, the deepest stage area is disclosed, and the actors are physically taken on a journey that parallels their characters' emotional travels.

Costume designer Kirche Leigh Zeile and sound designer Matt Huang also serve the production admirably. The costumes ground the production in the appropriate decade with historical detail, yet do not restrain the cast's ability from meeting the playwright's and director's physical demands. Huang's soundscape displays range: realistic sounds and lively music add ambience to the scenes at the fair, yet harsher and more discordant notes contribute to the play's harsher emotional moments.

For the most part, the production moves quickly and never sacrifices pace or clarity for the sake of experimentation. But in the middle, the use of exaggerated physical movement and a departure from dialogue that would anchor the narrative may leave some audience members feeling adrift. Still, that is remedied with the fanciful utilization of some gothic horror, as when one of the characters encounters a phantasm. An eventual return to vaudeville with a pleasantly surprising comedic musical number refocuses the story and heightens the impact of the show's conclusion.

Overall, this production succeeds on several levels. The tragic love stories move the audience emotionally, while the vaudeville sequences bring a lightness to the story's darker proceedings. Together, these elements effectively develop the show's theme about the dangers of scientific experimentation and knowledge. And Stillpoint's work highlights another message: the virtues of theater when a production exemplifies collaborative effort this well.

Shakespeare in a Bottle

Producing one of Shakespeare's comedies is no easy feat, but producing one well—on a limited budget no less—is an exponentially more difficult task. Yet that is exactly what Developing Arts has achieved with its presentation of Twelfth Night. Director Kelly Barrett does an excellent job of creating a coherent vision for this production—a crucial element in the success of any contemporary Shakespearean revival. The fantastical realm of Illyria, imagined here as the inside of a genie's bottle, is sumptuous with color and texture, and also alive with the bawdy humor that's too often glossed over in less astute productions. The company, directed by Barrett, does not take itself too seriously, sidestepping an all-too-common pitfall in presenting work by the Bard.

For the most part, the cast is terrific at playing the emotions in the verse, ensuring that audience members less familiar with the text will not only be able to follow the device-ridden plot but can enjoy it as well. Rebecca Nyahay charms as the lovelorn Viola, who disguises herself as a man, Cesario, in order to serve the object of her affection, Duke Orsino—played by a sincere if too youthful Mark Kinch. Nyahay radiates girlish excitement, breathing life into verse that's crucial to the exposition. Alternating between a natural femininity and her stylized mannerisms when in character as Cesario, she highlights the comedy inherent in the woman-in-disguise plot device.

Sri Gordon is beguiling as the haughty-turned-lusty Olivia, who spurns Orsino's romantic advances, becoming enamored instead with his messenger, Cesario (Viola in disguise), and, later, with Viola's brother, Sebastian—the endearingly earnest Nick Giello.

If Illyria is a genie's bottle, then Kristin Carter, as Feste, Olivia's clown, casts the spell. Barrett switches Feste's traditional gender and has her costumed as a genie, but she astutely directs Carter by accentuating the wisdom characteristic of a Shakespearean fool. Carter is at once shrewd, flirtatious, and innocently playful. Music features prominently in this comedy, and Carter—who provided the arrangements for her own numbers—is a treat to listen to.

As Sir Toby Belch, Olivia's inebriated, scheming uncle, Bob Manus plays a buffoon extraordinarily well, and Andrew D. Montgomery is a delight as the rich and foppish Sir Andrew Aguecheek, Sir Toby's friend, drinking companion, and witless trickery victim. Though the two are thoroughly enjoyable to watch, the dynamic between the characters would be better presented if Sir Toby's craftiness received slightly more emphasis, and if Sir Andrew was portrayed as a bit more self-important rather than utterly likable.

Wende O'Reilly is vivacious as Olivia's woman Maria, the mischievous mastermind of the plot to trick the steward Malvolio, played with appropriate, masterful pompousness by Hunter Tremayne. Gretchen Howe, as Olivia's servant Fabian, injects liveliness into scenes even with limited dialogue, and does a great job of delivering the explanatory monologue typical of concluding scenes in Shakespeare's comedies. Henri Douvry admirably and effectively performs double duty as a priest and as the sea captain who accompanies Viola.

Barrett's decision to cast two other roles irrespective of traditional gender may prove a slight distraction to those familiar with the play, but it's not enough to upset the magical world she and the cast have fashioned. Antonio, Sebastian's friend, is reimagined here as Antonia and portrayed with an elegance and deft command of language by Valerie Austin, although the recasting may call to mind a romantic intention not present in the text. Taniya Sen and Chris Gilmer fulfill the various supporting roles demanded by Shakespeare with quiet dignity, despite having Sen, a woman, portray Valentine, traditionally one of the gentlemen serving the Duke.

Barrett's genie's bottle concept is an apt choice in the confined space, and set designer Dave Smith economically brings the idea to life. He conjures exotic Middle Eastern locales, with jewel-toned fabrics used to cover the few set pieces, and an impromptu rug consisting of swatches of various textured fabrics. Costume designer Gemma Le contributes to the effect, utilizing rich color and a few well-chosen details (such as tasseled belts) to give the impression of decadence on a limited budget. Though the venue cannot claim versatility in lighting effects, a few small glass chandeliers add detail. The fights are well choreographed by Matt Klan, though at this particular performance it seemed the cast was still becoming comfortable with the production's physical demands.

Despite the aforementioned minor distractions and the limitations of the space, this clever reimagining of one of Shakespeare's most oft-performed comedies works well. Audiences expecting an evening of laughter will not be disappointed.

Going Somewhere

"Apathy, baby!" proclaims Fabian, one of 10 New Yorkers portrayed in the Narcissists's production of C. Commute. "Frozen apathy." At once aware of the pitfalls of his generation's malaise and eager to "gloss it" into artwork that can get him the big break he believes is "just around the corner," this twenty-something captures the paradoxical sentiments of his peers. The 10 urbanites in this new play by Alexander Renison Holt are at once apathetic and hopeful, jaded yet still idealistic, setting the tone for a generation just as Fabian believes his art will. Theatergoers in their 20's and early 30's will no doubt recognize themselves in these characters, identify with their struggles, and laugh in the process.

The play is structured as a series of 10 monologues, the first of which is presented as a voice-over. Besides sharing the city and the zeitgeist, the nine characters who appear onstage also share the same subway car, suggested in Brett Dicus's elegantly minimalist set design by two benches and poles set on a diagonal upstage. The car functions as a holding pen as the actors take turns presenting their monologues downstage.

Director Ryan Colwell deftly choreographs their entries, subway-riding time, and exits to resemble the randomness of being in a true public space, ensuring that what could have been merely a convenient theatrical device actually contributes to the play's urban ennui. The audience sees the characters literally "in the same boat" (or subway car), but remaining in isolation from one another, which is expertly conveyed by the actors' body language and introverted stage business.

Colwell also performs, his delivery highlighting Holt's rhythmic wordplay. He creates a sense of frenetic boredom in the voice-over monologue of Damon, an office worker who time-kills his workdays Web surfing. Dalane Mason is convincingly erratic and creepy as Haberdasher, a nattily dressed pickpocket who spews advice and prophecy, invades commuters' personal space, and causes all to avert their eyes to avoid conversation. Matthew Simon is deliciously jaded as Christopher, an actor and gigolo who just wants his own show on HBO. It is to Simon's credit that Christopher's declaration—"We all sell ourselves for something"—seems organic rather than pedantic.

Jessica Jolly is feisty and fun as Jennifer, a woman written to be somewhat past her prime, though the actress herself is not. Bemoaning the recent trend in straight men becoming effeminate, the character is lively and timely, though she does veer toward the stereotypical as she ponders her physical appearance and the options of breast enhancement and blond hair dye. Holt creates a more multidimensional character in Jude, a gay man pondering the step of leaving the comfort of his neighborhood to move in with his partner. In David Michael Holmes's performance, Jude's ambivalence is heartbreakingly palpable, even as the audience laughs with recognition at his deadpan musing ("Of course, I know he wants me, but how do I know I'm done with all the others?").

Chugging Colt 45 in his cut-off jeans, black T, and red bandana, Fabian surprises with his shrewd theories about the commercialization of art. Patrick Craft conveys the character's no-nonsense attitude and astuteness with equal conviction. Holt indulges in the bittersweet with Greta, a young woman awash in the "unspoken misery that is bliss." Becky Lake easily captures Greta's fragility and resignation, though she occasionally allows the rhythms of the playwright's words to direct her performance rather than wielding them as gracefully as she handles the piece's emotional content.

Salvatore, written as the melodramatic one of the lot, is "a show man, a vampire." Brad Danler's performance vacillates between understated and emphatic, though it's unclear whether this is the result of directorial choice. A more consistently seething delivery would have been more meaningful. Danler, with his hypnotic voice and lithe build, could surely have handled the demands of depicting someone so darkly fascinating, and the realism would have been heightened, not hampered—there are very calculating people who think of themselves in such dramatic terms and comport themselves accordingly.

Tom Picasso portrays Edward, a man financially supported by his wife and suffering feelings of emasculation, with touching vulnerability, while Janine Barris is idealism incarnate as a transplanted farm girl, Donna.

The urban motif is notably enhanced by the sound design of Daemon Hatfield, who has turned the recognizable sounds and rhythms of the subway into eerily evocative electronica that accompanies the intercalary scenes. Kate Haugan's urban-savvy costume design subtly underscores each monologist's persona.

In C. Commute, the Narcissists have delivered on their mission statement to provide "theater as a form of therapy," reflecting the struggles, vices, and vulnerabilities of a generation. The audience will delight in what they see onstage, but will they like what they see in the mirror? Whatever the answer, C. Commute makes for entertaining and thought-provoking theater.

Deer Santa

The Eight: Reindeer Monologues, presented by the Dysfunctional Theater Company and Horse Trade Theater Group, is a deliciously wicked alternative for those who prefer edgier holiday entertainment. Playwright Jeff Goode's dark comedy portrays a North Pole community unlike any presented in traditional seasonal offerings, but which bears a striking resemblance to shadier visions of contemporary America. Alcohol abuse runs rampant, sexual orientation is a hot-button issue, and a sex scandal threatens the reputation of the highest-ranking official. Each of the eight famed sleigh-pulling reindeer presents one of the monologues, slowly revealing the rift developing in their elite team over the sordid tale that could ruin Santa Claus

Instant Insight

Off the Leesh Productions's Help Me Help Myself: The New York Guide to Love, Fame, Fortune and Everything You've Ever Dreamt of in 30 Days or Less, despite its lengthy title, is a streamlined piece of theater that nonetheless delivers more laughs than many shows twice its length. The 75-minute play is an ironic, comic odyssey through the intersecting lives of one very Zen New Yorker and four neurotic ones. Claire (the endearingly wry Marina Kotovnikov) is a struggling writer, frustrated at how her blissful childhood has hindered her ability to "contribute to the general malaise that is afflicting [her] generation." Claire meets Becky, a self-help-obsessed actress played with appealing sincerity by Julie Tortorici, who touts the program set forth in her favorite Oprah Winfrey-endorsed book, Help Me Help Myself. The two characters play off each other's contrasting personalities to delightful comic effect as Becky tries to convince Claire to join her on the road to self-actualization.

In Claire's efforts to find her own copy of the book

Devil's Due

At first, the concept for Out, Out Damned Clock: Faust Meets Macbeth! seems a thought-provoking one. Faust and Macbeth, two of literature's most well-known characters, are so alike in their ambition and hubris that they could be brothers. The parallel may be easy to identify, but it's much more difficult to dramatize adeptly. In trying to do so, Footlight Players' production falls disappointingly short. As playwright and director Nathaniel Green writes, "The Faust theme is one of the most borrowed in world literature." Even a list of only the tale's most familiar incarnations must be abbreviated: Christopher Marlowe's Dr. Faustus, Goethe's Faust, Arrigo Boito's 1868 opera Mefistofele, Damn Yankees. Such a pedigree is difficult to live up to

Housebound

The postcard for Off the Leesh Productions's Belly advertises, "She'll make you laugh, she'll make you cry, she'll make you forget yourself." This is no empty promise. Belly delivers. This one-woman show presents one hour in the life of Frannie, an obsessive-compulsive housewife who, despite her obvious quirks, is not much different from the rest of us. With a soft spot for the wondrousness of Hostess cupcakes and a disinclination for the bleakness of cubicle life, Frannie could be an American Everywoman. Except that she can't even remember what the weather was like the last time she ventured outside her house.

As Frannie awaits her husband Barry's return from work, she fills her days with housework, her only human interaction a harmless through-the-mail-slot flirtation with the postman. Then one day she enters her living room to find it filled with surprise houseguests