Reading the Grains

Subway musicians may be just another part of the daily commutes of ordinary New Yorkers, but an undeniable aura of mystery nevertheless surrounds these oft-overlooked talents. Performing evergreen melodies on instruments ranging from steel drums to violins, letting out sweetly trembling vocal lines in foreign languages or setting up impromptu jam sessions on subway platforms, these truly independent musicians provide a soundtrack to our routines, carrying on their performances whether or not we pause to listen. We are unlikely to search for these individuals’ Twitter updates or online calendars of upcoming performances, but every once and a while, as the shriek of a passing car drowns out their melodies, we may wonder what kinds of lives they lead beyond these grimy platforms. It’s this element of curiosity that brings an added allure to vocalist Rosateresa Castro-Vargas’s one-woman show on her childhood in Puerto Rico. As her recollections of family coffee sessions give way to a deeply disturbing secret, we desire to know more than she is able to reveal in a thematically busy, roughly hour-long performance. Castro-Vargas makes no reference to her days spent singing underground, but as it draws to a close, we are left wondering how an individual with her set of experiences approaches her work as a performer.

From its first moments, Tomando Café is a tribute to the allure of domestic rituals. In the glow of dim, yellow lamps and tiny candles, the audience is asked to choose their seats at round tables, creating the illusion that we have been personally invited to share a cup of coffee with the narrator. As Castro-Vargas enters in a long, pink dress that matches her buoyant curls, she greets each audience member individually and lets out a mystical, operatic melody to describe the experience of drinking coffee. “Café,” she sings, jumping an octave and releasing the second syllable as a tingling, shimmering extension of a simple exhalation.

Interwoven with tales of her childhood community’s coffee traditions is a complex and disturbing portrait of the end of a childhood. Through seventeen short scenes, or “gulps,” Castro-Vargas narrates her experience of growing up in a world in which a young woman’s purity was so strictly revered that a fear of shame kept families from exposing situations as severe as child molestation. When Castro-Vargas recalls standing in the kitchen and attempting to make out the whispers of the family’s women in the next room, the simple phrase of “what are they hiding?” reveals layers of silent anguish.

The performance relies almost entirely on her expressive, organic voice that has a simultaneously angelic and conversational quality. Castro-Vargas’s only accompaniment is Toni Franco’s acoustic guitar, and because the intimate space reveals even the slightest errors in breathing and every imperfectly placed note, her performance is startlingly brave. By the most part, Castro-Vargas is up to the task, and displays an unpretentious magnetism that allows us to trust her. She is more a storyteller than a natural actress, however, and on occasion we notice her obviously correcting her lines after a careless start.

Priscilla Flores and Yasemin Ozumerzifon alternate in the chameleonic role of Server; they announce the start of each scene, serve coffee and crackers to audience members ("milk or sugar?"), and interact with Castro-Vargas in various scenes. On a few occasions, the character even breaks into an improvised dance and pulls audience members up to join her and Castro-Vargas on the floor. When she interacts with Castro-Vargas, her role is more to create a figurative dynamic than play the specific role of friend, mother or grandmother; in fact, she remains silent almost for the entirety of the play.

Castro-Vargas’s playful presence and light, organic style both benefit the play and work to its disadvantage. She includes several heavy-handed metaphors in the material— including Little Red Riding Hood as a molested child and Medusa as the healing goddess of anger— ultimately causing the material to become overcrowded with symbols. The play’s most powerful moment comes at the end, where a reprise of her first, seemingly carefree song suddenly contains a deep sense of sadness and regret. When she finally announces that she “[needs] some air” and steps out the door, we are left holding our breaths, but simultaneously wondering what she might say if she were asked to return to us.

Boys Not Allowed

No-one would ever have described the life of a 30-something woman as “easy.” But in the post-Sex and the City era, in which rowdy banter over brunch has become a cliché and nights of martini-shaped cocktails are part of a mating dance to land Mr. Big and his penthouse apartment, women are forced to spend more and more time explaining where their own desires fit into this frantic spectrum of expectations. On one side are relatives demanding a summer wedding and a baby bump; on the other, the now-archaic image of a power-hungry “single gal.” For all these reasons, shows like Mel & El: Show and Tell are arguably more necessary than ever. During a time in which writing a story about female friendship and singlehood is likely to be met with more than a few eye rolls, exploring the emotional shades of gray in what it means to be a woman takes creative guts. This is exactly what Mel and El does, in a rowdy, heartfelt, and endearing production.

Written by two real-life best friends, Melanie Adelman and Ellie Dvorkin, this mini-musical is the latest in the duo’s string of collaborations, which includes a Gotham Comedy Club appearance, a NYMF entry, and a subsequent year-long run of their festival show, Mel and El: This Show Rhymes, at The Duplex. Lounging in a hot pink room plastered with images of ‘80s icons like Guns N’ Roses, Cher and Meat Loaf, the pair reminisce about their long friendship, address their secret desires (strangers’ babies are becoming cuter by the day), argue about their differences (El is an exhibitionist, Mel more tightly wound), and even sing about their darker traumas (plastic surgery, a lifelong obsession to be perfect).

It’s the paradigm of this physical space that allows us to get to know these two characters so quickly; surrounded by mementos of their childhoods, Mel and El don’t have to deal with the burdens of a public façade, and let us know early on that inside this room-within-a stage, they feel safe. “Our little pink box is where we are/It’s better than a disco, better than a bar/We do what we like, we’re totally free/You can be you and I can be me,” they sing, and we both sense their lack of pretention and feel honored to be let into their world. As they recall the routines, innuendo-laden inside jokes and over-the top dreams of their teenage years, we root for them—because many of us, even as adults, act just as foolishly when we think that nobody is watching.

Mel and El’s private territory isn’t wholly free from intrusion; their nagging mothers—one a pill-popping stereotype of a Jewish mother and one a foul-mouthed Brit—make two brief appearances during the show. Instead of being played by two additional actors, however, they are introduced as a pair of puppets (handled by Jeremiah Holmes) that resemble characters in Avenue Q. The choice is hilarious and unexpectedly poignant; like the invisible, metallic-voiced parents in early Peanuts cartoons, these demanding grown-ups are a different species altogether.

The score, composed by Patrick Spencer Bodd, doesn’t always match up to Adelman and Dvorkin’s gleefully written text, but boasts a few standouts. "She’s My Bitch," the show’s opening and closing number, is appropriately catchy, while "I’m Hatin’ on Ya" cleverly channels a mid-‘90s pop rap song. Despite the show’s outrageous feel, a few ballads give momentum to its narrative and keep it from spinning in place. Some quieter moments—especially the usually jovial El’s song about her experiences with plastic surgery—are downright haunting in their sense of lived realism. “I’d managed to avoid the scene/Where every Jewish princess cuts her face apart at age thirteen,” she sings, creating a pained moment that’s difficult to forget.

Like Mel and El, most of us know that hiding in our childhood bedrooms won’t provide permanent protection against the world’s expectations or keep us from panicking about the numerous dreams we were too self-doubting or preoccupied to fulfill. But unlike so many tales about single women, the work encourages us to find comfort in what we already have—and find hilarity in both our secret desires and our shortcomings.

The Joke's on You, Too

The question of why we humans lie has certainly been explored by writers, sociologists and child psychologists alike. But like our other inherent inclinations toward morally questionable behavior, the subject continues to baffle—and inspire—us. No Tea Productions’ Liars, a compilation of eight one-act comedies by eight different writers, examines lying through a broad, sometimes fantastical lens: among its more extreme characters are a Red Bull-fueled film agent, a homicidal Santa Claus and a bathroom scale prone to vicious insults. At its most poignant, however, the work discovers irony and humor in everyday scenarios that are likely to ring true and be almost embarrassingly familiar. On several occasions it honestly and effectively nails us, while keeping us in on the joke. Liars starts off with Jeremy Mather’s "Sausage Party," a work that heavily draws on this idea of familiarity and also prevails as one of the collection’s most memorable pieces. Set at a generic house party (think pretzel bags, handles of vodka and Dixie cups), Mather’s work narrates a hilarious collision between Brad (Jesse Bernath), his straight-talking girlfriend Cassie (Sabrina Farhi), and Brad’s sloppy, relentlessly embarrassing friend Isaac (Mather himself). As we watch these characters casually double-cross each other to fulfill temporary urges and save face, we are likely to recognize our own tendencies to cop out with a white lie. Mather’s text is raunchy without delving into gross-out territory, and includes several effectively timed one-liners.

The following two plays, "Weight" by director Lindsey Moore and "LOL" by Caroline O’Hare, rely on setting up comedic scenarios rather than delving into narratives, but still push Liars forward as a cohesive work. Without uttering a single word, Alicia Barnatchez is magnetic as a woman who tries to make peace with her verbally abusive scale in "Weight," and displays similar, vulnerable spunk as a hopeful chat room visitor in "LOL."

Some of the weakest moments in Liars occur after its midpoint. "Peek," a depiction of a nightmarish first date, benefits from a genuinely funny setup and features another committed performance by Jeremy Mather, but suffers from an excessive number of scenes that give the play a dragging feel. Meanwhile, Joe Musso’s "Wisconsin" and Matt Sears’ "Lore" seem out of place in the production. "Wisconsin" is a stand-alone joke with an unremarkable punch line, while "Lore," a dramatic clash between an enraged Santa and a little girl, is too radical a departure from the collection’s more relatable moments.

Liars picks up at the end, however, with "Evacuation Plan," a clever and heartfelt work penned by No Tea's artistic director Jeff Sproul. Starring Sproul as a guy who unsuccessfully attempts to conceal his odd habits from a new girlfriend, the work contrasts elements of surprising sweetness with an ironic undertone: as some characters discover safety in honesty, others continue to initiate romantic relationships under a false façade.

Transitions from one play to the next are smooth, and good use is made of the small stage at Under St. Marks. The cast of actors, many of whom have appeared in previous No Tea Productions, have thrown themselves into their roles so wholeheartedly that even the image of chairs doubling as urinals doesn’t distract us from their strangely familiar world. Even as we laugh, many of us are likely to shake our heads in uneasy recognition.

In a Fictional South, Something Familiar

Trembling in the grasp of a recession, we have been asked to reflect—most notably by President Obama—on the last time in our country’s history when blunders on the high level caused a state of economic emergency. The difference between the Great Depression and what many have coined “The Great Recession” is one of only three letters. But although Jacqueline Goldfinger’s The Oath is set in a Southern town during the Depression, she has asked us to not focus on this weighty parallel. “Whether the current economic downturn is the new Great Depression or not doesn’t interest me,” she states in her playwright’s note. "What really interests me is how pressure forces people to reveal their true selves," she continues.

It’s perhaps due to her deliberate subtlety that The Oath’s symbolism is so affecting. The story is laden with religious parallels, questions of female identity and themes of secrecy and familial duty, but the presence of a nationwide crisis that hovers over its cast of characters is what allows us to relate to them right off the bat—even before Goldfinger dismantles, in a startlingly effective manner, the initial archetypes that these characters represent.

The Oath’s poster, which depicts imposing church windows and the tagline, "a southern gothic tale," may easily evoke supernatural and creepy associations in a modern theatergoer, but onstage the work plays out as a straightforward family narrative. Set in a small-town parish in Florida, the play tells the story of a preacher (Anthony Crep) who becomes closely involved in the lives of the town's former minister’s three daughters (Louise Flory, Dianna Martin and Sarah Chaney). Their father, never seen onstage, has been confined to his bedroom for over a year with a condition that isn’t initially revealed, while the three unmarried women attempt to both run the parish and deal with the pervasive poverty and consequent desperation that’s currently affecting their community.

All three start off as stereotypes—while Deck (Martin) tends to the coffee pot and the laundry basket, Cebe (Flory) sneaks around town with different men in a rebellious tirade. Meanwhile, Ophelia (Chaney) casts an imposing, stiff shadow over the desk at which her father used to sit, charging community members money for blessings and counting her winnings. When Joshua arrives, he proceeds to push for the truth behind the reverend’s yearlong absence, and finds himself head-on with the sisters’ desire to conceal their individual—and collective—secrets.

That these archetypes give way to remarkable layers of moral ambiguity as the story progresses speaks to both the quality of the writing and the extraordinary devotion of the performers. Even when Cebe bursts into a sarcastic cackle, there’s a manic, rageful element to her seeming lack of rules that awakens our curiosity. Meanwhile, Deck appears so deliberately resigned to her role as an old maid that her momentary outburst early in the play hints at a deep-seeded trauma. While Ophelia’s turn from a stern, money-grubbing matriarch into a vulnerable, lonely soul feels hurried, she provides a steadier counterpoint to her more troubled sisters.

Like The Roundtable Ensemble’s recent tale of military wives, Silent Heroes, the world of The Oath is one ruled by invisible men. From the never-seen former preacher to the president of the church board and, most notably, Christ himself, offstage male figures control the choices of each of the play’s women. In a cleverly ironic setup, Joshua is nevertheless merely a visitor in a world of women. As the sole male cast member, Anthony Crep brings just the right element of earnestness and sympathy into Joshua. In his attempt to restore a community and a family, his loyal intentions sometimes give way to desperation.

More than many mainstream works, The Oath achieves a near-perfect equilibrium between the quality of its writing and its performances. Goldfinger has balanced her story nicely, enabling dynamic, revealing interactions between different pairs of characters, and balancing them out with several powerful monologues. Under the guidance of director Cristina Alicea, each of the actors seems to have understood the depth of the exceptional material, and showcases these characters to their full, sometimes frightening potential.

Tracing a Rumor

A chronic mistrust between the sexes takes center stage in WorkShop Theater Company’s She Said, She Said, an ensemble story that appears to have been designed to initiate discussion about issues beyond its scope. Its six characters float in and out of its framework, each conveying a finely drawn archetype and serving a very deliberate purpose. There’s a twenty-something whose sexuality teeters between objectification and empowerment, a victim of domestic violence who is hesitant to label herself as such, and an impassioned old-school feminist. As its title indicates, She Said, She Said focuses on the consequences of telling the truth and relying on word-of mouth accounts of a past event. We learn early on that a rape may have taken place inside a crumpling marriage, but never have the opportunity to witness the incident in question. As in watching John Patrick Shanley’s Doubt, we begin to study its characters’ mannerisms, words and reactions to discover who is lying and why. Although Jamie’s (Shelley McPherson) account of her husband’s violent actions feels convincing, the offstage nature of the play’s central event prompts us to view it with an investigative eye.

Men are the perpetrators in She Said, She Said, but the moral ambiguity of its two male characters also serves to their advantage. While its women feel at times excessively familiar, we cannot help but want to learn more about the men who complicate their lives.

Writer Kathryn Chetkovich, whose background is in authoring short stories, allows characters Dan (Tom Berdik) and Ross (Mark Hofmaier) ample time to show the range of their frustration, and strong performances only add to the simultaneously sympathetic and frightening nature of their characters. As Ross, Jamie’s husband with an ominous angry side, Mark Hofmaier is a particular standout. Projecting an unexpected sadness into his posture and glare, he manages to avoid turning Ross into a villain, and instead deepens our curiosity about the play’s most divisive character.

The play’s four women, meanwhile, offer a convincing portrayal of female friendship. Dee Dee Friedman’s fiery Nina sometimes tips the balance of an otherwise delicate scene, but many of us are likely to recognize this personality type in our own circles of friends. Ashley Anderson, meanwhile, injects a sense of pride and ownership into CoCo, a young waitress whose tendency to attract men’s attentions turns out to be more of a personal crutch than a source of power.

Mark Symczak’s elegant stage design provides an added level of artistry and symbolism into the production. Layered white curtains punctuate scene changes, serve as a canvas for projected family photographs, and allow the stage to morph from a living room into a neighborhood bar. This approach results in quick, smooth transitions from one scene to the next, as it eliminates the need to lug furniture around the stage.

As an example of a neatly edited play, She Said, She Said is a success. The play was polished into its final form over several years at WorkShop Theater Company’s development seminars, and the final product includes almost nothing extraneous or distracting. Because every turning point in the plot takes place offstage, its characters come across as talky and passive at points, but by the time it reaches its ambiguous final scene, their brooding desperation just might feel eerily familiar.

On a Mountain, Gazing Upwards

There’s no lack of ambition in This Beautiful City, the latest work of documentary theater by The Civilians. Narrating the farcical downfall of evangelical preacher Ted Haggard and its impact on the Colorado Springs community, the work features thirteen musical numbers, a cast of six actors playing more than fifteen characters, and as many individual story arcs. The work certainly offers a rich palette of viewpoints, but by the time it reaches the frantic worship scenes of its second act, exhaustion sets in. This Beautiful City is based on a series of interviews conducted by writers Steven Cosson and Jim Lewis, along with five of its cast members, in the Colorado Springs area. And despite being punctuated by energetic musical numbers, these true stories are mostly presented as monologues that place the audience in the role of the interviewer. The characters—ranging from evangelical pastors and liberal activists to a teenage girl, a transsexual woman, a local mother and the son of Ted Haggard—frequently make this relationship explicit. “Did you have trouble finding here?” one character asks. “Is there a particular slant you’d like to put?” another says, gazing at the audience.

The setup recalls other successful works of journalism-based theater (Culture Project’s Iraq-based monologue play, In Conflict, recently took a similar approach) and juxtaposes nicely with the show’s musical theater elements. On several occasions, two characters present contrasting monologues while sitting on their respective sides of the stage, thus creating a stylized variation of a political debate.

Because the show’s creators directly quote real-life individuals, This Beautiful City is notably ambiguous in its satirical moments—and in its moral message. Excerpts from Ted Haggard’s actual emails and the use of terms like "strategic prayer" generate laughs, but the work never slips into outward mockery. If anything, it appears to be too concerned with presenting each and every side of a community built on idealistic extremes. The lineup of character introductions feels endless at points, and despite the strong performances, makes it difficult for the audience to feel genuine attachment to any particular character.

If its script could benefit from a series of edits, the show’s visuals are nothing short of flawless. The backdrop of the stage is a small town viewed from above, in which clusters of rectangular rooftops are contrasted by small patches of green. Throughout the show, these roofs serve as canvases for projected images and bright neon lights. As we hear a cast member read an email from Haggard, for example, we simultaneously see photographs of him, slyly grinning, on these rectangles. As the scene progresses, the photos are replaced by white, lowercase words on blue screens. Recalling words from his letters, they display words like “God” and “trust.” A large, unmarked area above the town is also carefully utilized. At points, it depicts looming rain clouds; during others, it shows a range of snow-capped Colorado mountains. From the looks of it, set designer Neil Patel (who also crafted [title of show]), lighting designer David Weiner and projection designer Jason Thompson played well together.

The six actors, each of whom takes on multiple characters throughout the production, are talented enough to not let the visual spectacle dictate their performances. Their notable vocal skills not only allow them to achieve crisp, ringing harmonies in the show’s musical numbers, but lend themselves to intense, terrifying prayer scenes.

Stephen Plunkett, who channels the straight-laced magnetism of a guitar-toting youth minister and later the quiet disbelief of Haggard’s son Marcus, is a notable standout along with Emily Ackerman, who creates some of the show’s most gut-wrenching moments as both a transgendered woman and a local church member with a self-destructive past. Brad Heberlee makes an equally impressive transition from playing an associate pastor at New Life megachurch to portraying a gay rights activist. Watching their focused performances, one becomes particularly aware of the rambling feel of the script; had the writers featured a smaller cast of characters and slipped into fewer detours with park rangers and prayer groups, this alluring work could have delivered a more focused punch.

Living Walls

Before New York’s financial world caved in on itself, the most ubiquitous enemy to the city’s longtime residents was its series of aggressive redevelopment projects. Its five boroughs may have risen in stroller-friendliness over the past decade, but the family businesses and community-specific traditions that once characterized its neighborhoods have now given way to drug store chains and luxury condominiums. A collective need to resist gentrification prevails as New York’s defining cause of social activism, and consequently is reflected in art projects conceived within the city’s borders. Such is the case with redevelop (death valley), a frenzied blend of video, photography, spoken word, dance and music playing at The Chocolate Factory in Long Island City. The scope of the project is ambitious to the point of feeling exhausting as it attempts to use this mishmash of artistic genres to create a parallel between local redevelopment projects and the impact of ghost towns on the American psyche. In its strongest moments, redevelop (death valley) reads like a cleverly conceived museum installation, but its lack of narrative clarity does more to jumble the goals of the piece than to inspire moments of a-ha.

Five performers roam about the stage during its roughly hour-long running time, but for most of it they are literally upstaged by an assortment of hanging, translucent panels that serve as projection screens and obstruct the audience’s view. Isolating the company’s performers with a plastic wall and offering the audience a partial, distorted view is a strategic choice that appears to be designed to trigger frustration. Just as the endless construction of sterile condominiums muffles the spirit of a neighborhood, these white panels invoke our curiosity, ruthlessly control our viewpoint, and distance us from the flesh-and-blood element of the piece. The metaphor is effective, but its execution also keeps the audience at a needless distance.

While most of the video and still photography images projected onto the panels depict elements of the performance space itself, from the five dancers’ quivering legs and hands to extreme close-ups of light beams, windows and radiators, the work is also punctuated by two lengthier, pre-taped segments. An interview with a longtime Long Island City resident opens the first half of the work, and the second half in turn begins with a series of video clips, images and commentary depicting abandoned desert towns.

While the opening interview suffers from sloppy editing that makes its subject appear excessively long-winded, the second documentary segment is arguably the most affecting part of redevelop (death valley). There’s an unexpected beauty to its images of abandoned houses, stripped of everything valuable and blending, like fossils, into the landscape around them. In this segment one can’t always make out the voice of the interviewee, but as the recorded sound of a distant highway grows almost unsettlingly loud, these words lose their importance.

Perhaps the only clear arc in Rogers’s piece is the gradual removal of these obstructing screens. Its five characters occasionally shut out one another’s access to the audience by putting up additional panels, but as the piece draws to a close, they move these screens, one by one, onto a pile on the floor. As we begin to see the oblong, tile-walled room in its entirety, another memorable image is revealed: the five performers have gathered around a dinner table in the far end of the space, chatting and pouring glasses of wine underneath a yellow light. In the center of the room is a pile of unidentifiable rags, and in front of the audience a narrow beam of rain pours on an abandoned tea set. Even if one isn’t quite sure of the meaning of this visual moment, it's difficult to forget.

Although the visual and audio elements of the performance appear to be carefully orchestrated, its use of words is its most notable weakness. When the five characters speak, it’s often almost impossible to make out their words, and when one does hear them, their context is unclear. The performance also tries to make use of a variety of spoken-word recordings, including FDR’s fireside chats and David Mamet’s Glengarry Glen Ross, but their meaning remains obscure and their presence only contributes to a viewer’s confusion.

It’s difficult, of course, to fault the Chocolate Factory’s artistic director Brian Rogers for his ambition, and I’m not sure that I would want to. Love them or hate them, works like redevelop (death valley) continue to challenge and expand the ways in which we perceive theater. The work itself may not always be relatable, but the artistic passion behind it certainly is.

Putting a Spin on Drug Education

When one attempts to produce theatrical works for teenage audiences, it doesn’t get much more difficult than the anti-drug play. Most of us may have put the traumas of high school behind us, but few still have a clue about how to win the approval of the cool kids—especially when it comes to telling them that they shouldn’t do something. When staging a production for teenagers, the most effective rule of thumb is also the most paradoxical: The moment you attempt to please, you’ve lost your audience. As an anti-drug work, Cranked is about as good as they get. A one-man show about the life-threatening crystal meth addiction of talented freestyle rapper Stan (Kyle Cameron), the one-act work inserts a cautionary tale into a hip-hop formula. On paper, this pairing comes across as too eager to please, but the result is effective to the point of shocking. Stewarded by Cameron’s remarkable performance, Cranked lacks all pretention, and as a result is truly frightening.

Cranked originated at Vancouver-based Green Thumb Theatre more than two years ago, and since then has toured at high schools and theaters around North America. The script has a heavily autobiographical flair (at points, it brings to mind a hybrid of 8 Mile and James Frey’s A Million Little Pieces), but Stan is, in fact, a fictionalized character assembled from the experiences of several real-life addicts.

In preparing for the role, Cameron had to learn to manifest many of the clinical effects of crystal meth, including the characteristic fidgeting, sweating and paranoia. It’s a physically taxing role, and Cameron succeeds admirably; he is an equally charismatic and frightening presence on stage, and it’s difficult to take one’s eyes off him. Cameron shows remarkable control of his voice and movements, from his twitchy reflexes to the play’s several freestyle rap segments, and his pale complexion and skinny frame lend themselves effectively to the image of physical exhaustion.

Stan’s story is framed by a performance that the rapper gives after checking out of a rehab clinic. Stating that he is not yet ready to go onstage, he throws himself into a series of flashbacks that narrate his early teenage years, his short-lived success in hip-hop, and his decision to check himself into rehab. Most vividly, however, Stan describes what it feels like to crave the drug, comparing himself to a zombie. “I’m rotting from the core,” he says in one segment. “I’m gutless, I’m soulless, I’m dead,” he later describes.

The impact of Cranked is strengthened by its thoughtfully executed stage design. In order to believably channel an underground hip-hop show, a microphone stand is the only prop on the otherwise empty stage, and a backdrop of graffiti art provides a canvas for both gritty realism and drug-induced fantasy. The background depicts several ghoulish figures standing underneath rows of speakers and a white, skull-like face. On occasion, this face serves as a video screen that alternately shows close-ups of Stan and stylized images recalling a meth trip. Combined with flashing, red lights and a bass-heavy music track, the overall effect is appropriately surreal.

Because Cranked has an obviously educational goal, it doesn’t offer a traditional theater experience. It’s more likely to attract school groups or families wishing to learn about drug addiction than casual theatergoers, but within its notably limited framework, the show is at the top of its class.

A Pledge of Allegiance

‘Silent’ is the description collectively assigned to the cast of characters in Linda Escalera Baggs’ play about military wives, but throughout its seventy-five minute running time, it was the word ‘trapped’ that most frequently snuck its way onto my notepad. The play’s cast of women, each of whom reveal their own unsettling secrets as they wait for their husbands’ fighter jets to return home, appear to be confined to the point of hopelessness—inside their marriages, inside lives that lack grounding and agency, and inside the paradigms of the small, unchanging set. The premise of Silent Heroes is rich with tension: one of six fighter planes has crashed just moments before the play opens, but it’s not yet clear whose husband has perished in the accident. Bracing for heartbreak, the group collects into an underground room at the base to wait. A sense of dutiful camaraderie is obvious between the six women, but each of their attempts to remain calm in the face of death causes underlying conflicts within the group to burst onto the surface. In a situation such as this, is it possible to not secretly wish for the death of a friend’s husband?

Silent Heroes is a success, thanks largely to its affecting premise, its bouncy, entertaining dialogue and its strong performances. Baggs’ attempt to give all six women a moment to share their individual traumas feels too calculated at times, but outstanding performances across the board allow the narrative to maintain its momentum.

Set in the 1970s, shortly after the end of the Vietnam War, Silent Heroes brings a notably diverse group of individuals onto the stage, highlighting the circumstantial quality of their bond. Be it not for the fact that their husbands are pilots, these women, different in backgrounds, ages and worldviews, would have been unlikely to have established such an intimate rapport with one another.

The most obvious standout from the group is young Miranda (Sarah Saunders), whose politically rebellious background is a topic of debate and discomfort within the group. Patsy (Julie Jesneck), meanwhile, is quickly established as the wife with the most outward and immediate struggles—she’s the only wife not looking forward to her husband’s return. Jesneck’s performance is difficult to watch, but for all the right reasons; her instinct to make excuses for her aggression-prone husband and avoid eye contact as she explains her choices is likely to ring authentic to anyone who has ever confronted a friend in an abusive relationship.

Rosalie Tenseth as Eleanor, the most outspoken member of the group, is also a joy to watch and delivers the funniest lines of the production, but it’s Kelly Ann Moore as her best friend June who is most likely to inspire chills in her audience. Because she is the most nurturing and least confrontational member of this collective, her eventual burst of anger is genuinely shocking, and Moore delivers this punch with a fearless sense of emotional wisdom. It’s a controlled performance that’s difficult to shake.

The set, designed by Nick Francone, adds to the necessary sense of claustrophobia. Furnished with a worn couch, a modest coffee station and photos of soldiers on the back wall, the room is appropriately void of spirit. During the second half of the play, when the six characters take turns stepping onto a chair and peering through a small, rectangular window near the ceiling, their sense of entrapment becomes all the more pronounced. The fate of their invisible husbands will define their destinies, and one gets the sense that ‘Silent Heroes’ is, quite literally, their only moment in the spotlight.

Caroling to a Different Tune

‘Tis the holiday season, and with it the expected theatrical renditions of A Christmas Carol. The classic tale of generosity triumphing over greediness continues to give a meaningful context to the seemingly retail-dominated tradition of gift-giving, while offering a literary staple in an accessible package. Miracle on Mulberry Street, the brainchild of playwright, actor and acting coach John Pallotta, puts a notably adult twist on the story of Ebenezer Scrooge. The dark comedy is set in a world of prostitutes, cross-dressers and mobsters, and centered on a jaded, middle-aged criminal named Ebenezer Scroogiano (Ezie Cotler).

The large cast—there are more than 30 featured actors—consists mostly of Pallotta’s workshop students, and is markedly inexperienced. From the uneven, sometimes clever script to the modest staging and a raunchy cast of characters, Mulberry Street is a messy affair, although not always negatively so. Despite the obvious flaws in the production, it showcases some promising talents and is at points elevated by the enthusiasm of its cast.

Diversions are expected in a farcical script, but Pallotta’s narrative takes off slowly. Before Scroogiano enters the stage, the audience has been introduced to a singing mobster, a paperboy, two transvestites, a homeless woman and a group of dismayed former girlfriends. We learn that Scroogianno has a habit for stinginess and womanizing, and planned the murder of his deceased business partner, Jacob Marlianni (Luigi Babe Scorcia in a standout performance). The background context is necessary and adds to the story’s humor, but the numerous character introductions, however amusing, give the narrative a rambled, distracted feel before the story even begins.

As Scroogianno, Ezie Cotler turns a likable performance. Although he isn’t quite electrifying enough to immediately draw our interest, he appears to grow into his own as the story progresses. He makes a newcomer’s mistake of obviously focusing his eyes over the heads of the audience and thus revealing his nervousness, but he is nevertheless committed to the character. Cotler delivers his lines with a confidence that shows a flair for improvisation, and isn’t afraid to let out a scream or slam himself into the floor when the script demands it. Scroogianno is a sleaze, as expected, but we root for him.

Numerous diversions from the story offer each cast member a moment in the spotlight (the two rowdy transvestites show up several times, for example), and some performances are obvious standouts. As the Ghost of Christmas Present, Katherine Blair is particularly magnetic. Her role as an aspiring actress trying out for the role is a clever meta-moment in the show. She enters the stage with a crumpled script in hand, speaking to an offstage director, and throws herself into hilariously clichéd warm-up exercises. “Unique New York, Unique New York, Uniquenewyork” she rants while laying onstage. “I’m trying to get my equity card,” she later explains. In a cast of over-the top characters, hers offers a welcome dose of familiarity and authenticity—as well as arguably the only digression from the story that doesn’t feel distracting.

Perhaps the weakest aspect of the production is its sloppily executed stage design. The back wall has a crammed appearance, from misplaced wooden cubes to a nylon suitcase, and hardly brings to mind the home of a wealthy crime lord. Although high production values shouldn’t have been expected, the staging draws unnecessary attention to the fact that Mulberry Street is a largely amateur-driven affair.

Pallotta is able to turn a clever line and create dynamic moments between his characters, but his script attempts to reach into too many directions at once. His number of eccentric characters is excessive, and his tone wavers between goofy and disturbing. In an unsettling scene that should have no place in a comedic work, Scroogianno confronts the hysterical ghost of a woman he killed. Placed in an otherwise boisterous, funny work, the scene feels wildly inappropriate.

Despite the limitations of Miracle on Mulberry Street, one is still likely to admire Pallotta’s devotion to this diverse, inexperienced cast. Offering $20 workshops through Acting4less, he is committed to making stage training accessible to all experience and income levels—and in the most ruthlessly competitive city in the country, this approach is both brave and refreshing.

Madness and Sainthood

Frozen in the center of Boomerang Theatre Company’s staging of Tennessee Williams’s Summer and Smoke, halfway between the homes of its two central characters, a stone angel casts a weighty shadow of symbolism onto the events that unfold before it. The angel not only marks a fountain that serves as a meeting point for Williams's characters, but its unchanging presence also reflects the imprisonment of Alma Winemiller, the play’s haunting leading lady. The recent recipient of the Caffe Cino Award at the New York Innovative Theatre Awards, Boomerang has taken on a hefty challenge with this work. Most of its inherent difficulty lies in the psychological intelligence that’s required of the actors playing high-strung, moralistic Alma and magnetic, self-absorbed Johnny Buchanan.

Summer and Smoke is set in 1916, in a small town in the Mississippi Delta. Alma and Johnny are neighbors, and both bound by the legacies set by their families. Alma, a preacher’s daughter, has been forced to take charge of household duties after her mother’s mental breakdown. Johnny is on his way to becoming part of his father’s medical practice, but he rebels against his family’s expectations by focusing on drinking and womanizing. Despite warnings from the community about Johnny’s irresponsible nature, Alma is smitten, and determined to reform him.

A master at providing a poetic context to deep-seeded and relatable emotions, Williams doesn’t let his characters off easy. We watch them display remarkable self-awareness and, in spite of it, fail at their attempts to change their lives; this level of cold realism is ultimately what makes Summer and Smoke a profoundly sad viewing experience, and an intensive undertaking for the actors who tackle this material.

As Alma, Jane Cortney puts forth a commendable effort. Her character’s tendency to hyperventilate, nervous speech patterns and an erupting sadness hidden behind her kind demeanor are as essential as the poignant lines she delivers. Throughout the work, she is required to convey exaggerated behavior as aspects of her character, not as parts of her acting process. At times her exertion is too obvious, but in the end it’s tough not to admire Cortney’s devotion. When Alma’s hope begins to give way to her family’s legacy of hysteric madness, the tragedy of her conscious defeat is likely to ingrain itself in an audience’s memory.

Jonathan Kells Phillips as Johnny is equally convincing. Intelligent but self-absorbed, he portrays the kind of unintentionally damaging nature that many audience members are likely to recognize in other emotionally scarred playboys. The earnestness and vulnerability he displays with Alma makes his subsequent selfishness all the more aggravating. There are times when we can clearly see Phillips focusing on his phrasing, but the otherwise strong performance makes this minor glitch easy to overlook.

The supporting cast also gives noteworthy performances. Beth Ann Leone as Johnny’s lover Rosa Gonzalez channels unspoken magnetism into the character’s looseness, and thus helps the audience relate to a character that could easily be interpreted as a thankless stereotype. Deborah Carlson, meanwhile, is heartbreaking, aggravating and unexpectedly amusing as Alma’s unstable mother. Despite the character’s handicap, we sometimes get the sense that Mrs. Winemiller is more aware of the conflicts around her than she lets on.

The small black box theater provides an ideal setting for the characters’ fine-tuned range of emotions. Watching them confront one another from such a close proximity triggers just the right level of discomfort; as audience members, we realize that we are dropping in on something private. Watching the work of great playwrights in such an intimate setting is a rare treat, and Summer and Smoke’s talented cast of actors only elevates the experience.

A Return to Screwball

A rendition of a 1954 romantic comedy about the humorous toils of bachelorhood, the most significant limitation with Retro Productions’ The Tender Trap is the weight of its contextual framework. Whether or not an audience member is familiar with the play or its 1955 film version with Frank Sinatra, one is bound to expect outdated gender politics, eager-to please dialogue and a neatly packaged ending. But although the work itself delivers few surprises—women in the audience should expect to cringe at its hastily drawn conclusion—the intellect behind its dialogue and the devotion of its performers make for an experience that rings as close to authentic as the limitations of the material allow.

Set inside a Manhattan bachelor pad, The Tender Trap follows the romantic mishaps of Charlie Reader (Ric Sechrest) and his childhood friend Joe McCall (Jim Kilkenny) who escapes his suburban family life under the guise of a new business plan. Charlie is splitting his time between a number of women, all eager to demonstrate their potential for wifehood, but it’s professional musician Sylvia Crewes (Elise Rovinsky), whose poise and effortless humor lead Charlie to contemplate a deeper commitment—and attract Joe’s attention as well.

As Charlie, Sechrest doesn’t possess Sinatra’s playful sex appeal, and instead chooses to play up his boyish lack of self-awareness and consequent relatability –his harmless immaturity, in fact, recalls a modern Judd Apatow hero. Kilkenny, meanwhile, emphasizes Joe’s preference for sarcasm and his lived wisdom. The contrast between the characters is effective: banter between Charlie and Joe makes up some of the play’s most entertaining moments, as we can easily imagine a shared history between the two best friends. Sechrest and Kilkenny even manage make dated lines like “holy mackerel” sound effortless and convincing.

It’s the women, however, who add unexpected depth to the production. Casandera Lollar is charming as Julie Gillis, a woman in her early 20s who is eagerly laying out her future as a housewife. Lollar successfully channels an element of wit into a role that could just as easily have descended into cliché. As Sylvia, Elise Rovinsky displays mature beauty through her controlled gestures and a dancer’s posture. Charlie helplessly bosses her around like his other conquests, but she appears to be in on the joke. Having some of the productions most memorable lines works in Rovinsky's favor as well: A monologue in which she reveals her fears about being single at 33 is a jarring moment in an otherwise lighthearted work.

The quality of its performances is, without a doubt, what makes The Tender Trap memorable. In addition to the strong lead performances, supporting players like Alex Herrald as erratic scientist Earl Lindquist help establish the production as a powerful display of New York’s dramatic talent.

An outdated feel prevails through The Tender Trap; like It’s a Wonderful Life or Breakfast at Tiffany’s, it hints at subtle tragedies behind its formulaic story arc. That these societal questions aren’t fully addressed is likely to frustrate a viewer. The Tender Trap doesn’t make us nostalgic for a time gone by, but its convincing performances extract real intelligence from its bubbly dialogue.

Memories of Politics and Addiction

Most tales of addiction and redemption seem to be limited by the same undercurrents of narcissism that turned their protagonists into users in the first place. As readers or viewers, we are relieved to see these narrators pull themselves out of an undeniable hell, but the heightened self-awareness of their stories can also trigger a jolt of frustration: these undeniably intelligent individuals should have known better, and yet we have no choice but to applaud. Because writer and actor Mike Evans offers societal context to his self-abusive spiral, however, his one-man show escapes some of the clichés associated with a tale of drug use. His lifelong yearning for political power gives relatable context to his addiction-prone personality--and alludes to our nation's general obsession with public figures.

In adapting his story onto the stage, Evans has juxtaposed three separate narratives with one another: His story of drug use, homelessness, imprisonment and recovery, his crusade to attain power by working close to political figures like Clinton, and the legacy of suffering his deceased mother left in the pages of her diary. Evans frequently jumps from one place and time to another, keeping the audience on track by identifying a year and location in the beginning of a scene. Perhaps intentionally, the approach sometimes causes Evans to come across as two separate characters, an aimless junkie and a falsely confident freeloader who are both prone to stealing to get their way. His transition from an office in the White House to homelessness feels abrupt, but this may be Evans's point.

Evans, 43, narrates the events of his life from stacks of white paper, sectioned into scenes with paper clips. Whether these are a staging device or help Evans stay on track with the text is unclear, but the effect is powerful. As we watch Evans give his confession in a manner that recalls a rehearsed speech (at times, he even corrects his own grammar), we see these white sheets bring his vulnerability to the surface. The play's opening, during which he describes shoplifting to earn money for heroin just seven years ago, is particularly eerie in its delivery: Evans sits behind a table covered with a plastic tablecloth of red and blue stars, shuffling sheets of paper and speaking in a tone that brings to mind a news anchor's rehearsed confidence.

Throughout, Evans's voice is perhaps the most affecting aspect of Sex, Drugs, Clinton and Me. When narrating an exchange with a campaign worker or a group of Hollywood movie stars (his knack at sneaking into political conventions earned him screen time in Robert Downey Jr.'s 1993 documentary, The Last Party), his tone is conversational and casual; when describing the fleeting comfort of a heroin rush, his language is heavy with metaphors and his delivery reminiscent of a beat poet's. On occasion, Evans opts for self-deprecating humor; his accounts of weaseling his way back into the ranks of Clinton volunteers after getting fired are funny in their absurdity. But although some of the audience responded with laughter, these segments felt especially heartbreaking. Hearing the story of an individual who sees deceit as his only option is, after all, profoundly unsettling. And yet, there is something honest and universal in his desire to gain first-hand access to power.

Sex, Drugs, Clinton and Me isn't really about Clinton--the second object of Evans's obsession could have been any influential figure--but in a larger perspective, pairing presidential politics with drug dependence is a choice that shows awareness beyond what we usually see in the addiction memoir.

Joining Tales of Humanitarian Leadersip

Much like In Conflict, a collection of modern soldier accounts currently playing at Culture Project, Journeys is a theatrical work heavily grounded in journalism. Through the access provided by Vital Voices Global Partnership, an NGO advocating women's leadership, the seven participating playwrights based their on-stage narratives on first-hand interviews with their subjects. In a collection of seven monologues, Journeys showcases the real-life stories of women activists from Northern Ireland, Cambodia, Pakistan, Russia, Nigeria, Afghanistan and Guatemala. During its three-week run at La MaMa, the work is divided into two blocks that are performed at separate times; Series A includes the stories of Inez McCormack of Northern Ireland, Mu Socha of Cambodia and Mukhtaran Mai of Pakistan, while Series B includes the remaining four monologues. The decision to split the work is a wise one, as the emotionally hefty, often heartbreakingly understated nature of the narratives requires an audience to consider each as an independent entity.

Giving an artistic context to these narratives is, in fact, so valuable an effort that one begins to wish for the opportunity to hear these stories directly from the women who lived them. At points, the work's reportorial approach and strict monologue format awaken questions about the necessity of its theatrical execution.

Series A begins with the story of Inez McCormack, an Irish writer and human rights activist who has led grassroots peace-building and labor union efforts in Northern Ireland since the late 1960s. McCormack is portrayed by Terry Donnelly, who approaches her subject's collected energy with unassuming rhetorical gestures. When she recalls a friend's murder or a police mob's attack, a simple shake of the head shows her struggle to comprehend the violence. Donnelly's portrayal reflects deep admiration for her character's wisdom, but because Carol K. Mack's narrative jumps frequently from scene to scene and often focuses on individuals other than McCormack, it also seems to run a tad too long.

The story of Mu Sochua, founder of the Cambodian women's rights movement and Nobel Peace Prize nominee, follows McCormack's. Catherine Filloux's text is notably lyrical, effectively connecting her character's gentle rhetoric with Cambodian mythology. As Mu (Christine Toy Johnson) describes the ceremony she conducts to help rescued trafficking victims rediscover their souls, the audience is immediately drawn to her world. Johnson's delivery never wavers from her composed, melodic tone, but as she narrates Mu's exploration of a country in crisis, her eyes reflect the pain driving her humanitarianism.

Perhaps because writer Susan Yankowitz took the approach of a chronological, first-person narrative to Pakistani women's right activist Mukhtaran Mai's story, her segment is also the most affecting of the three. The monologue allows actor Reena Shah to re-enact several scenes of the story and thus keep the audience engaged throughout. While Shah delivers a carefully studied performance that translates into authentic emotion, writer Yankowitz also had the most powerful narrative to work with; born into a low caste in Pakistan without an education or a comprehension of human rights, Mai was raped by four men of a neighboring tribe. But instead of committing suicide or remaining silent in fear of dishonor, Mai went on to become the first woman in the country to take her case into court. She has later worked actively on improving the rights and education level in Pakistan.

The stage is unadorned, short of a chair and a white background screen that provides a canvas to a set of colored, subtly changing lights. An elevated structure also allows each actress to move between different sections of the stage as their narratives progress. The chair, located at floor level, helps them speak intimately to the audience, while the elevated portion of the stage offers a setting for more climactic or declarative moments.

Aside from entrances and exits, no two characters appear onstage simultaneously. Their stories are, after all, defined by their realism. When the three actresses of Series A took the stage for a curtain call, however, I found myself wondering how their exceptional characters would have responded to one another's struggles in an imagined conversation. What separates traditional nonfiction from theater is, after all, their differing levels of allowed artistic freedom. Journeys reflects an invaluable effort, but had its writers been given the freedom of a more experimental structure, its artistry could have more closely matched its sources of inspiration.

Tales of Novice Veterans

College journalism instructors are known to devote hours of class time to the importance of simplicity. The best story ideas, many of them say, are ones that can be explained in less than a sentence, in between gulps of a happy hour special, and still inspire immediate curiosity. That author Yvonne Latty is also a journalism professor at NYU comes as no surprise, because the basis of her book-turned-play, In Conflict, is an example of a textbook story pitch. Her motif, she says in a film clip that opens the staged work, was to do what most news reports had not: turn the spotlight on Iraq veterans. Latty's book of interviews with soldiers was published in 2006 and turned into a staged version last year at Temple University. In Conflict's cast of Temple graduates and current students traveled to the Edinburgh Festival Fringe this summer, and has remained intact for its Off-Broadway debut. Their connection to the material and their real-life characters is jarring and memorable--so much so, that the show's double-casting occasionally works against its focus on the individual.

The narrative opens with a video of a U.S Army recruitment commercial, complete with its familiar and inexplicably rousing jingle. The play's overall message is politically ambiguous--its characters speak against both anti-war protesters and the Bush administration--but the opening carries an ironic, tragic tone onto the brief scenes of drills and combat that follow. Both the actors and most of the characters they portray are young, handsome and spirited, increasing the element of war as tragedy before the audience even hears their individual accounts.

Most of the show's two acts are devoted to monologues that recall Latty's interviews with each soldier; some sit in wheelchairs at the Walter Reed hospital, while others sit slumped on chairs at coffee shops, hotel lobbies, military cafeterias or rental apartments.

While each story is different--Latty's group of subjects included immigrants, a Native American, a college girl, a gay man and a young father, for example--most of them share a structure and mood. Whether or not these veterans admit to post-traumatic stress at the start of their interviews, each begins with an aura of tense self-preservation that dissolves into anger, sadness or desperation. "I miss my strong, healthy body," says an amputee, despite insisting in a wavering voice that she feels grateful. "I went to die for weapons that weren't there," says another veteran, his knee furiously twitching under a cafeteria table.

The narrative evolves from one monologue to the next with short montages of war photos or pre-filmed clips of Latty reflecting on her research process. The stage design, consisting of overlapping panels that flip to alternate between a stylized American flag and a map of Iraq, offers a visually powerful, symbolic element to the story, and aids with scene-to scene transitions.

The narrative arc is vague at best, however, and although one should commend Latty for including such a variety of accounts in her research, there are times when the staged work feels much longer than its actual running time of 90 minutes. A potential need for an edit becomes obvious in the second act, in which many of the actors return onstage to take on a second character. The fault is found more in the play's organization, however, than in its stories. With a larger cast and a less monotonous structure, the work might feel less dragged-out.

In the end, however, this constructional flaw carries minor weight. Each war in recent history has certainly bred extensive first-hand accounts, but Latty's work reinforces the continuing need for Iraq-specific cultural examination. Until viewing In Conflict, one doesn't quite realize how little we comprehend about this particular war.

Discovering Jonah

Because of the limitations of the Fringe Festival (a mere 30-minute window between shows and lack of storage space for sets), the most successful productions tend to be ones that thrive from a sense of minimalism. That the viewers of The Disappearance of Jonah may just forget about its limited production values is, in itself, an indication of the production's success. Blending driven young talent with Darragh Martin's lyrical script, the production is festival theater at its most enjoyable. The setting of The Disappearance of Jonah transforms from Jonah's family's kitchen to his fiancé Natalie's (Lydia Brunner) apartment and to a Lower Manhattan coffee shop, but each location change is accomplished by a simple shuffling of chairs and tables. Allowing the audience to imagine walls, doors and windows serves the play's intentions, as an invisible Jonah (Jeff Brown) often enters and exits scenes at his own pace, addressing other characters within his reality.

Jonah has already disappeared as the story begins, but the audience is introduced to him almost immediately. As Jonah discusses his choice of college with his mother in a flashback (he has chosen NYU in order to be with Natalie), his character becomes at once familiar and fascinating: a high school star adored by his family and teachers, his confidence is fragile in the face of an impending transition into adult life. Even though Jonah speaks like a writer--he suggests to Natalie that the two travel by hot air balloon and scuba dive in Central Park's lake--his mother (Lori Kee) is pushing him towards a doctor's career. His imaginative rambling reveals an intelligence nurtured by his surroundings, but also an uneasiness, a brewing rebellion against structured expectations. Jonah appears to be a boy whose thoughts keep him awake at night.

The story presents several intersecting narratives, the weightiest of which shows Jonah's brother Finn (Jake Green) searching for Jonah. Green has a tough role to carry, as he has to both establish a self-conscious contrast to his charismatic brother and take charge of the forward motion of the narrative. He handles the challenge with grace, however, showing an honest vulnerability that ultimately helps him emerge as the stronger of the two brothers. Asher Grodman is also excellent as the distracted, ego-driven writer, whose storyline offers a genuinely fascinating turn to the story.

This Fringe entry is the brainchild of Aporia Repertory Company, a group consisting mostly of past and present Columbia University students. From the performances he has encouraged out of his actors, it's tough to believe that co-director Dan Blank is still collegiate--and majoring in political science.

The Disappearance of Jonah is part of the 2008 New York International Fringe Festival.

Britney's Name in Lights

What if Britney Spears, the most poignant example of disintegrated teenstardom in recent history, was turned into the Ariel or Elphaba of her own musical? And in pairing the fallen Britney with the strategically building chord structures and self-examining lyrics that characterize the modern musical, what would we discover about the art form itself?

Molly Bell's and Daya Curley's California import, a meta-musical entitled Becoming Britney, aims to explore both of these questions. The time frame is just short of 90 minutes, and the pace is frantic. Becoming Britney both plots out the star's much-documented life and offers satirical observations about the nature of musical theater itself. Many of the lyrical choices are clever, and the six-member cast demonstrates polished talent, but the overtly ambitious paradigm of 'Becoming Britney' ultimately weakens the end product.

The show opens shortly after the starlet's head-shaving incident that has placed her in the custody of a celebrity rehab center. She is soon asked to recount her story in song, as the clinic's other inhabitants have already done with gleefully ringing harmonies, and the audience is made aware that these characters are, very consciously, inside a musical.

Mocking Britney Spears through song may not initially seem like a challenge--after all, a writer isn't likely to run out of material--but the pervasive sense of heartbreak associated with each of her antics also provides a moral conundrum. More than just laugh at Britney's bizarre childrearing methods and schizophrenic escapades around Los Angeles, we want, almost desperately, to understand what drives her. It's this expectation that also inevitably raises the stakes for Becoming Britney.

As the title character, Molly Bell is convincing. While her Britney offers too many wide-eyed stares and not enough of the starlet's now-famous fits of rage, Bell has undoubtedly studied her subject carefully. She slurps Red Bulls, picks at her teeth, chews gum and, during the show's lip-synched numbers, nails Britney's characteristic finger-wagging and seductive smirk. In these pre-recorded pop tracks, her moans and nasally delivered choruses sound exactly like the real Britney. 'Push it Out,' a number that opens with K-Fed (Keith Pinto) dancing to a hospital heart monitor and includes plenty of panting and grinding by twice-pregnant Britney, is bluntly hilarious--and surprisingly catchy. When Bell sings live, her self-assured and versatile voice is a joy to listen to.

Although many of the musical numbers offer smart comedy ("I need an "I Want"- Song to describe internal strife," sings Bell in a showstopper that seems to mock every self-discovery song from The Sound of Music to Wicked), they seem to be in frequent discord with the show's spoken scenes. This Britney is simplistic and chronically void of self-awareness, but when she breaks into song, her lyrics and vocabulary suddenly turn snarky. This conflict may very well have been intentional, but still leaves us in the dark on who really is behind the wig.

Becoming Britney is part of the 2008 New York International Fringe Festival.

Disturbia

Much of the existing coverage on Tony Glazer’s Stain has, unsurprisingly, focused on its shock-worthy dialogue and disturbing themes. Amidst an effectively written story that forces the audience to digest one harrowing twist after another, its politically conservative set of characters elicit uncensored racism, uninhibited sexual conversations between parents and children, and suppressed secrets that, when brought to the surface, are accompanied by verbal abuse. But while the work is tough to watch and occasionally forces an audience member to wonder how much of its allure is due to its degree of shock value, Glazer’s drama offers a beautifully paced, convincingly performed stage experience.

Directed by Scott C. Embler of Vital Theatre Company, Stain opens with a father-and son exchange that immediately reveals both the disconcerting lack of boundaries in its family relationships and a sense of underlying dread. Fifteen-year-old Thomas (played with a haunting sense of awareness by Tobias Segal) is spending weekly father-son time with Arthur (Jim O’Connor), who has divorced his mother a few years prior. As Arthur, sitting on a park bench, unloads his uncensored revulsion towards women and minorities upon his son, gunshots can be heard in the distance. Neither one reacts.

Thomas reveals to his father, with both surprising lack of shame and a suppressed sense of neglect, that his relationship with a much older woman, Carla (Karina Arroyave) has recently ended. Soon after the graffiti-stained brick wall of the park opens up into Thomas’s family’s home, Carla shows up at its door and announces to his mother (Summer Crockett Moore) and grandmother (Joanna Bayless) that she is pregnant. What follows is Thomas’s desperate investigation into the reasons behind his parents’ divorce, setting off a chain of revelations that soon make his impending teen fatherhood seem like the least controversial aspect of the play.

Stain’s structure of a family tragedy in which the audience’s initial impressions are flipped upon each unveiled secret is certainly familiar in theater; Glazer’s use of dark, verbal humor, meanwhile, adds a sense of much-needed buoyancy to his work that reminds one of films like Burr Steers’ Igby Goes Down. Characters in Stain make jabs about the power of Botox, women’s sexual needs and the uncool-factor of the rock band Nickleback; a particularly humorous bit pokes fun at the frustration of voice-activated customer service lines.

It’s Tobias Segal’s performance, however, that brings authentic vulnerability into a story that sometimes feels too deliberate in its execution. While with his parents, Thomas speaks in a hoarse, singsongy voice that reveals a desperate need for affection; while smoking with his friend George (Peter Brensinger) on a makeshift bench, he appears to both escape behind a facade of rebellion and momentarily take control of his social role. Like a real teenager, Segal shows the rehearsed nature of Thomas’s sporadic confidence by fiddling his hands in his pockets or twitching his leg under the table. When he tells his grandmother that feeling the area around him helps him think, or wonders if his father is embarrassed to look at him, his heartbreaking narrative becomes almost tangible.

Joanna Bayless, Summer Crockett Moore and Jim O’Connor also deliver believable, multilayered performances as Thomas’s disjointed family. As his mother Julia, Moore has a particularly challenging narrative to carry, and her decision to internalize much of her character’s moral struggle appears to have been the right one; one can only hope that most actors tackling Julia’s character would find it difficult to recognize themselves in her horrific secret.

Couples at War

Because the events of Yom Kippur are mostly confined to the living room of a young couple in Israel--a space whose clashing fabrics indicate both modesty and twenty-something carelessness--its coming-of-age themes about forgiveness, patriotic responsibility and death have the potential to appear especially hefty. Some of its most powerful moments take place when its four main characters cork a bottle of wine after returning from streets mauled by war, react to a blazing alarm or shield their fear of loneliness with raised chins and crossed arms. The play is framed around the Yom Kippur war of 1973, a conflict whose trickling political implications and impact on the collective consciousness of the Israeli can hardly be understated. Watching the play's four young characters become imprinted with the experience of war, an audience member can feel herself wanting Yom Kippur to live up to its stakes and expectations. It's thus a pity that, in the end, its story and writing feel too neatly packaged to make a distinctive impact.

Written by Meri Wallace, the play begins when two American married couples (Yitz, Yael, Ephraim and Sarah) prepare to observe the Jewish holiday in Israel. When a war against Egypt and Syria begins unexpectedly, Yitz is forced to leave pregnant Yael behind as he joins his fellow Israeli soldiers in combat. As Yael begins to raise her baby alone and awaits her husband's return, Ephraim and Sarah battle a distance of their own. Later, through a friendship with a local army captain and an unexpected visit from Yitz's estranged mother, Yael begins to vocalize an internal battle between her loyalty for Israel and her worry for her son's safety.

Wallace's script is heavily grounded in plot, and moves quickly from one scene to the next. Each exchange between characters ends with a definite fade to black, transitioning after some furniture shuffling into the following frame on the storyboard. The dialogue has the same deliberate quality: Her characters communicate in grammatically rounded phrases, many of which feel almost too familiar: "that certainly puts a new spin to the story," says a character after finding out the truth about his friend's love affair. "I was overwhelmed by your beauty," another says to profess his love. "Take this scarf. It will keep you warm," Yael says when Yitz departs for the war. Each bit of dialogue is closely edited, and never hazy in its meaning. When confrontations are expected, Wallace quickly cuts to the chase; in the first meeting between Yael and her neglectful mother-in-law, for example, the scene moves almost instantly from greetings to a full-blown verbal battle.

Arela Rivas does a fine job with the character of Yael, adding a complexity to her lines with her expressive eyes and effortless body movements. When she is hit by loneliness, she trembles and appears prematurely old; when she begins to rediscover her humor, one can see a tomboyish spark behind her close-lipped smile. In a scene between her and Shane Jerome (Yitz), their attraction is believable. Other actors, particularly Aylam Orian's army captain Avi, give noteworthy, appealing and vulnerable performances. Orion Delwaterman, however, as Sarah's husband Ephraim, doesn't bring quite enough magnetism into the play's most morally ambiguous character. His bursts of frustration play as too loud and his concealed attraction for Yael as excessively sheepish, causing a viewer to feel discomfort, rather than curiosity, in his presence.

Although Yom Kippur's unexpectedly open-ended conclusion is an affecting reflection of Yael' s conflict between motherly worry and patriotism, it only comes to stand in revealing contrast to the production's biggest flaw: its lack of unanswered questions. "This is war," its characters say to remind one another of the source of their elevated anxieties, but the extent of their confusion never translates in the dialogue. Each conflict is articulated with little ambiguity.

In an example, Rachel, a fellow new mother and an Israeli, reminds Yael of the glaring differences between American and local lifestyles. She mentions the plentitude of TVs, cars and accessible education in Yael's home country.

"War is part of life for Israelis. But you chose to come," Rachel says, in a line that, while true, both underlines the conflict that lies beneath her and Yael's friendship, and leaves us slightly dissatisfied.