Love My Way

In a nutshell, Joe Tracz’s Songs For a Future Generation, which calls itself a “sci-fi dance party spectacle,” feels a bit like the above iconic 1980s Psychedelic Furs tune expanded into a play. The Lost in Translation meets Back to the Future vibe (plus a dash of film noir); the last-party-for-the-end-of-the-world tone; and the optimistic yet desperately isolated characters all create its moody milieu, the script’s greatest asset. It’s an ambitious piece which mostly hits its mark, and if you are excited to see new work, albeit with a bit of meandering, you will enjoy it. Populated by shape-shifters (lots of fun to see enacted by this multi-talented cast), clones, spies, robots, an unlikely time-traveler, and other odd inhabitants, Tracz’s world is further supported by a fun retro-futuristic set, costumes, make-up, and music, here, channeling the punk-esque early 80s. The nostalgic expedition, led by skilled director Meg Sturiano, is palpable, while the (now familiar) potential doom of an uncertain future looms. It could be argued that it’s all a bit much to meld into a compact, cohesive story. But first, robot DJ, s’il vous plâit, jouez ce disc pour moi…?

Even though it’s billed as a comedy, rather than a musical or dance piece, those two elements form a strong base for Songs. The stylistic choreography by Nicole Beerman, assisted by Charissa Bertels, helps to break up and enliven the pace from some long speeches and scenes, which feel clunky as though the playwright might be trying too hard to explore every possible nuance of plot. Yes, the A- and many B-stories are sometimes intriguing, but overall the exposition feels too long and top-heavy at times, working against its own seemingly whimsical intentions. I think here, a bit less would be much more, trusting the viewers to make their own connections via the set-up and tone with less need for explanation, allowing for a tighter running time as well.

Also worth mentioning is Sturiano's masterful use of the cozy Under St. Marks theater space for the many entrances, exits, and dance breaks of the large cast, including the device of having action take place offstage as necessary. The colorful, plastic-dominated set, designed by Elaine Jones and consultant Tristan Jeffers, while mostly static (clearly out of necessity here) is also one of the most exciting and creative I’ve seen in the space, lit expertly with a variety of multi-color gels by Grant Wilcox. What would a dance club satellite overlooking an exploding star look like? This, of course. Exactly.

The aforementioned new wave dance pop soundtrack, designed by Adam Swiderski, is also well chosen, especially in the key moment whole-company numbers like “Rock Lobster.” And I loved the sound effects, for example the shape-shifting squishy one. My only complaint is that during some scenes, the ongoing music felt like a distraction (although probably a welcomed one from the some of the more talky goings-on). I thought the music worked much better when suggested, as starting/ending bytes, or else the occasional full song, such as Alex Teicheira’s adorable solo as Log, rather than low-volume background throughout a scene. But not to quibble, the songs are so loveable and apt here, it was probably difficult to decide which not to play.

The performances are great and everyone gives his or her all. Always a standout, the talented playwright and Artistic Director of The Management, Joshua Conkel, takes an acting turn (as well as designing the delightful costumes with Nicole Beerman). Conkel plays a key, although largely mute character, complete with a B-52s beehive. He fully works his bizarre costume, executing some hysterical puppet-hands business which reduced me more than once to helpless giggles. (And yes, the impression onstage is definitely (sing-song): one of these things is not like the other...) The three Marika clones (looking nothing alike, of course) are played by Joleen Wilkinson, Ronica V. Reddick, and Tara Giordano with originality and soul; and are pretty insightful, you know, for clones.

Jennifer Harder, a founding member of The Management, portrays shape-shifting bounty hunter Shy with her usual finesse and kick-ass delivery. The nebula-crossed lovers Error and Tess, played by Nick Lewis and Zoey Martinson, are probably the play’s least interesting characters, but Error’s search for his lost love across time and space, dressed in the requisite yellow slicker and goggles of the time traveler, serves to lead us through. And the whole ensemble cast, including Log’s Dude, played by Joe Varca; Thena, played by Cal Shook; and The Kid, played by Matt Barbot (affecting a perfect crime drama hard-boiled accent), keep us engrossed and entertained while we hurtle through the universe into yet another of the play’s many dark corners. It's a new road.

L'Amour en Rose

It sounds cliché to say there are so many things to love about Paris. The beautiful quality of its light of course is one, but so too the French attention to detail. I’ve experienced this trait nationale observing the aesthetic floral landscaping of a bus shelter on the Champs-Élysée; a simple plate of roasted chicken in an average café, cooked to absolute perfection; and the attentive, intense way a would-be lover might stare into one’s eyes on a warm summer’s day in the Jardin des Tuileries. Luckily for viewers, Charles Mee’s delicious Fêtes de la Nuit, now playing at the Ohio Theater, channels such personal recollection, plus many more sensual delights, via his love letter to Paris. More of a pastiche than a traditionally structured narrative, directed by Kim Weild (and the inaugural show of her non-profit WeildWorks Theater Company), Fêtes de la Nuit, (or "Celebrations of the Night") is a moveable feast of vignettes exploring the lives and loves of modern-day Parisians, communicated through dialogue, monologue, music, dance, and even sign language. The versatile set pieces, moved by the actors, quickly transform the large open space of the Ohio into familiar French settings like sidewalk café, dance floor, art studio, fashion runway, and park space. This wonderful collaboration of visual imagery, by scenic designer Brian H. Scott, includes a large screen and draped fabrics utilized for a myriad of multimedia effects by lighting designer Charles Foster, video designer C. Andrew Bauer, and film consultant Ismael Ramirez. The screen works as backdrop, wall, sky, and movie theater, and its transitions are handled artfully by the actors.

Such a reliable frame is necessary for all the configurations of action, and while the overall color scheme conveys a Valentine’s Day palette of red, white and black, the multitalented cast of 17 paints a rainbow of emotion, showing the humor, fragility, silliness, desperation, passion, confusion, and all the many shades of love and lust we mere humans are faced with. The entire company—with whom Weild shares choreography credit—dances, poses, flirts, fondles, expounds, worships, grieves, and argues its way through Mee’s text, which the playwright makes available online along with all of his other works (many of which also ruminate on the themes of love).

Another exciting component of the piece is the casting of three deaf actors: Alexandria Wailes, Jubil Khan, and John McGinty; and the inclusion of American Sign Language into the production, which adds its own passionate and expressive cadence. Many of the scenes are visceral and sensual: the art class for example, with life models Khris Lewin and Jessica Green, is beautifully executed. Green’s skill as an aerialist (and Cirque de Soliel veteran) becomes apparent, and her graceful, acrobatic movements throughout give another layer to her lovesick character Catherine.

Mee makes reference to the famous Robert Doisneau photograph, and other French iconography like the familiar Eiffel Tower, and chanteuse Edith Piaf, portrayed humorously in one scene by Greek actor Babis Gousias (also playing the lusty chef Lartigue). Other juxtapositions include classical music with mewling cat sopranos, a Greek chorus of Graces, and the sensuality of the tango, danced elegantly by Assistant Director Donnie Mather and Dramaturg Mirabelle Ordinaire. The program notes that Oridinare is the sole French representative in the entire production, so dialect coach Nova Landaeus also deserves cheers for making this difficult to detect. There are a few more classically French moments of realism, shown in a film clip, a scene discussing France’s immigrants, and Kyle Knauf’s enjoyable portrayal of the morose Jean-Francois, but overall it’s a fun romp.

My only complaint with this style of thematic rather than narrative structure is that a running time of an hour and forty-five minutes might be slightly longer than necessary to communicate its essence. A bit of tightening might help the piece err more on the side of "leave ’em wanting more," than sensory overload. But no glorification of Paris would be complete without a fashion show and hat extravaganza, and these sections certainly did not disappoint. The costume design by Lisa Renee Jordan and hats by Cigmond, with assistance by Camilla Chuvarsky, created a fun and energetic show-within-a-show, which helped enliven the pace from some of the other impressionistic scenes.

But after all, it is an American interpretation of Parisian life, so I guess it can’t help being kind of adorable that way. That’s the guilty pleasure: no one ever wants to admit visiting Disneyland Paris or McDonald’s, but even here in Mee’s world, it seems that plenty do. Alors, what else can one do but clap on a beret and hum La Vie en Rose while walking home through the slushy NYC streets? Feels a bit more romantique comme ça, non?

Now Ya See It, Now Ya Don’t

Nietzsche once said, “Love is blind; friendship closes its eyes.” In Disillusioned, a new play by Susan Hodara, we find a little bit of both. The touching two-act drama explores the decade-or-so-long relationship between a solitary aging magician, Bernie, and a tween-age runaway orphan, Jane, who latches onto him, and whom he ultimately legally adopts. As the play opens, Jane often plays hooky and lingers around Bernie’s building, which contains his magic shop, workshop, and living quarters, begging to become his onstage assistant. However, while seemingly a natural performer, Jane is nervous and suffers from stage fright, so Bernie suggests she take on the persona of a blind girl, and they work out routines for her wearing dark glasses, so that she can feel more comfortable by no longer “seeing” the audience. The ruse works, they start to become a team (in more ways than one), while Jane begins to live her life, at least to outsiders, as though she were blind. The moody tone of the piece, with direction by Noël Neeb, does evoke the feeling of their private world within a world, echoed in the simple space containing just a few key set pieces and familiar magic props, created and stage managed by Andi Cohen and Dalia Garcia. Most of the action centers on Bernie and Jane, and a deep buffer grows between that safety zone and their audiences (and later, the whole world) beyond. The use of prerecorded voiceover sequences also elicits a bit of distance from the immediate action, and elegantly allows space for some of the play’s deeper narratives to come through. While their relationship is well-drawn, ranging from that of (switchable) parent-child roles, to partners, to intimate companions, it's not completely clear how they actually relate to their audiences, as those scenes are not shown. Are they really master showmen, delighting and amazing whoever comes to watch? Or are they just barely drawing a crowd? Certainly as the property and Bernie’s health decline, (and the business in general?), the latter seems a safer assumption.

The magic tricks, lighting effects (designed by Jamie Roderick), and slight-of-hand flourishes are colorful touches in a piece that at times could risk becoming maudlin. Thankfully, there’s some humor and distraction to possibly prepare viewers for the more tragic moments, even though the second act begins to feel overwhelmingly depressing with no signs of a reprieve until the almost-too-late final moments. Also towards the end, it becomes a bit unclear just how many years have passed, and we wonder if we’re now witnessing a full-out Grey Gardens-type of scenario. In Act 2, as Bernie continues to falter, Jane’s heretofore affected blindness has unfortunately become a reality, but of course it’s her continued chosen separateness from the outside world, rather than her disability, which feels so much more debilitating. The idea that one’s “biography becomes one’s biology” (a là medical intuitive Caroline Myss) seems to be enacted here, and while Jane's predicament is certainly ironic and allegorical, her isolation doesn’t seem quite as readily overcome as the play’s ending might suggest.

However, Disillusioned is an unusual and captivating love story with sensitive and playful performances by both Georgie Caldwell as Jane, and Eric Powers as Bernie. Keith Manolo Embler portrays two other key characters, the first a tender and bittersweet portrayal of Ian, a young man in love, while the second seems a bit more difficult to discern as written. (Also with perhaps not enough stage time to fully develop.) Another excellent player is Hans, a gorgeous black bunny who plays Max, the ubiquitous magician’s rabbit and previous sole companion for Bernie prior to Jane’s arrival. Here, Hans makes his New York stage debut, and appears truly aware and fully engaged in his scenes, hitting all his marks (aided by Powers' and Caldwell's excellent handling) and charming the audience. Now if only there were an Obie category for best bunny rabbit...

Pro-Mance

Michael Edison Hayden’s The Books wants to be an offbeat love story about a professional dominatrix who falls in love with her agoraphobic client, but despite an intriguing premise, unfortunately it misses its target. When the play opens, Mistress Chimera/Helen, played by Aadya Bedi, has been servicing Scott David Nogi’s Mark O'Connor for several weeks. Her agoraphobic client is a maintenance man living in an Astoria apartment filled with books. While not so unusual perhaps in New York City to find a literate super (or being able to practically trip over a bookstore or library), it just doesn’t ring true that these two characters begin to fall in love after Helen asks him to borrow a book. There is little chemistry between them, not even in the S&M-focused scenes (despite excellent costuming by Shaumyika Sharma and realistic fight choreography by Mike Yahn), and their language sounds so stilted and affected, it’s as if the actors are reciting the given lines instead of simply being able to relate to one another. It’s unclear how dramaturgy by Benjamin Kessler helped or hindered, but something is definitely lost in academics here. It also smacks of (forgive the pun) the arrogant and self-deluded “the hooker wouldn’t take my money” tale, retread as “my dom doesn’t want to hurt me anymore,” which could have actually been interesting, if there was anything believable or redeeming about this pseudo romance. Looking at the script, which is filled with italicized words for the actors to emphasize in almost every speech, it’s as if the writer (and/or director Matt Urban) already had a predetermined performance in mind, instead of letting the actors find their characters. No wonder it sounds false.

There’s supposed to be a lot of pathos for Mark, the self-torturing would-be writer, but there’s really nothing given to his story or demonstrated to make him sympathetic, certainly not enough to show how sex-worker Helen, surely exposed to lots of “sad cases,” could fall in love with him while he shows little emotion. In fact, even the use of “the books” as the supposed vehicle for how these two characters come together feels empty, just another way to indicate literary knowledge, without going into any depth or actually using it to inform the work. The tag line, Love hurts, literally? Yes indeed, and so does this play.

Y Tu Mama Tambien (And Your Mama Too)

Yo Hot Mama(s)! is a fun soul-searching pastiche of two one-woman shows, Yo Mama(s) written and performed by Natalie Kim, and Hot Mama Mahatma, written and performed by Karen Fitzgerald. Both pieces offer unique female perspectives and the yearning for self-discovery that sometimes can occur in the unlikeliest of places. Kim’s piece, a coming-of-age story about a young woman swirling in the confusion of the true meaning of “home” and the distinct experiences of herself and her three mothers. She embodies these by playing herself, as well as bringing life to a myriad of other characters, including her natural mother (and father), her adoptive mother, and stepmother. She also interacts with an offstage voice – a therapist – and places herself into key scenes from childhood, situations with her boyfriend in the present, and more recent excursions in search of herself, like to a New Age-style retreat center. Her inclusive 15-page script is incredibly tight and well written; at the same time, it is funny, sad, and sweet. Her portrayal of a character based on herself feels real, told with appropriate candor, but with enough distance to navigate through the emotional journey. Kim is a joy to watch. We delightfully spin along with her as she eventually rediscovers the place of her own heart, finally finding a home there, at the same time welcoming us in. It’s a beautiful work of personal storytelling and the search for identity and belonging.

The swift direction and blocking by Kenneth Heaton help the transitions between scenes and flashbacks, also utilizing sound cues from the different cultures or time periods. The black box space is ideal for the piece, as Kim fills the various areas with her crisply drawn characters, making their accompanying surroundings easy to imagine. All of the elements work well together to get right to the “heart of the matter,” so to speak.

The second, and somewhat longer piece, written and performed by Karen Fitzgerald, Hot Mama Mahatma, directed by Matt Hoverman, also features a soul-searching female character. This time, the character is a woman later in life experiencing a rebirth of sorts, getting in touch with her sexuality, which had been repressed for many years (or maybe always). The only problem is that her sensual awakening is happening while on a spiritual retreat (usually celibate) and during travels alone through India, which leads to many humorous situations and huge awkwardness, which Fitzgerald fully reveals, leaving no holds barred. It’s a brave work, as female sexuality is still largely uninvestigated in our culture, not found in the fairy-tale mindset of Cosmo quizzes, daytime soap operas, or marriage-competition reality shows that the American psyche still often seems so mired in. Fitzgerald clearly tries to express something more visceral, deep, and real.

Fitzgerald’s dance-like movements are lovely to watch, reminiscent of screen legend Rita Hayworth, and at times I could imagine her piece more fully realized and perhaps expanded into a musical comedy. The speeches tend to be a little long, and some of the situations repetitive, but she also portrays a number of familiar characters, as well as herself, with honesty and panache. It seems like musical dance numbers and a chorus of tempting foreign men could be called for, giving another layer to the je ne sais quoi romance, but Fitzgerald does bring that spirit to stage. Dressed in a gorgeous red dress and fully owning her story, she reveals everything she is both longing for and conflicted about. She also ultimately achieves self-realization, and I love that both women do so independently, and not necessarily by way of their men (as the fairy tale myth dictates). They both seem to demonstrate the lesson that it’s only a fulfilled woman who can truly, fully share herself with a man.

Described in the press materials as “Eat, Pray, Love run amok,” both pieces dovetail nicely together as a reflection of the current movement toward soul-searching, supported by such works as the inspirational Elizabeth Gilbert book, perhaps by way of the tell-it-like-it-is Mama Gena. Here, the main characters seek for their deeper selves, in one case for an answer to her intimacy problems, the other for a safe haven in which to revel in her rediscovered sensuality. Both Kim and Fitzgerald are skilled writers and performers, and they have deeply mined their own lives to create a moving, enjoyable, and intimate theater experience. Mother, may I? Oh yes, you may.

Faster, Pussycat!

In Sean Gill’s Go-Go Killers!, we find ourselves in a New York City of the future, a post-apocalyptic landscape (both financial and environmental) into which stomp a legion of rogue go-go chicks, who have created an underworld of their own, in response to the wealthy white male-dominated society which rules them. At once retro and futuristic (like comic books of the 1950s), Rachel Klein’s proficient direction and skilled choreography channel the cult films of Russ Meyer, (largely Faster, Pussycat, Kill! Kill!) complete with cinematic transitions, mod costumes and make-up, and a 1960s-era surf music soundtrack. This is the latest Gill/Klein collaboration, and again, their styles and sensibilities seem to blend together perfectly. We follow one girl gang called the Furies, led by Electra, and played, well electrifyingly, by Elizabeth Stewart, as they seek revenge against their former captors and venture into the “Old Jersey desert.” By her side are a feisty Pam Grier-esque Pandora, played by Reagan Wilson; the romantic Godiva, played by Jillaine Gill; and newbie Marietta, whom we watch earn her new name – Bloody Mary, played by Kari Warchock. With a cock of the hip, a toss of the hair, stomp of a boot, or even taking hits as well as they dish them out, these women are fierce; and moreover, they know it. Much amusement ensues as they attempt to upset the balance, taking two of their blue-blood tormentors, Kevin G. Shinnick’s smarmy Nelson, and the sheltered Eugene (and Marietta’s former fiancé), played by Joe Stipek, captive and into the wilds of old New Jersey.

In this new/old world, the girl gangs are aggressive and competitive, amongst themselves and others, leading to many entertaining dance-off beat-downs along the way. Their main rivals are the sassy Gorgons, appropriately dressed in sparkling sea-green and blue tones, who give them a good run for their money. Featuring Dana Perry as Gypsy, Robyn Nielsen as Ginger, Megan O’Connor as Jezebel, and Marna Kohn as Georgette, the tough Gorgons keep popping up at the most inopportune moments, adding to the conflict at hand. There are also golden go-go’s (led by Dance Captain Michelle Cavallero), silver go-go’s, and even boy go-go’s, played by Preston Burger, Freddy Mancilla, and Brian Rubiano, all dancing with aplomb. These multi-chorus assemblages are also evocative of the cult film genre and are fun to watch as they layer and/or unfold from every direction. Don DiPaolo gives a great, goofy performance as another supporting character, truly earning his “wife-beater,” as The Wop. And for effect there’s also the ubiquitous butler, Godfrey, embodied by the lithe Michael Porsche.

The dialogue is snappy and amusing. Gill’s script sounds equally stylized, even with hints of more emotional depth for the characters than one might suspect. However, by the third act, with the arrival at the Queen’s Lair, the narrative kind of falls apart, as does the kick-ass road movie vibe by way of too-long speeches involving backstory and a certain amount of tidying up, which feels unnecessary. Even the once-fierce main characters seem dulled down. It’s understood that they’re now in the manipulative hands of the reigning underground monarch, but the loss of Electra’s power and strong lead, for example, saps the energy and leaves us hanging. The Queen is played extravagantly by Leasen Beth Almquist, but the character feels more out of a Kenneth Anger film landscape, showing more style than substance. Or maybe it’s just a switch of leads too late in the game.

The go-gos' 60s-style costumes, designed by Emily Dorwart and coordinated by Jillaine Gill and Rachel Klein, and the hair and make-up are all put together wonderfully, with the gangs coded by color and/or theme. The rousing surf music soundtrack, designed by both Klein and Gill, further reveals their “wonder-twin” powers and complements the vibe and motion. The spacious set-up of the Sage Theater, with some nightclub-style seating up in front, nicely frames the stage’s extended runway, to fully exploit the space for dancing and flourished entrances/exits. The minimalist props, designed by Lizz Giorgos and Joey Nova, like the cocktail glasses/serving trays; cacti/tumbleweeds; and scads of flying money, blend well into the choreography, while also providing maximum impact.

The Sage Theater is an interesting venue for this piece, used for off-Broadway theater, comedy shows, and other events since about 2002. Before that time, according to the Cinema Treasures website, it had a bit of a checkered past (as do many theaters in New York City), serving since the 1970s as a Spanish language movie theater, gay porn house, commercial cinema twin, and then back again to a porn theater, before the legendary Times Square clean-up beginning in the late 1990s. Go-Go Killers! brings back a fun and less-naughty shimmy-shake into the once-grimy Times Square, with a strong sense of nostalgia, a simultaneous nod to past and present, and all just a few kick-steps off-Broadway. So what are you waiting for, Pussycat? Go-go!

Sex and the Kitty

It all starts with a sociological questionnaire. Well, actually it all started as part of a Paula Vogel workshop for Yale School of Drama M.F.A. playwright Dorothy Fortenberry. Given the theme of the Greek myth of Leda and the Swan, with literary and artistic examples provided from the W.B. Yeats poem to other works, Fortenberry addresses the as-seen-on-TV version of female sexuality versus something a bit darker, more perverse, and certainly more funny. Her modern-day Caitlin and the Swan places the rather violent tale into the present amid three college-era gal pals, who have forged ahead into the new territory of adulthood, career, and relationships, while keeping each other as touchstones along the way. The play opens with the friends discussing the dubious success of a former classmate whose sociological study they all received, basically consisting of comparing notes among the young women’s “progress” in life. Caitlin, played by The Management’s talented Marguerite French, is a floundering, somewhat naïve SAT prep tutor living with her boyfriend Doug, an attorney. Her friend Priya, played in an excellent deadpan by Shetal Shah, is a busy resident gynecologist, a lesbian who seems too preoccupied for any relationship beyond a fling. And finally there’s Rachel, hysterically portrayed by Teresa Stephenson, who has fallen in love and started to cheat on her husband with, wait for it... a pig. No, not your typical brute, but the actual four-legged kind, whom she names “Pete.” They “met cute,” on a farm, etc., etc. The ups and downs of her affaire de coeur lead to much drama and heartbreak (as one might imagine), but also seems to incite Caitlin to act in a way that she’s never felt before, as perhaps do Priya’s NSA affairs, including one, she reveals, to do with a certain household feline named Emma. Sure, some excitement may have been missing in her relationship with straight-laced Doug, played by Fortenberry’s fellow Yalie Brian Robert Burns, but it’s while tutoring Bastian, portrayed sweetly by Jake Aron, that her desires alight onto a fixation. But in this askew world, it’s not even for the innocent 18-year-old student, but rather the wild swan that lives in his backyard pond.

Directed by The Management’s co-artistic director Joshua Conkel, who is well versed in expressing the left-of-center mindset (as shown in his own plays ), while rooting it squarely into a familiar pop culture landscape; his vision blends well with Fortenberry’s comedic writing. (You can tell Caitlin’s romantic notions are getting the better of her when she wistfully asks Bastian the swan’s name. He replies, “I call him, swan.”) Here, the female characters are largely unapologetic and bold in their behavior and relationships, and in Rachel’s case even a bit world-wearied, which is a relief to see versus the usual glut of SATC superficiality. The men, on the other hand, seem surprisingly sensitive and communicative. Caitlin’s boyfriend Doug is painfully honest and open about his feelings, instead of the presumed emotionally out-of-touch and/or sulky (or worse), especially when sex is suddenly taken off the table. Caitlin’s student Bastian seems fairly enlightened and understanding for having a strong crush on her and being, well, the hormonally-charged age of 18? (Or maybe this is all me and I’ve been exclusively dating cavemen all these years...)

But another highlight of this production is the dream ballet, fantasy, and live action sequences choreographed imaginatively by Croft Vaughn and starring the gifted dancer Elliott T. Reiland. Reiland wonderfully interprets both the non-speaking Pig, in full costume and with all of the usual misbehaviors (finally, a guy I can recognize!), and the Swan, in a pared-down stylized form, who seems unruffled by Caitlin’s unspeakable desires. How she resolves this adds the shock and true anguish lying at the bottom of Fortenberry’s piece, and while tough, I admire her for taking it all the way.

The movements are evocative, visceral, funny and even frightening, and very well presented. I’m somewhat surprised that not a single feather was used on the Swan costume, which might have been a nice touch, as well as potentially being more suggestive, and certainly not out of place amongst the other toys and props used throughout, which made their appearance courtesy of adult-toy supplier Babeland. (Maybe a quick trip back down to the store on Rivington Street?) But regardless, Reiland communicates it swimmingly. Also the details of the hair and make-up on Stephenson as Rachel in key scenes are downright inspired.

Under St. Marks is a tight space, but feels cozy and well utilized. The simple set pieces – from bed to shelving unit, to outdoor seating to coffee bar, express what they need to and are changed up by the actors as we watch. Even a simply-fashioned tree signifying the outdoors is a minimalist achievement. This is a delightful pond of talent definitely worth dipping into. Just watch those fingers!

Far From the Tree?

The tennis-court style staging of Mrs. Warren’s Profession, directed by Kathleen O’Neill, puts one immediately into the action and witty repartee of one of George Bernard Shaw’s best plays, without feeling the least bit self-conscious. The minimalist set, designed by Ben Salzbach for the black box space is at once intimate and all-encompassing, sandwiched between dual risers of viewers, a perfect vantage point to observe all of the nuances and developments (and perhaps other viewers’ reactions) volleying back and forth among the six talented players. From the first moments of the play when we meet Miss Vivie Warren, played crisply by Caralyn Kozlowski, the modern young woman drawn by Shaw circa 1893 is so contemporary that we feel as if we might know her. Her distant yet generously supportive mother, Mrs. Warren, is a former prostitute and current “manager” of several brothels across the continent. Joy Franz brings depth and humility to the superficially stereotypical, yet complex character, especially in her lapses back to the girl she once was, torn between her limited options and burning ambition.

The conflict between these two strong women, both somewhat defined by their circumstances, whether comfortable or trail-blazing, incites the next two hours, with nary a dull moment in the swiftly paced four acts. With its biting feminist perspective, shifting relationships, and social commentary as only Shaw can deliver, the play created such a shock in his time that it was immediately banned after publication, causing an eight-year delay in its production on the London stage.

In his extensive Author’s Apology, Shaw addresses his critics, further elucidating the need for meaningful social criticism, which is often (even today) totally misunderstood. This case directly evokes our current climate, like the ongoing debate over sex education, for example, becoming politicized and being misconstrued as condoning behavior instead of preventing disease, now a global health concern. The issues in Shaw’s essay are fresh, and the backstory of Victorian England’s response to his play further contextualizes his work for us now.

On a lighter note, upon stepping into Manhattan Theatre Source, I’m informed by my savvy companion that the same Greenwich Village location once housed Fred Leighton’s dress shop (when he was still importing clothing from Mexico, before moving uptown and into celebrity jewelry design). It’s a colorful tidbit, and the lobby does still feel a bit like a showroom, complete with a welcoming violinist, Jennifer Axelson, playing in front of the telltale shop windows, and an inviting café space and gallery/bookstore further inside. But it’s upstairs in the black box theater space where the real transformations happen now.

Joseph Franchini’s performance as Praed is also a gem, from the time he nervously approaches to meet Vivie and becomes inexorably drawn into the family’s drama. He too is a rather helpless and limited product of his station, as you could argue is Mrs. Warren’s “business partner,” Sir George Crofts (his title somehow making him all the more repulsive), played by David Palmer Brown. That each character wholeheartedly believes in his own standpoint and worldview, whether with a sense of naïveté or entitlement, makes their interactions captivating and provocative to watch throughout the performance.

Two other male characters, Frank Gardner, played suavely by James Dutton, and his father, Ashton Crosby’s bumbling Reverend Gardner, further complicate matters as a potential love interest for Vivie, and perhaps her mother – present and/or past – respectively. (Confusing? Yes!) Their unique positions round out the plot in intriguing and amusing ways.

Like the tennis match setup, we’re watching for chinks in the armor, machinations being conceived or enacted, perhaps crafting our own theories. Franz’ Mrs. Warren deliciously flirts, manipulates, schemes, performs, and finally pleads her desires, trying anything to insinuate herself back into her daughter’s life. But once Vivie learns the whole truth about her mother’s choices, it may be too late. And Mrs. Warren’s concept of love-as-ROI, the commodity that has dictated her entire “professional” life, just doesn’t seem to be working this time around. At the same time, Vivie is not unlike her mother, matter-of-factly making a choice and trying to strike out on her own. The bottom line for women here: no matter what the circumstances, one’s choices can often be severely limited. Many salient points, brilliantly woven through by Shaw, are up for modern conversation.

Finally, the wonderful costuming by David Withrow also expresses the ideas of the play beautifully. Mrs. Warren’s fine dress, high style and overall affectations directly contrast with Vivie’s smart tied-back dress/riding trousers and ankle boot combo. She often sports the tools of her trade, and while the others seem content to revel in their hats, gloves, canes, and other accoutrements, Kozlowski’s Vivie eschews hats, picks off her lace gloves finger by finger, and fidgets with her pouches, watch and pens. Praed’s hat and tight suit are perfect for him, and all of the characters are well clad and coiffed, evoking the period as well as the individual roles they’ve chosen in their society. And it all fits like a glove (or to be more site-specific, like a Fred Leighton import).

A Hairy Proposition

The mother-daughter relationship can often be complex, to say the least. Set in a 19th century Dime Museum, A Slight Headache, directed by Jessica Bauman, explores the fantastical relationship between a mother and daughter, with both roles played by veteran performance artist and writer Alyson Pou. That these characters are connected by their long, intertwined, inseparable hair is a primary problem, but also the element upon which their livelihood as a sideshow-type attraction is based, which marks both the root and split ends of their conflict. This is a fun and captivating piece, housed appropriately in the Melville Gallery, a warm, rustic space of the South Street Seaport Museum (donated for the project), and reminiscent of the historic Lower Manhattan setting for many real curiosity museums of the day, including P.T. Barnum’s American Museum, which once stood several blocks away at Broadway and Ann Street.

And Pou has recreated this milieu even further, by designing an installation of oddities, displayed around the back of the theater space/curiosity museum. Ushered in by the Tour Guide, played by Gregory Cohen Frumin, the performance begins in the lobby as he introduces the amazing collection we are about to view, including the main attraction, the mystical mother and daughter, shown on huge painted advertising banners. But first, he escorts us through the red velvet curtains, to examine one marvel after another: the rare Bearded Piranha, an excavated baby Cyclops skull, the jaunty Crocodile Mummies, and more, each with its own story to tell and fanciful accompanying artwork/pseudo-documentation, also by Pou. Frumin, a New York-based performance artist whose background includes a two-year Vassar College fellowship for research and practice-based theater studies in Italy, is instantly engaging and quirky, less carnival barker than reverential custodian (albeit kind of an endearingly goofy one). Later in the piece he also contributes his skills behind the scenes as puppeteer.

I was lucky enough to attend a performance with several kids in the audience (old enough for the one-hour plus attention span), who oohed and aahed utterly captivated as each oddity was revealed and illuminated by our guide. I felt heartened by the old-time interactivity of this, despite our technology-dominated age. It allowed us for a moment to step back into a time of imagination and wonder, with tales of far-off lands (and freedom from our fact-laden internet culture), a flight of fancy that everyone present seemed delighted to take.

And then the curtains were closed, candles extinguished, and we settled into our seats for the main attraction. Pou’s extensive wig and costume, both designed by Emily Pepper, were spectacular and revealed much of the story themselves. Portraying both Mother and Daughter, Pou switches back and forth between the two roles, setting the otherwise identical characters apart by the timbre of their voices, gestures, and quite opposed viewpoints. The mother tells the story of how her daughter first sprung forth from a tiny bump on her forehead (the cause of “a slight headache”), and developed into a full-grown offspring, without separating from their deeply connected, interwoven hair, which could never be cut. Part tall tale and part psychological exploration, the mother brings to life other colorful characters in her journey, like a nefarious would-be surgeon from whom she barely escapes.

Finally finding refuge in the all-encompassing world of “entertainment,” the mother and daughter have become headliners... as it were. However, the daughter has discovered some (real?) talents of her own, and is less willing to continue on merely as an extension of her mother and their tired “act,” which she is all too happy to try to reveal to the audience. They come to terms with this for the rest of the one-act play, the daughter waxing poetic about her dreams and plotting her escape, while the mother performs her usual numbers, along with the Maestro Matt Falber, who plays piano and other keys and percussives in accompaniment. The piece seems able to contain even a bit more music, while perhaps not a musical per se (although it does harken back to similar Gypsy-esque and Americana themes), I could see the Maestro’s function and character possibly more fully developed.

Illustrating some of the storytelling as well is a shadow puppet sequence, designed by Meghan Williams and operated behind a screen by Frumin. Artfully executed, this gives added dimension to the work, while maybe also being slightly underused. A key item coveted by the daughter, the bearded lady’s silver scissors is shown, but seeing silhouettes of some of the colorful characters as well, like the bearded lady for example, might have proven interesting too. The speeches are well drawn though, and Pou channels the amazing tales via both characters, who we sense almost appearing visibly together, inexorably attached to each other, even though she is often only turning around, or stepping behind a curtain. It’s all classic showmanship, wrapped up in ribbons and delivered with a flourish, even if the ending feels a bit anti-climactic. But definitely step right up for a very worthwhile theater experience, with multimedia of the traditional varieties, and much fun for children of all ages.

The Old New Wave

The idea occurs to me, while sitting in Richard Foreman’s jam-packed Ontological-Hysteric Theater (OHT), that he invites his viewers to experience the feeling that we are temporarily visiting from another planet. Not that we are mere Earthlings viewing a bunch of aliens before us, but instead we are given the alien’s-eye view of what the human experience might be like, without any known symbols, narrative language, or familiar archetypes of character. It might all be quite specific, but it seems deliciously up for interpretation, or maybe even post-interpretation, since whatever remainders are left can be absorbed organically, without any sense of linear story at all. And yet, the human experience often is the story, of course, always as informed by one’s own personal experiences. In the case of Astronome: A Night at the Opera, now playing through April 5th, Foreman collaborates with composer John Zorn, whose noise-metal score only furthers this experience. Zorn, a fixture in the downtown NYC music scene since the mid-1970s, creates his music from his experience in a variety of genres, including jazz, rock, classical, and klezmer. With pre-recorded tracks of loud, hardcore music with a guttural kind of gibberish language (including many bodily function-type sounds), the accompaniment sounds exactly right supplementing Foreman’s work. It seems to naturally follow the same process of breaking down into smaller parts, recreating, and attempting to express those things that cannot be named, operating almost as its own interior monologue. In this practice, both non-traditionalists merge raucously here. And despite having earplugs given out with the programs (unnecessary in my case), the moments in between musical tracks did lend an even greater intensity to the silences.

If you are an OHT veteran, you will probably appreciate this new juxtaposition of sounds, along with a few of the more familiar voice-from-above-overs provided by the writer/director himself. But for those new to Foreman, you must experience his particular artistic vision, participate in the brilliant collaborative process being offered, and possibly test your own (innate or learned?) needs for a linear narrative. Or better yet, simply approach with an open mind.

For your viewing pleasure, you are rewarded with a black, red, and green multi-level set design and a layered light scheme, inhabited by a kind of giant totem embedded on one side, attended by six semi-veiled players: Deborah Wallace, Morgan von Prelle Pecelli, Fulya Peker, Karl Allen, Eric Magnus, and Benjamin Forster. Decked out in black nose pieces, fezzes, and a kind of peasant-punk garb, they could emanate from any cultural origin or era, past, present or future. On the other side of the stage, a green-faced rock ’n rolla, played viscerally by Jamie Peterson, is separated into his own Plexiglas-protected chamber, complete with glory hole. This is a departure from the usual clear set piece separating the stage from the audience, and it’s interesting conceptually while also making the theater space feel more open. And maybe also more vulnerable. With lighting designed by Foreman and engineered by Miranda Hardy, the full house lights have never seemed quite so bright as they shine unexpectedly, or when a captivating green spotlight beckons.

The movements of the ensemble are carefully choreographed as they move through various configurations and behaviors, occasionally stopping to pose, according to some operating system of their own, sometimes robotically or otherwise involuntarily. The skilled performers often enact a kind of voraciousness, from filling up the hungry orifices of the overseeing face in the wall, but also sexually, toward a variety of inanimate objects or each other, especially when a strawberry headpiece is donned by one, and then devoured by another. The gold-chained ogre rages, while dummies and snake-like creatures with shrunken heads are alternatively abused and revered. From above, another figure resembling the Hanged Man tarot card is suspended upside-down, further suggesting ritualistic or magic themes.

The set is strewn with interrupted sequences of random Hebrew and English letters, a bejeweled Torah-shaped wooden panel is carried in and out, a blackboard is repeatedly erased, unintelligible signs and symbols are dropped from above, as the characters stomp on blank-paged books. Even the brief spoken lines express the inadequacy or futility of the written word, and maybe of all language itself, likely due to its intractable human component. One of the few spoken lines in the piece demonstrates this, garnering laughs: “Hiiii. I believe every thing that comes out of a human being’s mouth.”

All of the elements work tightly together, perhaps like the gears inside the grandfather clock we see paraded around, even though it’s stuck at straight-up 12:00. All the while a large pendulum swings almost threateningly back and forth, as a multitude of props and tools are utilized, including giant salt and pepper shakers, lacy hot pink bras, scissors large and small, bullhorns, and ping-pong paddles. Meghan Buchanan, the props engineer and costumer, must have been quite a busy lady indeed.

Watching the Detectives

This review could have easily been titled, “Deconstructing Holmesy,” but the multi-instrumentational singer/songwriter allusion above appropriately edges it out. In fact, the North American Cultural Laboratory (NACL) Theatre’s brilliant show, The Uncanny Appearance of Sherlock Holmes, is a trifecta of movement, music, and words, with equal parts suspense/psychological exploration, layered character-driven comedy, and an original, indie-rocking soundtrack to enhance all of the above. It’s smart, quirky, fun, and at times reduced me to tears of laughter, my highest personal praise. Based on a story by director Brad Krumholz, who co-founded NACL Theatre in 1997 with Tannis Kowalchuk (starring as Sherlock Holmes’ ever-supportive partner in crime and narrator, Dr. John Watson), the play takes on the well-known characters of Arthur Conan Doyle and spins them into new, wonderful, and sometimes wacky configurations. Called in to investigate the bizarre murders of Dr. Jeremy Nietzsche and Dr. Kevin Freud, Holmes encounters a wily female detective, Jacqueline Derrida, played dynamically by Sarah Dey Hirshan, who cleverly pushes him to explore the limits of his legendary abilities, and even ultimately (to our amusement), his own identity and inner self, rarely seen in the crisp character.

Krumholz traces his mystery-reading roots back to Encyclopedia Brown (a.k.a. “America’s Sherlock Holmes in tennis sneakers”), which ultimately led him to read the Sherlock Holmes stories and beyond. The piece was developed in collaboration with the powerhouse ensemble who all act, move acrobatically, and step in and out of their characters into band roles to perform original songs reminiscent of everything from early David Bowie to The Velvet Underground to The Smiths (as well as the above-referenced Elvis Costello). Using the classic rock formation of bass, guitar, keyboards and drums, the “band” also features eccentric instruments like the accordion and harmonium for more unique flavor. Although also a collaboration, most of the music was written by Glenn Hall, who plays two solid supporting roles – Inspector Lestrade and Professor Roderick Champion. Brett Keyser, who brings his determined Sherlock Holmes full circle, complete with the unpredictable soul searching, wrote most of the poetic lyrics – a perfect fit for the rock-and-roll score as well as an effective expression of his journey.

It’s all a joy to watch. The songs cut into the immediate plot, but like dream sequences, they open a door into the inner world of the characters, and actually insert much more play room into the structure. The tightly choreographed movements do the same, providing yet another layer of stylized behavior, sometimes like interpretive dance, sometimes just Marx Brothers silly (again, an accomplishment), all the while continuing to enhance the story. The transitions, accompanied by lighting shifts designed by Juliet Chia, work as excellent scene-changers, and overall the style works much better than the traditional musical format would, where characters suddenly bursting into song can often feel contrived. Here, the comedy is so tightly woven, it actually transcends its own spoofyness to become more of a moving target; just when you think you know where it’s going, something else shifts your focus, or pops up to amuse or twist your expectations. This explicitly demonstrates NACL’s stated mission to “create innovative original work that is ensemble-based, utilizing devised methods of creation, heightened physicality, and song to create vivid theatre experiences.” That it most certainly does. Krumholz’s direction is swift, (he also plays guitar in the band as “Silent Sonny”), and his comedic ideas and writing are utterly inspired.

And our not-so-elementary dear Watson, is played by the female Tannis Kowalchuk, who slips in and out of her phony facial hair and booming voice to now and then reveal feminine attire and slinky behavior. More than mere cross-dressing, she expresses her character’s essence quite beautifully, and we come to understand Watson also on a deeper-than-expected level. His steadfast, unwavering support, undying love, and maybe even hero-worship, perhaps makes it an impossible love affair, but even more apparent: it illustrates the epitome of the successful work-spouse relationship. Whether fully noticed or not by the preoccupied Holmes, Watson is content to help out behind the scenes. He exhibits jealousy of the interloping detective Derrida, but his and Holmes' overriding mutual dependency is evident (and sweet). It feels exactly right, we just never saw Watson in quite this light before.

In fact, every characterization presented here is original and quirky. Liz Eckert does quintuple-duty in colorful supporting roles, and is especially funny as the clumsy and socially awkward lab assistant Belle Whittaker and the literally “over-the-top” Bishop Wilberforce, with her every interaction funny and memorable. Sarah Dey Hirshan’s Derrida is smart, cool, and collected, and her additional portrayal of the prop-enhanced Mountebank is a one-of-a-kind gem, hysterically executed.

The set design by David Evans Morris also works well, both as the band performance space as well as simple elements to clearly delineate the various locations. The play is so imaginative that it doesn’t need much, plus as you might suspect, these performers are actually capable of becoming set pieces themselves, such as the well-oiled horse and carriage bit, with mid-scene costume and/or character shifts, all lending fluidity without missing a beat.

NACL Theatre, which had been in residence at La MaMa E.T.C. for several years, now operates from their own home base in the Catskills, where they run a theater and artists residence and offer a multi-disciplinary performer training (classified into Animal, Vegetable, and Mineral work, what else?). They’re a great company with lots of “juice;” definitely don’t miss this highlight, and be on the lookout for more of their “uncanny appearances” in the future.

Heroine Chic

The short, spectacular life of Anita Berber epitomized and inspired those of her Weimar Republic generation (and beyond), including such influential artists as Marlene Dietrich, Leni Riefenstahl, and German expressionist painter Otto Dix. Author Mel Gordon dubbed Berber “Weimar Berlin’s High Priestess of Depravity” in his 2006 biography, upon which Oh, Those Beautiful Weimar Girls, an original play with music and dance, is based. Conceived and directed by the founder and artistic director of New Stage Theatre Company, Hungarian native Ildiko Nemeth, and written by Mark Altman, the piece recreates the milieu over which the iconic Berber—silent film actress, dancer, poet, playwright, and sometime drug-addicted prostitute—ruled before her early death (of tuberculosis) at the age of 29. As a performance piece, Oh, Those Beautiful Weimar Girls, is equally spectacular, lavishly choreographed by Julia Atlas Muz and Peter Schmitz (who also stars as the Master of Ceremonies), with gorgeous bejeweled costumes designed by Javier Boné-Carboné, who also plays Berber’s co-combatant husband and co-star Sebastian Droste. The shimmering Metropolis-inspired set designed by Jason Sturm is moodily lit by Federico Restrepo. Grounding all of this is an evocative musical score with original compositions by Jon Gilbert Leavitt (also referencing Metropolis and other period stylings), plus music selected by Nemeth including everything from Beethoven to Kurt Weill, to the warblings of the distinctively original German countertenor (and 1970s émigré to NYC’s East Village), Klaus Nomi.

However, since it is billed as a “play,” I found the teensy bits of fractured story in or between performance numbers to be largely unsatisfying. With Berber arguably being one of the first postmodern performance artists ever seen, particularly in female form, here she remains enigmatic, and it seems that an opportunity to fill in more of the blanks about her turbulent personal life and unique artistic perspective is sadly missed. We only see Berber (and other characters) as performers, not as people, and while Sarah Lemp vividly brings her brash, provocative stage persona to life, she doesn’t seem to have been given enough material to create her character in full relief. If an impressionistic visual and aural tribute is the primary intention, then it succeeds, but playwright Altman is quoted as saying the play aims to “capture [Berber’s] indomitable spirit and inspire young and old alike to rage against the night.” But this only seems possible had her essence been more thoroughly explored, which may have proved that much more fascinating and/or inciting.

Also shamefully underused is Kaylin Lee Clinton as the Chanteuse. Clinton’s voice is lilting and lovely, and her all-too brief spotlight moments are transcendent. The timbre of her voice alone can speak volumes, suggesting that if the piece had been organized as a true musical (which it seems to have ample material for), then perhaps more of the emotion and drama inherent somewhere in these vignettes could have come through.

The chorus of Weimar Girls, played by Lisa Kathryn Hokans, Florencia Minniti, Madeleine James, Kat Ross, Christine Ann Ryndak, is a marvel to watch, guided by Schmitz’s ubiquitous MC, serving as they do (in lieu of a narrative) as the ostensible “engine” of the piece. Their make-up, wigs, masks (also created by lighting designer Restrepo), even their lightening-quick costume changes, all were impeccable. Their movements are at times playful, sensual, animalistic, and finally robotic as the era begins to devolve, and they embody the dubious celebration (objectification) of female entertainers in post-WWI Germany. More exploitative than erotic, most of the cabaret lifestyle is still fun to watch, although less so as it grows into the morbid, seemingly desperation-fueled orgy it ultimately became.

It may have been a contact high, but I sensed a subtext of a bizarro-world Alice-in-Wonderland (call it “Anita in Wunderland”) with the MC cast as “Mad Hatter,” Berber as the “Queen of Hearts” (complete with an “Off with her head!” scene), and the baroness’ corruptible daughter, played with believable innocence by Jeanne Lauren Smith, as the virginal “Alice.” The bisexual, S&M relationship among Denice Kondik’s kinky Baroness, her young daughter, and Berber, might lead us down the rabbit hole, so to speak, but again it seems to operate solely as a symbol, without seeking further exploration. Also inexplicable are Berber’s interactions with the Naïve Journalist, played by John Rosania, whose presence seems ready-made to inject some commentary, and yet he mostly just sits around, as voyeuristically as we feel.

I believed it had been Berber’s challenge of what was “acceptable” in her world-weary society that actually inspired her followers, not just the acts in themselves, which seem to be the primary focus here. We see that the chorus girls begin to appear maniacal with frozen smiles and locked in step, and yes, Berber’s so high that she can barely stand upright, and finally, as she takes a turn for bloodlust, whether real or imagined, I felt like, “ok, ok, we get it.” Even in an earlier scene where the MC is alternatively gorging on and vomiting quail eggs, one starts to wonder, is there any other statement to be made? Without any context of what the performers/observers may have thought or felt, the glorification feels like unenlightened sheer spectacle. The odd effect of this being that by the time the Nazis start to loom, we feel a sense of great relief, surely not the creative intention? Yes, Berber truly lived through her art, and her light burned (and crashed) brightly, but what lies beneath those iconic images, many of which, after all, do survive? With this we are only left to ponder, and hopefully to seek out more.

Out, Damn Sword

Shakespeare’s Macbeth, often referred to as “the Scottish play” by those superstitious about the play’s legendary curse, has reemerged as Shogun Macbeth from Pan Asian Repertory’s vault. This original and highly stylized version, adapted by John R. Briggs, is set in 12th century Japan, in the midst of a samurai society during a time of warring clans. Ernest Abuba, who created the title role in Pan Asian’s original 1986 production, returns this time as director, stating that the intention for its revival was in order to “demonstrate the exceptional talent of the new generation of Asian American actors.” Like a master swordsman, he swiftly hits his mark. Wonderfully cast with Kaipo Schwab as Macbeth and Rosanne Ma as the fiery Fujin (Lady) Macbeth; three punk/Kabuki-styled Yojos (witches) played by Shigeko Suga (who also appeared in the 1986 version), Claro Austria, and Emi F. Jones; as well as Keoni Scott as a commanding Shogun Duncan, all of the players infuse the play with power and energy. Ma’s Lady Macbeth begins the play as tightly controlled and smoldering. The sexually charged relationship between her and Schwab’s malleable Macbeth is palpable, and their mutual descent into mania and madness threatens to alight them, as well as anyone else within range.

Punctuated by full-on spark-inducing swordfighting scenes choreographed expertly by Michael G. Chin, the violent action is also balanced by Japanese movement artist Sachiyo Ito’s touches throughout the piece, including the tea ceremony and other traditional behaviors. The choreography of the Yojos (here, ancient demons known as obake ) as yet a third movement style seems at once freeform and wild, while actually functioning expressionistically like some kind of grotesque ballet. Not to mention their creepy vocalizations. They are at once chilling, amusing, and adept in both observing as well as spurring the characters’ actions like rickshaw drivers gone mad. On the other hand, I found that the interjections of the traveling poet and holy man Biwa Hoshi (played by the talented Tom Matsusaka), who steps in between scenes to deliver a haunted poetic narration, almost detracted from the otherwise tight structure. It kept reminding me I was sitting in a theater watching “a production” instead of continuing to be swept along by the epic story.

E. Calvin Ahn plays Macbeth’s nemesis MacDuff as well as serving as the production’s Fight Captain. Sacha Iskra brings Fujin MacDuff’s own tragedy heroically to life. The supporting cast (and their exciting battles) adds lots of color and emotion, including the Shogun’s sons played by Marcus Ho and Claro De Los Reyes; Macbeth’s best friend Banquo played by Ariel Estrada; and the loyal samurai played by Ken Park, Ron Nakahara, and James Rana. Yoko Hyun and Nadia Gan, both in multiple roles, effectively play young family sons, servants, as well as the drunken gatekeepers in a welcome moment of levity amongst all the tragic events.

The costumes designed by Carol A. Pelletier were impressionistic of the ornate garb of the period, appearing to be well vented and layered to allow the actors to move and change easily throughout all of the complex proceedings. The brocaded shin and arm guards, and layered, sometimes flowing robes, or even basic warrior uniforms, were evocative while remaining functional. The almost-fright wigs and kabuki style makeup of the Yojos, and also the stylized elements on Ma, all worked to enhance the high drama.

The lighting design by Victor En Yu Tan helped to illustrate Charlie Corcoran’s Buddha-dominated set, with its multi-layered and cleverly pocketed spaces for the characters to inhabit. Richly colored pools of light, smoke effects, backlighting, and dramatic blackouts were used to transform the many environments, especially the floor-to-ceiling statue and archway entrance. After the pivotal murder scene where husband, wife, and the entire stage are bathed in bloody red light (pictured), their guilt, madness, and ultimate redress only begin to heighten.

There’s something else inherent in the Kamakura period (1192-1333) that informs Macbeth here, the original play having been written four centuries later. Maybe it’s the richer, longer and more turbulent warrior period, which elicits an even stronger feeling of sacrilege to the royal Shogunate tradition. Tisa Chang, Artistic Producing Director, explains that “...Briggs’ inspiration came from the parallels of Shakespeare’s tragic characters with the philosophy that guided the samurai way of life.” It makes Shakespeare’s most haunted tragedy that much more compelling. As does the omnipresent Buddha watching over the participants (as well as the audience) who partake in all the grisly action, while he bears his silent and unwavering witness.

Love or Money?

The age-old question, especially for those living in Manhattan amongst a wealthy set: would one “settle” for true love and a life of poverty, or attempt to secure the most financially comfortable lifestyle no matter what the personal cost? This is the struggle facing young couple Susy Branch and Nick Lansing as well as other characters in the new Jazz Age musical comedy, Glimpses of the Moon, now playing in the historic Algonquin Hotel’s intimate Oak Room. Such a charming 1920s theme, and my, how times have changed... uh, kinda. The show is based on the 1922 novel by Edith Wharton, written immediately after winning her Pulitzer Prize for The Age of Innocence. The less-remembered but sweet story, which became an international best-seller in its time, is neatly adapted by Tajlei Levis, who wrote the book and lyrics, with enjoyable music by John Mercurio. It makes good subject matter for a light romantic comedy, and is especially timely given our current economic climate. Any investment broker reference gets a wry laugh, both on behalf of the characters’ approaching future, as well as our own.

The characters of Wharton, who was certainly no stranger to excessive wealth herself, are predictable but likeable, demonstrating the struggles of those both inside and out of her moneyed class. The premise: what if the popular yet penniless Susy and Nick get married purely in order to cash in their lavish wedding gifts, and live on the proceeds for one year, while using their new access and status to meet and woo wealthier spouses? It just might work, unless while enjoying all of the invitations to vacation homes and fancy parties, they accidentally do fall in love... with each other.

The show was designed specifically to be performed in the Oak Room (formerly known as the Pergola Room), and happens to be the exact site where the auspicious first gathering of the legendary literary group later to become known as the Algonquin Round Table took place almost 90 years ago. (That luncheon was held in honor of then-New York Times drama critic Alexander Woollcott’s return from World War I.) Later moved to the main dining room and provided with the ubiquitous round table, the clever wits would lunch, socialize, create, and generally hold court there for the next decade; the very walls are steeped in literary and theatrical history.

The non-amplified acoustics of the Oak Room are wonderful, with cozy wood-paneling (hence its name), and a lighting grid, with creative lighting design executed by Richard Winkler, which rivals much of what is seen in most off-off-Broadway theater spaces. Used mainly for cabaret performances, you can even drink or dine there beforehand if your budget (or your sugar daddy) allows, making it truly feel like an old New York nostalgic treat. But think Stork Club, not your father’s dinner theater.

This element is even incorporated into the show. In one scene, set coincidentally in “the Oak Room,” Susy and Nick are moved by a singer’s heartfelt performance. The singer role, played effectively by actual New York cabaret songstress Lisa Asher, will revolve to feature performers known on the cabaret circuit, ostensibly to entice new audiences and further enliven the production. Look for other special guest stars to come: Robert Newman, Lonette McKee, and Tony winner Chuck Cooper.

With a new producer, Sharon Carr, and some casting changes since its previous mounting earlier this year, the show is now set for an open run. Returning as the colorful friends-with-money are Daren Kelly as old-school Nelson, Glenn Peters as droll Streffy, and comedic delight Laura Jordan playing two roles, society matron Ursula and rich geekette Coral. New to this production are Jane Blass as Nelson’s generous (for a price) wife Ellie, and honey-voiced Autumn Hurlbert and Chris Peluso as the heart-of-gold(diggers) Susy and Nick. The performances are Broadway-caliber, and director Marc Bruni’s rich theatrical expertise is evident.

The vibrant costumes by Lisa Zinni, wigs and hair by Kurt Alger, make-up, and even the characters’ affected high-society dialects were all spot on for the period, and seemed well integrated. I could imagine Denis Jones’ lush choreography and a few narrative scenes (such as the regatta reenactment and honeymoon) being done on a larger scale, which it seems this show has the legs for, but the creative ways they are enacted make it even more up close and personal. You could spend as much seeing a Broadway staple, but including dinner and losing the crush of tourists while being just as highly entertained makes for a unique and intimate experience.

And if one-time Algonquin resident Dorothy Parker had been asked her opinion on the questions the show raises, she might have dropped one of her famous lines, “If you want to know what God thinks of money, just look at the people he gave it to.” For my money (what’s left of it), this show is a fun way to Jazz up an average Monday night, raise a toast to Mrs. Parker and friends, and live it up while we can. Take a break from CNN and go wild.

Killing Them Softly

To quote an infamous misquote, “what a terrible thing to have lost one’s mind.” That bit of dystopian nostalgia suddenly seems a bit easier to take after the election results this week. In this case, the two diaries of diseased psyches investigated in Memoirs of Madness, is, instead, a pleasure. Capping the eerie Halloween season (as well as an exhausting campaign season) with retellings of Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s The Yellow Wallpaper, and Edgar Allan Poe’s The Tell-Tale Heart, My Fair Heathen Productions presents fairly stripped-down versions of the two stories, each told by a disturbed narrator, which delight in their simplicity and chilly nakedness. Most women’s literature students are familiar with Gilman’s haunting late 19th century story, which was semi-autobiographical and damning of her doctor’s naïve and sometimes deadly prescription for his “hysterical” female patients—forced bed rest. That may sound fairly innocuous, perhaps even tempting, for those of us working a tough daily grind. But Dr. Silas Weir Mitchell’s “Rest Cure” was insidious and disempowering, an essential imprisonment, for women suffering from depression or other emotional problems, leading in some cases to insanity and/or death. In Gilman’s essay, “Why I Wrote the Yellow Wallpaper,” she explains that her book was “not intended to drive people crazy, but to save people from being driven crazy, and it worked,” as the once-acclaimed doctor eventually altered his treatment.

Megan O’Leary fully embodies the Gilman narrator, taking us along on her journey from her arrival in the rambling country estate when she first seems to feel earnest and obedient about her “rest,” which has been prescribed by the character’s doctor husband, similar in tone to the real-life Dr. Mitchell. The set is minimal, showing a simple bed with wooden headboard, a window, and a comfortable chair, in the room in which she is forced to remain, with its tattered wallpaper and ironic history as a former nursery that has fallen to ruin.

With references to a new baby and a live-in mother’s helper, it’s clear that she’s suffering from what is now commonly known (and treated) as postpartum depression. But as the character begins to feel more trapped, alienated, and isolated in her confined quarters, we witness her become more obsessive, secretive, and disturbed, to the point where the yellow wallcovering, and more frighteningly, what she sees in it, takes over the entire focus of her mind. O’Leary achieves this by growing more frantic and restless, confiding her fears and plans, while still largely retaining her appeasing smile and outward pleasantries, as she tries to conceal her true torment from the others. This has a creepy as well as a believable effect.

Her demise is also expressed by a bit of a crumbling Victorian tune played between scenes. Some of her visions are brought to life via projected images on the walls, which seem realistic as to her description of them, but I wondered if they could have been executed in a bit more frightening or tormenting way. Given the technological advances of our age in contrast, maybe a somewhat more expressionistic version of the yellow wallpaper would have been interesting. However, the effects used here did seem to fit the setting and did not take away from the character’s storytelling.

The second piece, Edgar Allan Poe’s The Tell-Tale Heart, written about 50 years earlier, is also told by a singular narrator and works equally well in the same set, now as the bedroom of the old man and soon-to-be victim. With more dramatic lighting, including the entrance and effective first words of the narrator given in total darkness, Poe’s character, played by Gretchen Knapp, immediately grips us with his all-too-sensible madness. Knapp’s gender play is well done, with no discernable difference to the familiar Poe character, only that much more of an intriguing performance to see and hear. Dressed in period garb with her long hair pulled back, Knapp commands the audience’s attention, and even with the piece’s shorter length, there’s certainly no shortage of impact.

Poe’s genius in making the narrator seem so sincere, and yet ultimately undone by the overworkings of his own mind, is entertaining and well nuanced here. One-person narrated shows can sometimes be tough to execute, but both Knapp and O’Leary carry their roles strongly, and the direction by Janet Bobcean succeeds in sustaining their efforts, as well as staying true to the source material. The two selections as companion pieces bookend nicely together: one with its female, internal struggles; and the other with its more male, outward actions.

It was even fun to revisit the familiar Poe story in a post-CSI mindset. I mean, come on, dismember and squire away body parts under the floorboards with “no stain of any kind, no blood-spot whatever,” really? After years of believing this narrator, I think I finally got it that perhaps those chatty policemen weren’t just idly hanging around, but maybe waiting like the rest of us to see if the innocent neighbor would reveal himself. Thanks to My Fair Heathen for dusting off these gems, revisiting them with aplomb, as well as inspiring them to be viewed in new ways.

Something In The Way They Move

Right away you know something is very wrong here. The mannequins with their glassy eyes and waxen complexions, an insane “hostess,” the Nickelodeon-on-a-meth-binge kids’ show, plus other bloodsuckers, can only lead to one result, which Something Weird... In The Red Room readily provides: dances with death. Directed and choreographed by Rachel Klein, both of the evening’s pieces are dominated by their movement, and executed with accomplished nuance, from the creepy mannequin stirrings of Sir Sheever to the amazing dream ballet and reenacted video sequences included in the twisted Aenigma. Aenigma, written by Sean Gill, is a brilliantly integrated piece, moving from live action, to impressions of video playback, to fantasy (or nightmare) cycles by way of key lighting and music changes which trigger the audience’s subterranean understanding without missing a beat. The Body Rock Crew dance breaks, the slo-mo replays, heightened by psychedelic lighting effects and a soundtrack featuring pop tracks and even an inspired bit from Alfred Hitchcock’s favorite composer, Bernard Hermann, all work together to evoke something even deeper and more sinister than the already-problematic situation which two TV/pop star sisters face after a cast party goes terribly awry.

The structure, pace, and storytelling are satisfyingly non-traditional, which helps to achieve a more credible and complimentary texture for the darkly funny circumstances of Aenigma. Gill’s dips into the surreal are masterful, while surface dialogue, humor and character quirks seem perfectly natural and coexistent as well.

Jillaine Gill, the playwright’s sister and frequent collaborator, gives a remarkable performance as Diana, one half of the troubled pair. As the heart and (sold-out) soul of the piece, she artfully communicates her dark and confusing journey somehow without missing one beat of honesty or belief. She magically allows everything to simply play upon her face, her stance, and her movements. If this work is any indication, the Gill siblings as a brother-sister team could rival other talented relations known as Gyllenhaal, Arquette, or even demented Osmonds. Adding their own brand of wonderful sickness, of course.

Elizabeth Stewart as Diana’s sister Charlotte is delightfully cloying and also fun to watch as she glides herself in and out of each precarious situation. The Body Rock Crew as chorus (and participants) both ground, as well as heighten the bizarre action, which crawls out from the crevice somewhere between fantasy and reality from whence this captivating piece emanates.

The evening's opening piece Sir Sheever is also something of an atmospheric accomplishment. The premise of Ralph the burglar happening into Miss Elise’s house of horrors works, but I’m not sure the play fully hits the heights (or the depths) of what could be imagined. First of all, I didn’t understand why he couldn’t escape – after all, he got in. Ok, bitch was crazy, but still. But with the suspension of that disbelief, by the time the delicate balance of mannequin, as well as the house manners, is struck and Ralph begins his transformation into Sir Sheever, the audience is fully along for the ride. We can’t wait to see the mannequins’ revenge on their captors and tormentors. How are they going to come to life? Are they going to revolt? Can they kill on demand?

The ensuing action feels somewhat slow in advancing, but Bret Haines as Ralph does convey a bit of the resigned “ok, I’ll just go along with this so I can get the hell out of here” vibe like the beleaguered Griffin Dunne character in Martin Scorsese's 1985 black comedy After Hours. Part of him seems to be getting into his new role, and maybe he doesn’t really want to escape anymore anyway. A touch of Stockholm Syndrome perhaps? Kari Warchock plays the psychotic Miss Elise, who manages to maintain her frantic intensity throughout the piece. I wish playwright Benjamin Spiro had provided a few glimmers into her psyche, or a line or two about whatever events may have led to her current state, but otherwise she’s perfectly suitable as the requisite nut job.

Supporting this cozy tête-à-tête is the cast of twitchingly eerie mannequins, Abigail Hawk as the cool Eunice, Candy Bloise as the disinterested Euripides, Michael Porsche as the corpse-like Robert, Ted Caine as the randy, agile Fredrick, and Megan O’Connor as the grotesquely beautiful pull-string plaything Miss Prissypants. The hair, make-up and costume of O’Connor especially all amalgamate to a horror-doll masterpiece (also excellent on Warchock and the others) and she delivers Miss Prissypants’ deadpan sound bites in a haunting and hilarious fashion. The manipulative choreography and performances by all are wonderful. Spiro makes a great stab (so to speak) at the genre, and the comedy works, but I would have liked to see, or be more scared by, an even darker exposition. But still, The Red Room calls... And you, must, go. Boo!

Inside Out

Their mission, which The Talking Band challenged themselves to accept: to construct a play around a set first created by a talented visual artist and designer, Anna Kiraly. Their result, the quirky Flip Side, is a two-dimensional piece exploring the surfaces of and gaps (or at least slivers) between two disparate, yet somehow connected, worlds. Don’t ask whether that means function follows form, or vice versa, or even which is which here. The best one can hope for is trying to be amused by its busy characters, terrific visual effects and cutesy music. The Hungarian-born Kiraly’s cubic set design is appealing especially in its mutability, as it evolves throughout the play, written by Ellen Maddow and directed by Paul Zimet, co-founders of The Talking Band. The set, being reconfigured by the actors and/or projected upon, is probably the play’s most intriguing and developing character. The geometric shapes become rooms, outdoor walls, or part of the background scenery. The set piece’s moveable, extendable parts seem to be constantly in flux by reshaping, adding scrims or plastic sheeting on which to project larger-than-life images or to provide other interactions with the actors. The creative use of the projected images is captivating, with the video also designed by Kiraly.

The play explores the collision (or at least co-existence) of two worlds, one of a Brooklyn Heights promenade-type of public space, called Drizzle Plaza, and the other, the crowded home of an extended family named Waterfall. (Hence all of the water imagery, more on this later.) Both sides house unhappy people with their share of domestic squabbles and general dissatisfaction with life. Billed as a comedy of “longing, misperceptions and mismatches,” the action seems too contrived and cartoonish to make much of an impact other than a visual one. The songs only heighten this effect, with a kind of sugarcoated, superficial sound.

The actors are given plenty to do, and they do play their various roles to the hilt, especially Will Badgett as old biddy Aurora and Uncle Oscar & Sue Jean Kim as Celeste and Cherimoya Waterfall, but overall, most characters seem fairly flat as written. At times they also are annoyingly shouty. With all the running around and doubling roles and funny costumes, I couldn’t help but picture the opening credits to The Simpsons, with the family members scrambling in from different places to wind up all together on the ubiquitous couch. I guess these characters are longing for something, but it doesn’t seem like there is much investment, or actual stakes (other than the writer’s manipulations in trying to tie it all together). From this, hilarity is supposed to ensue. A bit of puppetry designed by Ralph Lee and operated by Badgett and Kim is a bright spot amid all the chaos.

There’s plenty of water imagery, which works nicely as a special effect when characters are swimming, discussing the flooding out of a meddling downstairs neighbor, or when swept out of a neighborhood café and tossed unceremoniously into the street by inexplicable rising waters. There’s quite a bit of overlap made between inside and outside elements, natural and unnatural spaces. But there seems to be no real mystery or fascination about the oddity of these spaces that the characters inhabit (or the crossing over thereof), just a kind of general acceptance about it. Magic glasses, telescope powers, blips in their sightlines and/or consciousness all seem to be set up to entertain and amuse, but I wish there were something more interesting to see than fairly predictable people spying on each other, having nothing much to gain or lose, to whom “weird” things happen. It’s a laudable, ambitious effort, but maybe less maneuvering and a bit more wonder could have ultimately served this experiment better.

No Strings

Truman Capote once said, “To me, the greatest pleasure of writing is not what it's about, but the inner music the words make.” With Ko’olau, A True Story of Kaua’i, writer and director Tom Lee boldly strives to express this sentiment, in a play mainly without words. Not that there isn’t a big story to tell; the Hawaiian legend of Kaluaiko’olau (or Ko’olau) and his rebellion and escape from a forced separation from his family and threat of being deported to a leper colony in 1890s Kauai, is necessarily provided in the program. But this incarnation of the dramatic tale is all about showing rather than telling, using wheeled puppetry, live shadow and video projection, sporadic voice-over, and original live musical accompaniment, in the hopes of releasing the largely tragic story’s inner music and inspiration. The only problem is that if the viewer is not acutely aware of the facts or key details, its impact could be easily missed or misunderstood. It’s also unusual not to hear directly from the main title character in such an individualistic piece, and as taken from the original oral account in Hawaiian language by Ko’olau’s wife Pi’ilani, we’re admittedly seeing her story (which then might have then begged the title, The True Story of Pi’ilani). Not that we hear her words either, which might have been interesting had they been somehow woven in amongst all the other layered elements (and considering that her retelling was recorded by an American journalist in 1906). However, the theatrical elements chosen to communicate Pi’ilani’s testimony in a form beyond the traditional are well integrated and artistically executed, if still removed from a first-person’s perspective.

But if Pi’ilani’s voice itself isn’t heard, it’s nonetheless elevated and celebrated through the original music of La MaMa composer/musicians Yukio Tsuji and Bill Ruyle, who provide the perfect accompaniment. Their evocative compositions serve as the underlying language of the piece, using a combination of traditional instruments, unique percussives for sound effects and atmosphere, and the poignant sounds of instruments like the shakuhachi and hammer dulcimer. And to further honor tradition, certain musical sections were even inspired by the compositions of Queen Liliuokalani, Hawaii’s last reigning monarch.

The use of Japanese kuruma ningyo wheeled puppetry is quite elegant, with the performers working the puppets with such careful, focused attention that they become almost invisible while in plain sight. The gentle, nuanced manipulations of the puppeteers Matt Acheson, Marina Celander, Frankie Cordero and Yoko Myoi translate stunningly as an extension of their puppet-characters themselves, rather than the other way around. It’s almost like the performers personify an unseen energy force that could be imagined existing around all living things, again inducing the richness and spirit of Hawaiian culture. The four puppeteers maneuver the three main characters Ko’olau, Pi’ilani, and their young son Kaleimanu, while also embodying minimalist “extras” and scenery elements, becoming mountains or other obstacles for the characters to interact with on the otherwise empty stage.

The hand-carved wooden puppets themselves are economic, with faces like blank canvases for the performers to somehow enliven with their actions, which they do. Styled after Hawaiian woodcuts by Lee, the rough-hewn faces are also interesting in the context of Hansen’s Disease (better known as leprosy), as they appear somewhat mask-like with an ability to project either some kind of disfigurement or its inevitable covering.

Another element utilized to help tell the story is a large screen backdrop upon which live shadow and video are projected, adding even more dimension. Lee and Miranda Hardy, the lighting designer and shadow projectionist, used fascinating techniques like shooting through water, overlaying paper cutouts and other materials to achieve distinct perspectives, incorporating live shadow figures, and using a kind of revolving cutout carousel for background action and special effects. These also highlighted the lush scenery and rough territory of the island, again calling back the story’s intrinsic tie to the natural world. I was so interested in how these images were being created from a technical perspective, that I was often watching their production emanating from just in front of the stage, which might have taken me a bit out of the story at times, though I’m not sure all viewers would find this as distracting. It’s clear that much is being communicated, but it didn’t always completely wash over me as much as experiencing the intimacy of the puppetry and being affected by the music did.

Lee, who is of Chinese-American and Eastern European descent, grew up on the island of O’ahu, where he first heard the story of Ko’olau through a family friend. The tale had also once captured the imagination of adventurer/author Jack London, who wrote a short story, Koolau the Leper, in 1909, in which he co-opted it into a rather horrific and sensationalist interpretation. Lee’s piece as a response to London, attempting to return a sense of dignity, compassion, and celebration to the doomed, yet heroic characters is certainly successful, even if just a bit more development and integration could bring it to the seamless and encompassing Aloha that it’s very close to reaching.

Magickal Elixir

If you’ve ever felt as though you've seen it all in theater (or anywhere for that matter), you must experience a Radiohole show. The award-winning avant-garde performance troupe now channeling ANGER/NATION at the Kitchen, gives another balls-out (literally) presentation, inspired by the underground occult films of Kenneth Anger , as confronted by the hatchet-wielding temperance movement leader of early 20th century America, Carrie A. Nation. These opposing forces (with similarly manic energies) are further challenged with slopping pitchers of beer (with free mug-fulls proffered to thirsty audience members), a grinding psychedelic soundtrack, costumes slyly layered from Anger’s images or other eras, real or imagined (featuring serious hairpieces, horned or otherwise wigged-out, a medley of various uniforms either missing key parts or with an occasional “extra” appendage, intense make-up, smatterings of glitter), fog effects, evocative background video, popping air rifles, and smashing bottles, all of which create an exciting and arresting experience, both aurally and visually.

The set looks something like the cyberpunk ship in the film The Matrix if it had been transported to a cabaret basement in Weimar Republic Berlin and exploded on impact. A dozen or more mini video monitors jiggle off the ends of sweeping tentacle-like stalks, playing various clips, while a pair of cherub-esque performers, Radiohole co-founders Scott Halvorsen Gillette and Eric Dyer, alternately play music, verbally riff, sling back drinks and trippy pills, shoot each other, sometimes step behind twin plastic curtains to change costume (and/or scene), and generally torment the imposing figure of Carrie Nation by flaunting their Dionysian existence.

Don’t bother searching for a traditional narrative other than maybe Veni, Vidi, Vici (with Nation as the one ultimately conquered) and yes, the pastiche is made even more complete by a drunken, largely unintelligible sort of frat boy Julius Caesar, played jovially by Iver Findlay, the show’s video designer (along with So Yong Kim and Radiohole), who ran all the technical elements from a computerized command center on stage. (This was fed directly into the Kitchen’s excellent soundboard, to great thunderous effect.)

The beleaguered Ms. Nation, portrayed by Maggie Hoffman, also a co-founder of the company (and showing her real life five-month pregnant belly), is of course highly offended by the decadence of all the men-children, and she attempts to clobber their deviant behaviors as well as their alcohol bottles with her mighty hatchet. Not being able to divide or conquer, she eventually goes off into a transformation of her own (we watch her muted struggles via a live Moon-cam, projected behind the stage), and when she re-emerges, she embodies a kind of high priestess or Egyptian queen slithering right out of an Anger film like Lucifer Rising (1980), having fully gone over to the “other side.”

Hoffman’s monologues sound interestingly more campaign speechy than the basic preachy I probably expected. Nation’s famous quote, “Men are nicotine-soaked, beer-besmirched, whiskey-greased, red-eyed devils,” is certainly enacted viscerally, while she sounds almost cheerful in telling her gloomy story. (In real life, the Bible-thumping, Midwestern Nation lost her first husband to alcoholism during a time when abuse had apparently become rampant. With no legal controls on the alcohol content of whiskey – sometimes proving to be lethal – it was common for men to drink away entire paychecks at their local tavern, leaving no legal or financial recourse for their possibly starving, physically abused, and/or abandoned wives and children at home.)

So is Nation an early feminist, albeit a misguided one? Here she rebirths herself or becomes a gut renovation (so to speak) via this equally subversive landscape. Perhaps Nation just grows up over the ensuing century, becoming a “liberated” (read: objectified and lovin’ it) female, willing to expose herself and cavort along with the rest of us sinners. Maybe crazy times call for crazy measures in every generation, even as we seem to long for some kind of temperance.

A delightful coda features Gillette and Dyer discussing a performance, under the jarring full fluorescent house lights, while Hoffman and Findlay change back into street clothes and pack up to leave. Some audience members make a hasty exit at this point, but the deadpanned dialogue (supposedly taken verbatim from a John Cage interview circa 1982) was such an ideal tongue-in-cheek denouement to all of the previous punk rock action, I secretly hoped it would continue on until the very last die-hards eventually slunk out. I thought it was actually the funniest part, a fitting surrealist American Theater Wing breakdown complete with drifty pauses, the whole thing reminiscent of an old Gary Larson cartoon showing a couple splayed out in their living room with the caption: “The Arnolds feign death until the Wagners, sensing awkwardness, are compelled to leave.” So sit back, enjoy the rest of your beer (or Jesus juice), and savor the last drops of Radiohole’s Magickal elixir. Until they next conjure up something wonderful for us again.

Outside the Lines

The Chalk Boy, written and directed by Joshua Conkel, is a sharply funny and energetic foray, sprawling forth from the high school caste system of present-day America, whose typical roles never completely contain his interesting and evolving characters. Centered around four young women, who at first glance could be cast into general archetypes like “The Slut,” “The Freak,” “The Prom Queen,” or “The Jock,” the play follows the developments surrounding the mysterious disappearance of their classmate (whose popularity only seems to grow with his absence), Jeffery Chalk. We’re first introduced to the small Washington state community as voyeurs, watching the town being illustrated before us on chalkboards, then as participants when addressed as part of a school assembly, class, or pep rally (of sorts). This indoctrination works; it’s a familiar world to which everyone can relate, yet it still manages to be fresh, funny, and even surprising.

Here the usual teenage woes of school, dating, and parents are mostly backdrop. Life and limb may now be at risk, battle lines are drawn and redrawn, and the social rules are constantly changing. Even the non-satisfying pop soundtrack that punctuates their lives falls sorrowfully short for them—and Britney’s three-minute chirp doesn’t begin to cut it.

The girls’ underlying search for identity and meaning, whether through chugging cough syrup, spouting religious doctrines, exploring sexual identity, or performing Wiccan rituals, continues throughout, heightened by genuinely eerie bits and a certain sense of ongoing dread, if not exactly impending doom. Threats may loom, as does the character of the missing boy, yet their own self-explorations seem to be where the most is at stake. They are compelled to define themselves in relation to their missing classmate as well as to each other - not to mention trying to find out what has actually happened to him.

It’s no coincidence that the missing boy is named Chalk. Like the narrative blackboards before us, will all of the characters just blow away or be erased at the end of the day? They struggle to answer the questions: Who matters? Who doesn’t? But maybe also: What remains? Or: What lasts? Beyond the characters’ longing for clear identity, what ultimately does carry meaning in their (and our) world?

It’s refreshing in a dark comedy to see characters who seem to be self-searching rather than the predictable self-loathing, as they find themselves unable to be contained within their own drawn circles (or pentagrams as the case may be), demonstrated by their changing allegiances and willingness to experiment beyond them. This optimism satisfies, somehow making it a “feel-good” darkened Black-as-Death world. If nothing else, it’s certainly more fun.

The actors’ performances are deft and dynamic, both as the four classmates and their lively sketches of other Clear Creek inhabitants. Penny’s inner and outer conflicts are portrayed with sullen perfection by Jennifer Harder, who makes Penny’s dissatisfaction with life enjoyably palpable. Mary Catherine Donnelly’s Lauren is single-mindedly earnest, and her full-on embodiment of Penny’s mother and others is skillful and engaging. Marguerite French, who plays the quirky Trisha, also brings to life multiple colorful characters with aplomb. Kate Huisentruit’s Breanna is honest and sweet, while the character seems almost too naïve for the world she inhabits.

The transitions between roles (and scenes) were directed and executed well, sometimes via simple onstage costume changes, which allowed for seamless transformations right before our eyes. The intimate space was also well utilized, with minimalist yet evocative props, corresponding lighting shifts, and double- or triple-duty set pieces, all of which served to bring the audience directly and believably into each scene.

Again, the world Conkel presents is familiar, although by no means predictable. Along these lines, the epilogue might have been slightly more open-ended and questioning rather than (almost too) neatly tied up. Sure, the stories are fairly true to expectation, but it might have been fun to engage the imagination of the audience even further with other possible endings for the characters, whether toward harsher cynicism, or hope for eventual liberation from the usual chalk outlines. In the meantime, though, it’s definitely worth hitching a ride.