Something Happened on the Way Home to Ithaca

Can the Odyssey, that 12,000 line epic poem, be successfully translated onto stage without being over long and overly arduous? Judging from Handcart Ensemble's production of Simon Armitage's adaptation, the answer is yes. Homer's Odyssey trims and alters certain bits of the story. What unfolds onstage is then an old, familiar story that nonetheless remains fresh, exciting, and thoroughly engaging. After winning the Trojan War, Odysseus and his men set off to return home to Ithaca. However, they soon find themselves lost at sea and float from strange land to strange land. They run into trouble on the Island of the Cyclops, where they are trapped in the cave of Polyphemus the Cyclops and are at risk of becoming his dinner. Odysseus tricks Polyphemus by getting him drunk, telling him that his name is “Nobody” and then blinding him so that Odysseus and his men can escape. Unfortunately for Odysseus, Polyphemus is Poseidon's son, and Odysseus and his men need to sail on the ocean in order to get home. Odysseus' men bring further strife upon themselves by later eating the sacred cattle of the sun god. Eventually, only Odysseus is left, and he winds up staying on an island with the goddess Calypso, who has fallen in love with him.

Meanwhile, on Ithaca, his wife, Penelope, and now grown son, Telemachus, must deal with the presence of greedy boorish suitors. Since Odysseus has not been formally buried, Penelope cannot agree to marry one of them. Because of guest/host rules in Ancient Greece, she cannot turn them out either. The suitors grow restless and plot to kill Telemachus, who has, on the advice of Athena-in-disguise, sailed to Sparta.

Armitage's adaptation uses beautiful, evocative language. The eye-gouging of Polyphemus occurs mostly off-stage, yet Odysseus' description of his plan is graphic enough to make one feel a little queasy. It is aurally gory and does not need the addition of spurting blood so common in shows today to get its point across.

However, the production is visually thrilling in other ways. Puppets are used quite effectively. Polyphemus is first shown as a giant shadow puppet. When he finally stomps onstage, he is a terrible sight to behold: a puppet on stilts with a large papier-mâché head. Additionally, the ensemble has a great sense of physicality. They bob and weave in fight scenes, embody the waves while out at sea, and tumble over each other.

The acting is, for the most part, spot on. David D'Agonstini brings just the right level of command and strength to the character of Odysseus while Rachael McOwen is bright-eyed as Nausicaä. However, there is doubling and tripling of roles in the show, and some actors felt stiff and flat in some of their roles, as if they were unaccustomed to their characters still.

Homer's Odyssey, with a runtime of over two and a half hours, is not a brief show. However, every minute of it is a joy to watch. The language is fresh and engaging, and the theatrics make the show a treat for the eyes. Homer's Odyssey breathes fresh life into an old tale.

This Little Birdy Flew Home

Growing up is a tricky endeavor. The things you think you know shift and change rapidly, those you think love you disappear with the least provocation, and the whole learning process is incredibly difficult. Kate Mark's new, “impossible” play Bird House provides an interesting, fairy-talish way of examining the ups and downs of growing up. Every hour on the hour, two cuckoo birds pop out of their house to announce “kook” and “oo” to the delight of a youngish girl named Louisy. Her companion, Syl, is less impressed with the coming and going of the two birds. The two girls live in a tree house on the Bright Side. They live happily until an army of ants marches in and explains to Syl that they have come from the Lop Side, where there is war and suffering. Syl becomes filled with a sense of action and decides to dig a hole through to the Lop Side in order to help the ones suffering over there, leaving Louisy alone in the tree house.

Over on the Lop Side, Syl meets a little girl named Myra (played with joy and gusto by Kylie Liya Goldstein) who marches around on paint can stilts and calls herself a “Sarge Ant.” Meanwhile, a woman enters the tree house and thinks Louisy is her long lost Myra, a role which Louisy gladly accepts, at least for the time being. The two girls ultimately learn a lesson from their time apart and emerge from the experience changed.

Bird House is full of stunning imagery. The cuckoo birds fly the coop, somehow manage to end up in Syl's stomach and then fly out of her mouth. The silhouette of a rocking chair trapped in a tree is projected on a screen on the Lop Side.

The puppetry is clever—a large ant marches into the tree house, followed by a line of smaller ants. The wind carries an ax and a teapot across the stage. Birds slam into the windows of the tree house. The cast is very energetic and accurately conveys the innocence (or experience as need be) and growing pains of their characters.

Although it is highly theatrical and a visual treat, the story of Bird House suffers a bit. Many things are left unexplained, and seem to be there simply so that a bit of tricky puppetry can be performed. Older versions of Syl and Louisy are projected onto a wide tree trunk. It is difficult to understand why they are there and what they are saying. The characters are so exaggerated in terms of bravado or child-likeness that it is hard to empathize with them. Occasionally, their motivations are unclear and confusing.

Marks has a lot of great ideas floating about in Bird House, they just need to be given more definition in certain instances. Ultimately, the show is fun to watch for its visual tricks and the energy of its cast. However, it would be truly delightful and enjoyable if the audience was left with the sense that those tricks actually were headed somewhere.

What Price Freedom?

Sometimes life gets so oppressive that one has no choice but to attempt to escape, no matter what the risk. Such was the case for thousands of Cuban refugees, who built rafts for themselves out of wood and tires and risked the 90 miles of stormy sea between their island and Florida. Playwright Nilo Cruz was one such refugee, fleeing Cuba with his parents on a Freedom Flight in 1970 at the tender age of ten. In his play A Bicycle Country, receiving its New York premiere from the newly formed East 3rd Productions, three characters set off on the harrowing journey, leaving everything behind in hopes of starting a new, fulfilling life. The production is gripping and harrowing, with strong performances from each of the three leads. When the play opens, in 1993, Julio, who is recovering from a stroke, is instructing his nurse, Ines, on how he wants his life scheduled and run. Julio's friend Pepe watches, serving as a middleman between the two. Julio initially seems as though he is in control, but soon it is Ines who takes over, forcing him to do arm exercises and to walk across the room until he is finally able to leave his wheelchair and resume his life. Yet, Ines is not satisfied with this. The three are still trapped in Cuba, where their quality of life has decreased substantially. The dissolution of the Soviet Union has cut off supplies of gasoline as well as food. The description of Cuba as a bicycle country comes from this period, when Cubans were encouraged to travel by bicycle, a mode of transportation they were not previously familiar with.

The sense of confinement is conveyed well in the set of the play. Michael Mallard has designed a modular set conisting of wooden platforms and angular planks to represent first Julio's one room house and later the escape raft. The three actors fill the space both as a house and as a raft in a way that amplifies its coziness.

Julio's progress from being completely incapacitated to being free is a parallel to the trio's escape in the second act of the play. While the first act could do more to establish what is wrong with the characters' lives, the second act fully establishes the harrowing nature of the trip across the ocean on little more than a pile of tires. While the first act serves as mostly exposition, the second act is downright gripping. The outcome is uncertain until the very end—will the three make it? Or will their efforts have been in vain? Regardless, the fact that life is so bad on their island that they'd risk death just to get away is breathtaking. Act 2 of A Bicycle Country may be difficult for some viewers to watch. The trio run out of everything—smokes, and more importantly, water—halfway through their trip. Pepe and Ines start hallucinating, with Julio remaining the only sane individual. Lorraine Rodriguez does a terrific job as Ines, conveying a sense of hope even when all is lost.

In the her note accompanying the program of A Bicycle Country, dramaturg Shari Perkins challenges the audience to look at the world as Ines, Julio, and Pepe have, asking what we'd be willing to sacrifice in order to fix what we think has gone wrong. If we are to take a cue from A Bicycle Country, the answer would be a lot, and it would all be worth it in the end.

One Little Bite Changes Everything

It's difficult to be tempted. One so often gives in to whatever the temptation is. Such was the case with Eve, the (kind of) first woman, when the serpent questioned her about eating the fruit from the tree of knowledge. Of course, it's also difficult to be cast aside by a lover for another, as was the case with Lilith, sometimes thought to be the first wife to Adam. And as they say, hell hath no fury as a woman scorned, and so Lilith, in her rage, transformed into a serpent to tempt Eve and thus bring about the fall of man. Of course, that's not quite the version of the fall of man presented in Genesis. Company XIV, a dance-theater company heavily inspired by Baroque dance, drew from several sources to create their Le Serpent Rouge, including Jean Cocteau's Le Bel Indifferent, poems by Charles Bukowski, and the Bible. Their version of the temptation and the fall is as sensuous, spectacular, and rococo as it can get, with a shiny pressed tin backdrop, a whip wielding, thigh-high boot-clad Ring Mistress narrating events, a large chandelier that doubles as the tree of knowledge, and a fog machine. Lilith, that first, soulless partner to Adam, wears only a few delicately placed sequins while Adam and Eve wear leaves and dangle from gilt trapeze bars.

As it is a piece of dance-theater, the story is told primarily through movement, with the Ring Mistress providing most of the narration. Adam and Eve (John Beasant III and Laura Careless) dance their first dance together as silhouettes in a foggy prelapsarian haze. The Ring Mistress snaps her whip and there is a sharp change in the lights, the sound, the entire experience, as Lilith borrows the costume of the serpent in order to tempt Eve.

What follows as part of the temptation is a walk-through of the Seven Deadly Sins, beginning with vanity. A large gilt-framed mirror is wheeled onstage. Eve is dressed in a baroque-style gown and given a wig topped with a sailboat. Olivera Gajic's costumes are ornate and lush even when they are practically non-existent. The vanity section ends with Lilith pulling the strings of Eve's corset so tight that she screams. And so it is with the fall: it introduced new, previously unfound joy, as well as pain and sorrow. As the Ring Mistress says, after the sins have all been accounted for: "to choose knowledge is to choose to live. . . to fall is to know the intricacies of life’s deepest joys and sorrows."

Le Serpent Rouge almost threatens to be too long. There is a brief second act, separated from the first by an entre-act performance of Eartha Kitt's " A Woman Wouldn’t Be a Woman" by a drag queen. The second act serves as a quick summation and almost feels tacked on to the piece, a quick little bow to tie everything up.

Company XIV has done an excellent job in bringing the first story to life. Le Serpent Rouge is an exciting and unique blend of contemporary and classical versions of the fall of man, done in the way only Company XIV can.

All that Glitters. . .

The truth is a tricky thing. A person can know another person for years, have a deep relationship with them, and still never know what is really going on. What seems to be so often is in fact not. Labeling itself as a "zen exploration of the gap between truth and convenient fiction," Ore, or Or, a new play by Duncan Pflaster (who wrote last summer's delightful Prince Trevor Amongst the Elephants), places in parallel the facts of the story of General Tomoyuki Yamashita and the convoluted love lives of four New Yorkers. Yamashita, a general of the Japanese army during World War II, allegedly buried a fortune in gold in caverns underground somewhere in the Phillipines. In Ore, or Or, Calvin Kanayama, an art historian at the Metropolitain Museum of Art, is attempting to determine whether or not several gold statues found in the Phillipines are in fact some of Yamashita's gold. He's also having dreams about Yamashita, which adds an imaginative element to the play that, unfortunately, does not go very deep. At its heart, Ore, or Or is a story about four self-absorbed and lost people. Calvin meets Debby in a bar on St. Patty's day and they hit it off enough that he goes home with her, and ends up spending the next 10 months dating her. Maybe. What is "dating," anyway? Given that they're relatively hip, young, and live in New York, the characters make a lot of philosophical-ish quips and ruminate on the way society functions. Debby and her roommate Sean live in Spanish Harlem and lament the way it is being gentrified, all while admitting that they are part of the gentrification. The banter and quips could get heavy-handed but manage not to and the actors deliver them with spot-on timing.

The play is set up as a series of vignettes, each occurring on a holiday during each month of the year (starting the day after St. Patrick's day and ending on Valentine's Day). The structure of play prevents it from feeling overextended. There are scene shifts within the scene shifts, giving the two hour plus play a feeling of brevity. A woman dressed as a geisha controls the scene shifts with a disinterested wave of her hands. Rachel Lin, the actress playing the geisha as well as several other roles (a photographer, Calvin's sister, a Halloween party hostess) is a strong performer, shifting from role to role effortlessly. The other actors handle their roles nicely and there is a sense that each actor has settled comfortably into his or her character's skin.

That's important, as it makes the audience feel empathy for the struggles and pains of each one. Without that (and without the Yamashita metaphor), Ore, or Or would feel all to much like any other play written about young people and the troubles of love. With his large imagination and witty dialogue, Pflaster is definitely a playwright to watch. Although the Yamashita element could be deepened and expanded, Ore, or Or offers a nice alternative to the basic romantic comedy.

Puppets, But Why?

That Franz Kafka had issues with his father is perhaps common knowledge. That these issues influenced his work, particularly “The Judgment” and “The Metamorphosis” is also well known.  And so along comes Drama of Works, a renowned puppet theater, to split Kafka into three versions of himself in order to depict art imitating life. While the depiction is successful, it is unclear if it was necessary.  Kafka #1 is a wooden marionette, carved by Miroslav Trejtnar. The marionette has sunken cheeks and a sad disposition and is accompanied by a hacking cough. Kafka #2 is simply a wooden letter K, of which there are various sizes depending on how much control K has of the situation.  The third puppet is Gregor-Bug, complete with long feelers and six legs. That Kafka is a puppet is reflective of how he approached life—he could never speak out to his father (his thoughts scribbled down in a letter that was never sent), his engagement was eventually broken off, as he only communicated with his fiancée, Felicia (here represented by the letter “F”) through writing.   Puppet Kafka’s method of story-telling is fragmented. “The Metamorphosis” is cut in with episodes from Kafka’s own life as well as added “interrogation scenes” where Greta, the Mother, and the Father are interviewed by a empty suit puppet. Its story is where the piece falls down.  Chopping up “The Metamorphosis” makes it difficult to delve into the story of Gregor and his plight, as the audience is quickly pulled out of it and into the story of Kafka the man or the letter. The parallels between the man and his creation are evident and it seems redundant to hammer them home. Additionally, the interrogation scenes, meant to bring other Kafka works to mind, are unnecessary and add to the story where the story alone should suffice.   Though the story feels forced, and its attempt to examine the parallels between life and art obvious, the visual presentation of the play is stunning. The set is half sized, so that the puppets fit nicely but the human actors overrule the playing space. The balance between actors and puppets is finely maintained—this isn’t the type of puppetry where the puppeteer remains hidden behind a curtain. In fact, the visible puppeteering serves as yet another reminder of how outside forces acted upon and controlled Kafka and Gregor (pre-Bug and as Bug).   The puppets are a mix of traditional marionettes and found object constructions. Kafka finds himself interrogated by desk lamps while the boarder the Samsas take in are represented by shadows on the wall. The two most creatively constructed puppets were Gregor-Bug and the cleaning lady. Gregor-Bug consists of two overturned bread baskets, dish scrubbers, and long feathers while the charwoman puppet was made of a mop and a dusting brush, with a carved sponge for her face. Additionally, the two puppeteer/actors playing Gregor-Bug and the charwoman did an excellent job in bringing their puppets to life.   Puppet Kafka purports to examine the parallels between life and art, and what better way to do so then by mixing live actors with inanimate puppets? However, the way Puppet Kafka unfolds makes one wonder if the parallels need to be or should be examined in such a framework, as the stories are weakened by being cut up and mixed together. The presentation is pleasant and the concept intriguing, but Puppet Kafka never gets to the why and wherefore of the matter.

The Wonderfulness of Helplessness

A woman is buried to her waist in a pile of dirt. A bright blue painted sky stretches behind her and the sun constantly beats down upon her. She is awoken by piped in buzzing sounds. Though stuck in the mud and controlled by unseen forces, she seems quite okay with her situation and proceeds to go about her day to day routine. Reaching into a tote bag, she pulls out an unusually long toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste. Much time is spent attempting to read the writing etched into the handle of the toothbrush but to not much avail. The woman, Winnie, forgets what she has deciphered once she has deciphered it. Samuel Beckett’s Happy Days makes no attempt to explain why Winnie is buried the way she is. It is this lack of explanation, prevalent throughout his work, which makes Beckett a challenging figure and why his plays are tricky to produce. People want explanations, but like life itself, Beckett offers none. The play is often looked at as a comment on the human condition: a true expression of the absurd. We have no idea why we are here, might as well ramble on about it, might as well accept the circumstances as they are (even if that means sinking into a pile of earth). And yet, although the play comments on the human condition, Winnie’s experience is so far removed from what a typical person would experience that it is difficult to relate to her. Furthermore, Beckett’s stream of consciousness style occasionally goes in and out of one’s ears, with occasional phrases burrowing deep into the brain but with the majority leaking back out again.

Here would be where quality directorial choices and a strong performer would come into play. The goal is to make all the words stick, to engage the audience through the magic of theater. Intentional Theater’s production is almost completely able to make the play engaging and relatable. The show makes use of Beckett's production notebook from a 1979 performance in London. Winnie's mound is the same but the props are a real standout. They are surrealistic, elongated forms. Winnie’s mirror is about 2 inches wide yet has at least a foot-long handle. Her sun shade is a not very wide, crocheted parasol, a visual reminder of its uselessness against the constant sun. The deformed props highlight the futility of her condition. She can't read the toothbrush; she can barely use it to brush her teeth.

One occasionally feels sympathy for Winnie, as she tells stories from the past, as she calls out desperately to Willie, her husband, who lives in a hole behind the mound of earth. All that is seen of Willie, for the most part, is the back of his head and his papier mache boater hat. Asta Hansen brings a vulnerability to the role of Winnie that is quite appropriate, but occasionally the actor breaks character. There was a very audible line prompter hidden under the mound at the reviewed performance, and, suddenly, Winnie’s pauses were simply an actor forgetting her lines rather than an artistic choice.

Beckett is bleak. And yet, for that, each of his plays has some element of physical comedy, perhaps because comedy finds its base in sadness. Winnie digging through her props is one element of this. So is Willie's toying with his hankerchief and boater. Unlike Winnie, Willie is free to move about, and his flopping and climbing lighten the proceedings considerably. An accurate depiction of the frustrations and struggles of life, Happy Days is a must-see for anyone who has ever questioned their existence and then paused to smile about it.

For Love and Theater

Playwright Itamar Moses puts it quite nicely when he states that “a short play is like a single.” However, unlike a pop single, which can often become more popular than the longer album format, short plays tend to get relegated to the dust bin, pulled out for One-Act Festivals in the summertime, maybe, but otherwise, playwrights tend to become known only for their longer works. This is a shame as there many truly delightful short plays. Thankfully, the Flea Theater is producing five of Moses' short plays in an evening titled Love/Stories (or But You Will Get Used to It). The Flea's downstairs space works well for the structure of the show — each play has its own section on the wide stage. A “Reader” guides the audience through the transitions and through the final play itself. The plays are thematically linked: they are about love. But not only just about love but about the inner workings of theater and perhaps how difficult it is for one to find love while working in theater. In the first play, “Chemistry Read,” a playwright is forced to watch the actor who stole his girlfriend audition for the lead role in his play. In “Authorial Intent,” the longest of the five plays, we are taken through the breakup of couple, first in regular format, then in highly theatrical and literary technical terms, then finally as the actors playing the actors stripped of their characters. “Untitled Short Play” is all about the writer's stress in attempting to write a scene for a couple at a cafe.

The plays all have charm and the actors are all very engaging and energized, but occasionally the meta- nature of the plays gets to be a bit much. “Untitled Short Play” is the most static of the plays, given that no action in the traditional sense occurs—it is a play “hijacked by its opening stage direction.” However, John Russo is vibrant as the Reader, hopping around the Flea's wide stage obsessing over what could possibly happen in the scene that never happens. One would like it if the “play” were to actually begin, but then again, the Reader is quite compelling and his complaints understandable.

The strongest of the plays is “Szinhaz,” which is structured as a talk show, with an actress, Marie, interviewing a brooding Russian director. The director, Istvan, only speaks Russian, or at least something that sounds Russian. Felipe Bonilla pulls off the “Russian” language, be it actual Russian or not, very well. Marie's attempts to translate Chekhov's titles from Russian to English are quite hilarious as well: The Garbage Bird and There are Sisters and There are Three of Them. “Szinhaz” deals with the relationship between what is created in the theater and what actually then begins to occur in real life: the way in which actors playing lovers occasionally fall in love offstage as well, as they have become so wrapped up in the emotions created for the theater.

Love/Stories (or But You Will Get Used to It) makes for an enjoyable night of theater, particularly for anyone on the “inside” of theater and for anyone who has ever been enchanted by love.

The Truth is Obvious and Ever Shifting

It is always interesting to see what a contemporary theater company will do with a classic play; to see how they will relate it to our current times or extend its themes to relate to us. At the start of One Year Lease's production of Eugene Ionesco's The Bald Soprano, a calm voice intones over the loudspeaker. It issues general etiquette instructions as well as suggestions for what to do in case of a fire. The instructions are banal — servants should stand to the side of the door while guests enter, when you hear the word "fire," you should touch the side of the stage — and provide a perfect pre-show setting for the play as a well as a subtle suggestion as to what the company has done with the show. While studying English, Ionesco was taken with the obviousness of the phrases and dialogues in his primer. He learned, though he already knew, that the floor was down, the ceiling was up. The result was The Bald Soprano, where two English couples, Mr. and Mrs. Smith and Mr. and Mrs. Martin, get together for a dinner party. The stilted language at the beginning of the play: "There, it's nine o'clock. We've drunk the soup and eaten the fish and chips, and the English salad" soon gives way to silliness and nonsense, with, for instance, one set of couples pretending they had only just met, although they share the same bedroom, and same bed, and it seems, the same child. The play concludes with the characters shouting out non sequiturs such as “don't smooch my brooch!” and “the pope elopes! The pope's got no horoscope.” The shift is indicative of, as director Ianthe Demos notes, the collapse of the truths by which the characters live.

One Year Lease's production takes the collapse of truth one step further by performing The Bald Soprano as a structured improv. The world of The Bald Soprano is one in which "history has taken second place to the immediate and transitory. The result is a constant reconstruction of our reality." The text remains the same, yet the actors take subtle cues from each other so as to constantly change the physicality of the piece. A character leans, the others follow. A chair is raised, the others follow. This may be a production worth seeing several times, just so that one can see the shift in the show from night to night based on which cues are given and which are not.

The production is crisp and energetic, with the actors working together as a true ensemble. The stage is a circular platform surrounded by white curtains that the Maid and the Smiths snap open and shut. The costumes are prim and ever so proper, a perfect counterpoint for when the Smiths and Martins are rolling about on the floor, attempting to tear each others' eyes out. That said, the actor's physicality is impressive. Their movements are fluid, whether they brandishing their chairs as weapons or dragging themselves across the floor during a brutal fight. It is never clear who is the leader and who are the followers in the improvs or if they are in fact improvising at all.

The Bald Soprano is a pleasant reminder of the absurdity of life, and is particularly useful now when everything seems to have to be steeped in meaning. In light of that, it is often a delight to delight in the banal and One Year Lease certainly succeeds in finding the joy in nothing.

Someone Give Me Some Rotten Fruit to Throw

Is theater dead? Stolen Chair's latest production, Theatre is Dead and So Are You thinks so. And if it is not, then the show does its best to give the knife one final twist. Designed to be an “irreverent funeral for the stage,” the play is a eulogy for the deceased emcee, Leonard J. Sharpe, of a vaudeville troupe. The troupe performs monologues, sketches, and songs, all focused on death. The point of the show seems to be clear—it's about death—but what never becomes clear is why the performance feels the need to exist in the first place. The introduction to Theatre is Dead is long and slow. The stage is littered with theatrical debris—a drill, a curtain, a sawhorse. One performer enters and slowly removes the articles from the stage, one by one, while the audience watches, some laughing nervously, some impatiently awaiting the start of some action. Then a coffin is wheeled onstage and a woman, Hazel, enters, and opening the lid, wails. She closes the lid. Then opens it again and once again, wails. And then repeats the actions, until she finally takes flowers out from her skirt and begins littering the stage and coffin with them. Finally, other performers begin climbing out of the coffin, which is a neat trick, and it looks like the actual show is ready to begin.

Except that it doesn't. What instead occurs is more introduction—who the performers are, who is in the coffin, and the all important question: how did theater die? Instead of answering the question, the performer decides to question why the audience is at the show. After all, don't we have something better and cheaper to be doing? At this point, the audience most likely is wondering why they sacrificed their evening to see the show, but since not much had happened yet, it is still eager to see some action.

The preliminaries take so long that once the actual acts start, it is hard to get into them. And like the intro, the acts have a lot of air in them and could move much more quickly. Certain choices made the show physically difficult and painful to watch. A number of acts took place on the catwalks behind the balcony, so that the audience had to turn and crane their necks to see them. Making full use of the space is an interesting choice, but it is wise to reconsider such choices when it makes the show a pain to watch. Also, a source 4 positioned upstage center was swiveled around on occasion and shone directly into the audience's eyes.

The strongest skit in the show, a re-enactment of Romeo and Juliet's death scene, using the corpse of the emcee as Romeo, was truly funny and made good use of physical comedy and gesture. But it came too late in the performance to save the production from its own death.

Despite the large number of recent show closings and this shaky economic time, theater is not dead. We should be celebrating the fact that people are still drawn to theater, not attempting to “suck the pleasure” out of the remaining days of life as Theatre is Dead intends to do (according to the director's note). Anyone with any vested interest in the form is advised to stay away from Theatre is Dead and So Are You.

Theatrical Potatoes

The potatoes have brains. Two women stand center furiously peeling potatoes, the skins flying every which way. They seem to be preparing dinner for their two husbands, who are out hunting. The common scene is interrupted when one of the women, Bethy, looks more closely at her potato and realizes it has organs and is a sentient being. So the kitchen sink scene is shattered. The other woman, Fern, turns to Bethy and asks her to “kill me and eat me quick, before the men get back” and then tell the men that she ran off with another hunter. She repeats her plea several times before fleeing the stage. Sibyl Kempson's new play, Potatoes of August is a fugue. The program kindly provides both definitions of “fugue”: in music, “a contrapuntal composition in which a short melody or phrase is introduced by one part and successively taken up by others, and developed by interweaving the parts.” In psychiatry: “a state or period of loss of awareness of one's identity, often coupled with flight from one's usual environment. . . “ The content and structure of Potatoes of August follow both definitions of fugue. The characters have matching costumes, yet are different people. The opening scenes feature Fern and her husband Buck in their living room, followed by Bethy and her husband Gordon in their living room. When the potatoes speak (accompanied by stop motion video of dancing potatoes), their voices are kind of in unison, but it doesn't match up so that their speech is overlapped and almost indiscernible.

The play is highly theatrical and demonstrates an understanding of theatrical theory. The acting style takes a cue from Bertolt Brecht's alienation effect—the actors' are not emotionally involved in their characters and thus, the audience never becomes so either. Their lines are delivered in banal tones; the acting could be called terrible if you didn't know it was on purpose. There are video projections explaining where the action is taking place. The accompanying songs are melodic, but the voices singing them are terribly off key. Instead of limiting themselves to the stage area, the characters make use of the entire space, running up into the balcony, and around the audience.

The characters' beliefs are thrown into question. Fern lies in her thoughtscape, remembering how people behaved when she was a little girl. Gordon constantly mentions the astronomer Carl Sagan, reminding Bethy of his ideas and principles. Bethy runs around the perimeter of the audience, wondering what is happening, and what is she supposed to be feeling. The show is heavy embedded with philosophy, with a short reading list provided on the back of the program. However, one does not need to be familiar with Swedenborg or Sagan to understand and the enjoy the play.

Potatoes of August will probably be most enjoyed, however, by someone with a background in theater. While there is a linear plot embedded in the play, it is ultimately more about its form. The story comes through and is given a boost by the theatricality of the piece. The piece is very exciting to watch, provided you know what is going on. However, its theatricality may be inaccessible to someone only familiar with the commercial theater and its ilk. Which isn't a bad thing, but it does make one wish that more works of theater would embrace their theatricality instead of simply trying to lamely imitate the movies.

There's No Such Thing As Too Much Truth

Antigone. It's a story we've heard and seen many, many a time. And yet, here it is again, in a new retelling by Keith Reddin and Meg Gibson called Too Much Memory . The text is a collage of the Sophoclean play, the Anouilh adaptation and texts from figures as various as Peter Brook, Susan Sontag, and Richard Nixon. And despite the fact that it is, as the lone chorus member says, an “adaptation of an adaptation of a re-translation,” the original story shines through loud and clear, its message the same as all those years ago and yet still relevant for the present day. A square playing space is outlined on the stage using tape and later traced using chalk. A video screen stretches along the back wall. The actors assemble around the perimeter of the square, talking, playing card games, and reading the newspaper. When it is their cue to go onstage, they take the time to trace the outline of the square and enter from a specific spot, as if going through a door, as if the audience is not meant to see them on the stage's edges.

Yet, we see them. The play is set in the present day. The chorus member makes a point to distinguish the “present” from the “contemporary.” Characters reference pop culture and their cell phones, and yet the play transcends all that. It is not about transforming the story into a mirror image of our life—it is about presenting the truth: no matter what, it is important to do what is right rather than what is lawful. And also, the truth that justice is not always served, and one does not necessarily learn from past mistakes.

Laura Heisler is amazing as Antigone. The actress conveys a strength in the face of her character's actions and yet a vulnerability at the same time. When she hears her fate—that she will be placed in a hole and buried alive—she completely breaks down. Her sobs, the kind that border on hyperventilation, produce a visceral reaction in the viewer. Peter Jay Fernandez, who plays Creon, is very much the politician whom initially you want to like, in whom you want to see the good, but who ultimately gives you no choice but to despise him for his callousness and inability to care.

The play is helped by its lighting design and its barely noticable use of video. There are other subtle elements in the design as well. Antigone wears a bright orange scarf, which is later used to bind her wrists, and which she even later uses to hang herself. Eurydice, Creon's silent wife, sits in the back right corner, taking in the events, smiling for the cameras, and seeming to be an empty shell of a person. The chorus member starts the play by lifting a copy of the New York Times in the air, relating the events of the story back to events in the present.

Everyone should see Too Much Memory . The play successfully returns a sense of urgency to the theater. In an age of being bashed over the head with so-called facts, facts that often overlook the truth of the matter, facts that are given a spin to benefit who is speaking them, it is important that theater such as this be seen and discussed by as many people as possible.

The Puppets and the Cooks

Loud music begins playing and suddenly a Santa Claus emerges from the theater doors, followed by a group of people dressed as chefs, each playing an instrument. They process through the theater's lobby and out into the street, where they continue to make music. After a few moments, they return inside, leading an expectant audience back into the theater, eager to see the newest production from Bread and Puppet Theater, The Sourdough Philosophy Spectacle and Circus . All the elements of a Bread and Puppet show are there—cheaply constructed yet breathtaking puppets, dance, music, and a political message. And yet, this show does not deliver. The stated purpose of the performance is to explore the “need for human fermentation,” the need to cast off the restraints of the government and its message of conformity. However, the story gets lost somewhere in the mix, yielding not an audience ready to break free of their bonds, ready to take up the banner of activism, but rather one that is confused and unfortunately, a bit bored.

The group of cooks introduce themselves as the “Sourdough Singers.” They mostly speak an unintelligible gibberish. Their first dance features the brass instruments played in a breathy manner; it's not music so much as wind that comes out of them. The cooks end up in a straight line, moving their arms up and down. Only one person is fully visible in the line, the rest become arms following her lead. Shortly after the line, giant man puppets are brought onstage.

The giant (at least fifteen feet tall) puppets are quite frightening, and are maneuvered in such a way by the puppeteers that they hover disapprovingly above the audience's head. Their purpose may be obvious- if one had been given a synopsis of the show—they are those who seek to control humans, who make sure everyone stays in line. They are initially intimidating, but they ultimately don't do anything besides mutter a bit before being placed against the stage walls to watch the remainder of the performance.

The bulk of the show is what the company has called the “Storm Office—the Storm Poem and Implementation Machine.” The implementation machine object is quite adorable, a pulley and crank system that raises and releases a hammer that then hits a fire alarm bell. The machine itself kept breaking; the rope would fall off the pulley and not raise the hammer, requiring a human hand to aid it in pulling up. This malfunction was slightly charming, and I hope, intentional, a reminder of the company's dedication to cheap art.

After the appearance of the giant men puppets and the machine, it was hoped that the Storm Office would continue the visual stimuli of the show, since the verbal was almost forgotten. There was narration, particularly during the Storm Poem, but it was not engaging in the least. Sadly, the visuals in this section were lacking as well, and were without explanation. There was an inexplicable tin bathtub that rattled threateningly, several giant headed puppets and very often a simple white puppet who seemed to be the focus of the section.

Even the most lovingly baked bread sometimes doesn't rise quite right. The intent of the company never quite comes through in The Sourdough Philosophy Spectacle and Circus . However, in an age of garishly expensive theater that not many people can afford, it is a relief that Bread and Puppet continues to operate with the same spirit that they have had for 45 years.

The Show Does Not Remain the Same

Part of the beauty of live theater is that, sometimes subtly, sometimes not, the performance is different from show to show. No Tea's production of Plucking Failures Like Ripe Fruit takes the variance present in live performance to the next level. Moments prior to the show's beginning, members of the audience pluck six ten minute play titles out of a jar (out of a total selection of ten plays), ensuring that each night will vary, not only in terms of the actor's energy and ability to properly say their lines, but also in terms of the content and the tone of the piece. On the evening the show was reviewed, the plays presented were: “Anything for You” by Cathy Celesia, “A Day for Surprises” by John Guare, “Request Stop” by Harold Pinter, “Cold” by David Mamet, “1-900-DESPERATE” by Christopher Durang, “Miss You” by David Auburn, and “Sure Thing” by David Ives. Your experience will be totally different, though, given the randomness of the play's selection and performance order.

The performers are all eager and for the most part, full of energy to tackle whatever plays the evening may throw their way. However, “Anything for You” started the night off on a low energy note. Two woman, best friends, meet for dinner. Lynette drops a bit of a bomb on her friend Gail: she wants to have an affair. And she doesn't want to have an affair with another man, she wants to Gail to sleep with her. Gail tries to act flabbergasted, however, the energy emitted by the two actresses never quite reached the point where Gail was truly shocked by Lynette's proposition. The actors were limited by remaining seated at a dining table for the duration of the play. The play's ending was also open-ended; the ten minute framework didn't provide it with room to come to a conclusion to the women's problem.

However, things quickly picked up and remained up with the evening's second play, “A Day for Surprises.” One of the lions in front of the 42nd Street library comes alive, walks into the library and eats one of the librarians, leaving two extremely dorky librarians left to ponder the meaning of love and life together. Jeremy Mather is hilarious as Mr. Falanzano, a librarian heartbroken after his librarian love is eaten by the lion. Mather physically throws himself across the stage in torment as he describes his and the deceased librarian's well-read love affair. Meanwhile, Alicia Barnatchez listens as Miss Jepson, another socially awkward librarian. The two are undeniably sweet as two lonely bookworms trying to reach each other after a rather silly tragedy.

Two of the plays, “1-900-DESPERATE” and “Miss You” feature sad, bored people spending their evenings talking on phones, either to a dating hotline or to their husband, of whom they've grown tired. The use of phones in performance can be tricky, yet the director, Lindsey Moore, has arranged the cast onstage into nice stage pictures, so that while the action may be minimal, the view is still a treat for the eyes.

The theme of Plucking Failures Like Ripe Fruit is failure at love, and the plays depict the commonality of human loneliness in a delightfully plucky manner. The arrangement of plays on the evening I saw the show caused it to end on a delightfully high note, suggesting that although love is tough and rife with failure and loss, there is a light at the end of the tunnel. The last play was David Ives' “Sure Thing,” where a man and woman meet in a cafe and, with the help of a dinging bell, get to keep trying to make their first meeting just right.

However, the charm of the concept is that this uplifting experience was for this night and this audience only; the next time the show is performed, the selection and arrangement might make for a completely downer evening. But no matter, the quality of the acting and the directing will make Plucking Failures Like Ripe Fruit an enjoyable night of theater whether the arrangement is uplifting or not.

In Case You Forgot, Election Day is Nov. 4

It's almost here. The day that most of the country can't wait for: election day, when we will choose who will replace President Bush (love him or hate him). In case the constant media coverage isn't enough, Nero Fiddled is presenting a fun new musical, Life After Bush, in which a cast of familiar politicians and other temporary celebrities guides us through the primaries all the way up to that future fateful day. Although the topic is getting tired at this late stage, the show is able to make current events seem fresh and invigorating again, reminding us that, come what may, on election day, we all have a responsibility to ensure that America can be the best country it can be. Life After Bush is a series of short scenes and musical numbers. The first scene presents America as a patient suffering from a bad case of “Bush.” However, it may be all uphill from there, as she soon meets the superhero Barack Obama (Tarik Davis, clad in spandex and a cape). The scenes are chronological, depicting the events of the past few months using caricatures. President Bush wears a giant, somewhat distracting, foam cowboy hat as he struggles to floss his teeth and delights in Cadbury crème eggs. The material is mostly ripped right from the headlines. In a standout number, former presidential nominee Rudy Giuliani sings about how he is “9/11 Rudy”, echoing Joseph Biden's statement that all Giuliani's sentences contain “a noun, a verb, and 9/11.” In another scene, John Hagee and Jeremiah Wright, while waiting for a bus, discuss the Bible and candidate endorsement.

Don't think that the musical is all wicked satire and fun, though. One scene features a woman ripping up a piece of paper which has “Roe Vs. Wade” written upon it, as the laws and judgments passed that have eroded the original decision away are recited. What is left is a shred of the original decision. The scene feels a little out of place in a world where Dick Cheney is a snarling dog and “Al Qaeda in Iraq” is two chorus girls. However, the show doesn't stay in the land of seriousness too long, as an advertisement for “Abortion Land,” a spa where two for one abortions are offered, quickly follows.

The musical wears its politics on its sleeve—it's unlikely to find an audience of McCain supporters or even anyone who is undecided in their politics. Yet, even a full fledged Obama supporter might groan at the idea of yet another spoof on the what the Republican party hath wrought. However, the show never feels like a progressive hammer, pounding the same jokes about Bush and the last eight years into its audience's head. The message is obvious, but the delivery is light.

The run up to the presidential election is wearing on us all, as candidates resort to personal attacks and media coverage becomes incessant. i>Life After Bush is just what the doctor ordered to inject a bit of jazzy humor into the proceedings.

All The World's a John Hughes' Movie

Maybe most people do not want to admit it, but there is certain joy to be had in watching those high school movies from the 1980's. Most people would also admit that there is a joy in watching Shakespeare's plays. So what better way to get the utmost joy and entertainment out of a piece of theater than by combining the two? An adaptation of As You Like It, Sammy Buck and Daniel S. Acquisto's new musical Like You Like It does just that and the result is a cute and entertaining evening filled with identity confusion, high school politics, and ultimately, the right couples getting together. The year is 1985 and the enchanted Arden forest has been cut down to make way for the Arden Mall, where “who knows, you might find enchantment in the shops.” The students of Courtland High School are excited about the mall's opening and the big dance-off that evening. However, bookish and shy Rosalind is beating herself up over her inability to talk to Orlando, on whom she has a crush. Meanwhile, Orlando, who secretly likes Rosalind, is under the clutches of the rich and beautiful Audrey Shepherd. When the two finally do get to speak to each other, Orlando's geeky, hall monitor older brother catches them skipping class and suspends Rosalind and her cousin Celia.

Threatened with expulsion, Rosalind and Celia hatch a plan to show up at the dance that night—Rosalind becomes Corey, a college aged boy, while Celia dresses like a Madonna-wannabe. Their disguises cause much confusion in the hours leading up to the dance, and if the story weren't such a familiar one, it would be uncertain whether all would work out in the end.

Like You Like It is a successful adaptation and update. The politics of state translate well into the politics in high school. As the love between the characters in As You Like It never develops beyond the superficial, that also translates well into a high school setting. The comedy and interest lies in the present action, not in where the characters will be after graduation.

The music successfully imitates the pop from the time period. The script is rife with pop culture and Shakespearean references. For instance, the band is called the “Seven Stages of Man.” The costumes bring back the cringe worthy fashions (crimped hair, popped collars, ruffly taffeta dresses) from the era while the set is painted in boldly hideous 80's colors—teal and purple. The ensemble cast is unified and strong and features many high school stereotypes—the lemmingesque cheerleaders, the “goth girl,” the jocks. Hollis Scarborough is delightful as the frivolous Celia while Alison Luff is genuine as Rosalind. Her schoolgirl awkwardness is nearly palpable as is her exuberant confidence as Corey.

Like You Like It is a fun filled show and is perfect for when you want something Shakespeare but with an 80's beat and a teenage vibe. Everything about the show is delightful, from the cast to the music to the source material.

Beauty and Confusion

Nine months remain for Alora and Linus before life changes drastically for the both of them. “A lot can happen in nine months” is a constant refrain throughout Andrew Irons’ Linus and Alora . At the end of that time frame, life can either begin anew or end. Given a terminal diagnosis of cancer, Alora calls upon her three imaginary brothers, Neal, Owen, and Arthur in order to cope as the rest of her time speeds by her. However, Linus, who lost his imagination as a small boy, had asked her to banish her brothers eight years ago. Yet now it seems he may need them more than Alora. Alora’s goal in bringing back the three brothers is to re-open Linus’ imagination, so that the pair can enjoy the next nine months more fully. Claiming to be pregnant, Alora refuses to go out into the real world, fearing that death is just a step away. She chooses instead to fly among the stars and converse with her imaginary son, Sam. The play takes the audience on a journey which is at times thrilling, beautiful, and confusing.

Alora sings a lot, as way to trace time and tell her story. Melle Powers, the actress playing her, does not have (or does not use) a soothing, melodious voice. Her songs are coarse and grating, the songs of a woman clinging desperately to something that is slipping away. Other elements of the production produce similar effects—a phone constantly rings loudly while a flashing red siren light goes off. Video projections, including a countdown timer, flash by on three surfaces and everyday sounds (the popping of fluorescent lights, a heartbeat) are incredibly amplified. At times the play feels reminiscent of Charles Mee, who is known for his use of pastiche in constructing his plays and for the surreal, magical worlds he creates. However, the amount of sights and sounds occurring onstage can be a bit much at times, particularly in the opening scenes. The amount of singing, dancing, and video work happening onstage makes it confusing to know where to look and what to pay attention to.

There is also beauty amid all the mayhem. The set, designed by Dustin O’Neill, features a hardwood ramp and a concrete-looking playing area with a square of AstroTurf in its center. A bright red telephone and a classy coat stand take prominent positions stage right and left respectively. The projection surfaces are dressed to look like three large windows, each with a single color background when they are not showing video. The brothers' costumes are snazzy and bright, especially when they don sequined jackets pretending to be the Pips.

In all, Linus and Alora is a beautiful story about love between two people and the way imagination can liberate one from the often sad facts of life. While it may get too busy at times, the direction and the script both show a desire to make theater exciting and fantastic, something which is often lacking onstage and yet certainly deserves to be there.

The Magic is Somewhere Beneath the Surface

A confused teen runs away from home and lives on the streets, turning tricks to survive and using meth to dull the pain. A social worker/graduate student meets him in order to use his story as a part of her dissertation. Yet, she finds that this teen is different from other gay youths on the streets. This teen, Nihar, claims to be running from his foster parents, who just so happen to be the “King of Shadows” and the “Green Lady,” and who want to take him back into their world of darkness. Of course, the social worker, Jessica Denomy, thinks he is lying or delusional. In case you haven't guessed by now, Roberto Aguirre-Sacasa's King of Shadows is inspired by A Midsummer Night's Dream . Nihar is allegedly the changeling boy fought over by Titania and Oberon in Shakespeare's play. However, despite his magical upbringing, we are never allowed a peek into Nihar's world. The action takes place in Jessica's apartment, or at the park, or else at other real places. The play tries to maintain a balance between the magical and the real, but ultimately remains firmly ensconced in reality. Instead of showing the magic behind Nihar, the play tells us of it. Jessica's teenage sister Sarah describes being attacked by one hundred “carnivorous butterflies” and Nihar describes the way in which other runaway teens are going missing, but butterflies and kidnapping are never seen on stage. A lot of time is spent having the characters stand under spotlights and narrate parts of the story, as if to serve as a reminder that a tale is unfolding before the audience and as a cheap way to fill in some exposition.

However, what the story lacks in actual, visible magic is made up for by the design elements of the show. Wilson Chin has a constructed a space where couches and stairs slide out of torn poster-coated walls. Lightning storms and purple fog materialize out of nowhere, thanks to the design by Jack Mehler. The fog and lightning serve as the physical evidence that Nihar may actually be what he says he is.

Likewise, the cast does a decent job in bringing their characters to life. Aguirre-Sacasa has provided the actors with fully-fleshed, meaty characters. Kat Foster, as Jessica, is able to elicit equal parts sympathy and revulsion for her character. She went into social work because she had the money and nothing better to do. She truly cares, but is rather unlikeable at times. Yet, it is difficult to not feel sympathy for her by the end. Likewise, Satya Bhabha is completely believable as the lost and fearful Nihar. He plays his role with enough strength and wonderment that it is never certain, until the play's end, whether he is crazy, or a liar, or really a magical being. Richard Short and Sarah Lord round out the strong cast as Jessica's police officer boyfriend and younger sister.

The stage elements do their best to enhance the play, but what is ultimately at issue is the script. It never delves deeply enough into the world of Nihar, choosing instead to depict Jessica's reality and suggesting that we are meant to stay in the realm of the real and not leap off with Nihar through portals into the land of fairies and who knows what else. King of Shadows does an adequate job of showing the reality of social work but never dares to create fully the world that it itself implies.

Stuck In a Bank, Stuck in a Life

It's a bank robbery gone wrong. The hostages have freed themselves from the rope that was holding them and are dancing with Heistman's henchmen. A detective is speaking to Heistman, the leader of the robbery, from a bullhorn, telling him the place is surrounded and that there is no escape. Yet, through it all, Heistman has the time to wax poetic on the meaning of happiness and love and fear. El Gato Teatro's Heistman is a beautiful and dense piece of dance theater. The music is pounding and catchy. The costumes are bright and skimpy. The movement is jerky, almost as if the characters are unsure of what they are meant to be doing. Heistman initially directs his henchman, telling them when to go, how to move, but seems to lag behind near the end, following instead of leading. Is this because the game is up? Or because he has found a deeper meaning in all this? The show is short, barely an hour, and leaves many questions. Did Heistman succeed? The detective informs him that he did a good job, but in the end, who is calling the shots, the henchman, the hostages, or Heistman?

Heistman is entertaining at the same time that it is thought-provoking. Anyone can get stuck somewhere, trapped in their own thoughts, trapped in an unfriendly situation. Life often backfires, and it is comforting to know that even if things do not go as planned, there is usually a way out. It's particularly nice if that way out includes catchy music and dance.

Heistman is playing as part of Soho Think Tank's Ice Factory 2008.

The First Step Is. . .

Life can be shaky at times for everyone. In Bridget Harris' Out of Control, four women with addictive tendencies meet to share and find strength together. However, things get a little out of hand when they invite a guest speaker, Peter, who thinks he understands women completely. Peter begins to date Sweetie, a member of the group who occasionally smokes pot. Their relationship causes conflict between Sweetie and Brenda, Sweetie's co-worker and tutor who has recently joined the Overindulgers Anonymous group. Although everyone in the play is supposedly an “overindulger,” the play glosses over each woman's issue in order to fit everything in. The result is a low energy, superficial show without much explanation or development. The actors do their best with the weak material. Kat Ross is adorable as Sweetie, the kind of dumb yet endearing single mother pothead. Beverley Prentice is strong as Brenda, a lesbian who needs a job and is slightly bitter about the hand fate has dealt her. Danahar Dempsey is swarmy yet charming as Peter, the woman-controlling psychologist. And yet the dialogue that comes out of the characters' mouths is incredibly bland. When discussing their mysterious co-worker Mary, Sweetie says to Brenda, “running away. . . wow, do you think?” The script is full of weak exclamations and careless repetition.

The play never takes the time to fully develop the characters, instead skirting around their issues. Brenda is portrayed as bitter and heartbroken yet time is not spent examining or developing her problems. Sweeties is more of an occasional pot smoker than an actual addict, so what is driving her to hang out with addicts? More time is spent with the problems of other characters, Dolores and Bunny, who are kleptomaniacs and alcoholics respectively, than with Brenda and Sweetie. Yet the time spent with their problems is just to depict them, not to explain or rationalize them. The result is an unfulfilling sketch when a more meaty play is promised.

The weak script is not helped by the weak staging. Many scenes feature the four women sitting in a circle talking. Or Brenda and Sweetie sitting in Sweetie's trailer smoking. The pacing is incredibly low energy, which is unusual for a comedy, and the constant sitting limits action and does not give the audience much to look at.

Out of Control tries to surprise the audience by throwing in a plot twist towards the end. However, anyone paying the least bit of attention could figure out what the twist will be midway through the performance. With its weak storyline and character development, Out of Control proves to be anything but.