Bad Blood

On the Kentucky side of the Tug River Valley separating the state from West Virginia, towering Appalachian Mountains serenely overlook acres of land that were once drenched in blood. Tourists flock to this century-old location, not for the picturesque view it offers of the beautiful Appalachians but for the folklore surrounding the area's former inhabitants, the Hatfields and McCoys. Feud: Fire on the Mountain, currently playing at the Village Theatre as part of the New York International Fringe Festival, chillingly recreates the lives of these two famously feuding families without sparing the tense audience any of the gory details. Writer and director Creighton James asks the audience to "jump into the world we have created for you" and "open your senses to the sights and sounds of the period." With the atmosphere he has created, this is easily done.

The men walk about in stained, untucked shirts, hopelessly wrinkled pants, and ratty shoes covered in dry mud. They rub their dirt-smudged faces with dirt-smudged hands while running handkerchiefs across their greasy, sweat-soaked hair. The McCoy and Hatfield kitchens both contain wooden tables held up on tree stumps, and their surfaces are covered with roasted chickens, jugs of water, and iron pots. Tiny saplings covered in red bandanas surround the McCoy home, while autumn leaves adorn the floor. In the background a live band, consisting of a banjo, fiddler, and guitar player, strums country and bluegrass music reminiscent of what mountain families might have played over a century ago.

The Hatfields and McCoys have interesting and intricate dynamics that define their respective families. On the surface they appear very different, but when threatened they react the same. Both clans are fighters, ready to stand up for their siblings; stare down their neighbors; and lynch, stab, whip, maim, or shoot dead anyone who threatens their kin. (Those sitting in the first few rows should be warned that a loud, smoky shootout will be taking place above their heads, and they might want to sit a little farther back.)

But those who can stomach the tension and bear the noise should sit as close to the stage as possible. The climax is a visual extravaganza of sound, light, and special effects coming together to turn the theater into a bloody battlefield between two families beside themselves with homicidal rage. Red light bathes the room, smoke pours eerily from the stage, and gun-wielding Hatfields and McCoys fire at one another from all corners of the theater.

The performers are excellent at both maintaining and escalating the suspense. Valentine McCoy (Keith Conway) is a terrifyingly loose cannon, while his brothers Paris (Gary Patent) and Sam (Scott Price) are so nervous with a weapon that you are never sure what they will do. The McCoy patriarch, Ranel McCoy (Will Brunson), is frustratingly passive in the face of his family's violent showdown, in sharp contrast to the Hatfield patriarch, Anse (Arthur Lazalde), who is unnerving in the cold and collected way he points a gun. However, it is little 7-year-old Alifair McCoy (Jaclyn Tommer) who can send the calmest heart aflutter when she innocently shuffles across the stage to examine a trigger-happy Hatfield boy with childlike amusement.

The Hatfield and McCoy feud is so wrapped up in myth that it is hard to pinpoint exactly what started a neighborly quarrel that spanned years and left approximately 13 people dead. Over the years the story has been told so many times that fact has blended with fiction, stripping the tale of all but one undisputable truth: violence breeds violence.

After experiencing the hatred and carnage in Feud: Fire on the Mountain, audiences might be moved to peacefully resolve their own conflicts before they escalate. This historic and true story is an alarming realization of what can happen when loving thy neighbor fails on a spectacular scale.

Small Town's Dark Secrets

Missouri-born Lanford Wilson, a pioneer of the Off-Off Broadway movement in the 1960's, has emerged as one of the theater's most cogent chroniclers of American life. In Book of Days, one of his best works, he combines the moral currency of Arthur Miller with the narrative finesse of Tennessee Williams. Thanks to New World Theatre, a new Off-Off Broadway theater company, New Yorkers have an opportunity to see a well-crafted production of this 1999 drama if they missed the New York City premiere, which was part of the Signature Theater's 2002-2003 season devoted to Wilson's work.

The evening opens with the 12-member cast reciting in choral fashion anodyne phrases about their fictional small town of Dublin, Mo. It is a device that recalls the stage manager of Our Town, but we soon realize that we have wandered far from Thornton Wilder territory.

The play, intelligently directed by Robert A. Zick Jr., unfolds as a series of vignettes. Each is framed by a date and a descriptive phrase

Da-Da-Da

In the wake of the Great War, conventional formulas of theater were left bombed out, shattered, charred, and shrapnel-flecked: the continent of Europe lay about like a vast corpse. The old aristocracy, in its spastic death throes, ushered in an age of material and mechanical splendor. Popular culture was born. An atmosphere of giddy anarchy glistened in the dim light of Parisian cabarets

Manhattan Puppetry

Eliza's Window, Natalie Burgess's captivating puppet play with music, illustrates how children's theater can edify even as it entertains. The hourlong play, being staged on Saturday afternoons through August by Paper City Productions in Manhattan Theatre Source's tiny second-story theater near Washington Square Park, is unapologetically moral without coming off as preachy, thanks to its wry humor and generosity of spirit.

The play follows the puppet Eliza, a depressed, wheelchair-bound girl whose well-to-do parents have recently split up, as she gradually learns from a parade of wise animals and spirits that money and what your friends think of you are less important than discovering your own song and appreciating the unique music that others make.

Creator and director Burgess, who spent three years at the Central Park Zoo as a performer, songwriter, and puppeteer, manages also to demystify music and music making for kids. As one of the musicians instructs Eliza about composing a song, "It's as easy as 1-2-3-4."

Eliza's Window can be enjoyed by the entire family. Burgess does not talk kid talk. She rightly assumes that children will stick with a compelling story that is imaginatively rendered and well paced, even if some of the jokes and big words go sailing over their heads en route to the parents in the audience.

The play might not travel well, however, since so much of the story is New York-centric, whether it's the running subplot about Pale Male, the Central Park red-tailed hawk, or Eliza's suggestions that the turtle looking for the "pond of plenty" check out Rockefeller Center, and that the rabbit seeking a garden head to a certain basketball arena.

Every element of the play has been carefully conceived, crafted, and executed, from the whimsical set design and puppets to the engaging songs. Burgess and the three other cast members

Rethinking the Bard

In a summer season full of Shakespeare, it's important to discern the reasons behind a theater company's choice of Elizabethan programming. Some groups produce the Bard so they can offer challenging acting roles and easily marketed entertainment. At these shows, you can expect the text and tone to be traditional, so the audience's enjoyment of the piece is based on an appreciation for the story line and its execution by the actors and director. At the other end of the spectrum are the groups that go high-concept, believing that Shakespeare's tales could be better expressed through a change in time period, place, circumstances, etc. With these shows, their success largely rests on how well the group integrates its vision into the show's framework while also proving that the change was a valid one. (Good leads cannot save, or excuse, a Hamlet performed on a spaceship.)

The CRY HAVOC Company calls its current season the 2005 Season of Questionable Distinctions. Their productions are "focused on issues of the intersection of gender and culture

Much to Say About Nothing

There is something inherently selfish about doing a one-woman show. Of course, most people perform them because they have something rather important to say

Critical Connection

Anne Fizzard has cooked up a fanciful comedy that takes aim at the class of people who take aim at Broadway plays for a living. Good Opinions lightheartedly chronicles several months in the life of Adele, a good-natured coat-check girl/entertainer who

This One's a Killer

"Laugh-out-loud funny" is a term used far more often than it is applicable, but it proves quite fitting in the case of Pulling Teeth, the macabre new play currently being mounted by WorkingMan's Clothes Productions at the American Place Theatre. Audiences will find themselves chortling quite audibly over and over again during this dark comedy, seemingly at the most offensive of moments. But that's precisely what Brandon Koebernick, a promising novice playwright, wants his audiences to do. His subversive combination of romance, black humor, and suspense is not unlike one of those meals served at fast food restaurants: instantly and thoroughly satisfying, but perhaps a little heavier than expected, with an extra kick that stays awhile.

Koebernick has indeed found a perfect patron in WorkingMan's Clothes, a production company geared toward encouraging new talent and presenting a host of different voices and styles. But his anonymity should not last much longer. Teeth positions him perfectly to join playwrights like Craig Lucas and David Lindsay-Abaire

Rolling Along

There is an old saying: "In a world full of caterpillars, it takes balls to be a butterfly." If this is true, Bounce's founder and choreographer, Eva Dean, must have grown colorful wings and burst from a cocoon the day her dazzlingly imaginative production first premiered at the 2002 International Fringe Festival. Since then, this full-length dance piece featuring five talented young ladies, one extraordinary founder and choreographer, and a horde of assorted bouncing balls has really been on a roll. Currently playing at Midtown's Dance Theatre Workshop, Bounce opens with tiny balls whizzing back and forth across a black stage while changing in color and growing in size. Soon the little balls are replaced by large ocean-blue ones, which are quickly pursued by young ladies who throw their bodies upon them, rolling to the floor like waves crashing to the shore. They repeat this movement until the visualization becomes as calming and meditative as a real ocean's ripple.

From here, Bounce keeps its audience guessing by branching off into a variety of skits, each with its own unique characteristics, styles, and themes. One piece, called "Playground," stars three girls playing with their bright red balls. Two scheming bullies clad in preppie pastel colors approach with their polka-dotted ones. A fight then ensues to see who can collect the most balls, while a hapless child simply tries to hold on to one.

Another vignette, "Flowing Fountain," takes a more serious, artistic approach, concluding with a noiseless duet spotlighting dancers Eva Dean and Lauren Griffin as they create soothing, spellbinding imagery with tiny, florescent, red and green balls.

Despite the overwhelming number of things a person can do with a bouncy rubber ball, Bounce takes the unique approach of using them as partners rather than props. The balls are incorporated into the scenes and dances so fully that they appear to be coming alive and voluntarily joining the dancers to tell their story.

There is a shorter version of Bounce for young audience members, called Bounce Jr., although children present for the full-length performance appeared completely engaged. For any youngster wishing to become a dancer, this production is a must-see, and for those truly inspired, Eva Dean offers "Balls" Dance Technique classes at her Brooklyn rehearsal space, Union Street Dance. But potential students be warned: the graceful movements these dancers use to fly across the stage on the backs of balls cannot be nearly as effortless as they make them look.

Still, by the play's conclusion and final vignette, "Surfing" (premiering in this current production), even the most uncoordinated, arthritis-stricken members of the audience will secretly wish they could throw themselves with abandon on a line of three turquoise balls, gliding across them as a surfer would a wave. In this lead-up to the play's finale, the large turquoise balls appear in a steady stream from backstage, forming pairs and triplets as they roll toward the audience in perfect imitation of a gentle wave determined to reach shore. The dancers then leap stomach-first into the lineup and ride it until they are deposited safely on the floor. After this motion is repeated several times, the illusion of a surfer on an ocean wave is so vivid you can almost taste the saltwater.

Unfortunately for these talented, flexible dancers, they are outnumbered by their rubbery colleagues, who are not to be outdone at curtain call. Before the evening ends, six performers and more than a hundred eager balls in all colors and sizes will appear with a vengeance to take their bows. It is virtually impossible for anyone of any age to see this play without having (pun alert) an absolute ball.

Echoes of Protest

In "Subterranean Homesick Blues" Bob Dylan sings, "You don't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows" as a metaphor for impending cultural change. Taking their name from the song, the revolutionary Weathermen felt true change came from direct action. In 1969 and the early 70's they set up underground cells, declared war on the U.S., armed themselves with guns, and bombed their targets with improvised explosive devices. In Tom Peterson's timely and promising play, Peace Now, currently at the Midtown International Theater Festival, a Weatherman plans to wreak havoc after secretly infiltrating a group of students who take over a university's administration building. The play spans May 3-5, 1970, and includes a radio report on the infamous Kent State shootings on May 4, when four unarmed people were killed and nine injured.

Despite being one of the "members of a group of protesters who took over our university's administration building," Peterson shies away from labeling his show, which he also directed, a documentary. Indeed, it might be better considered a historical fiction: Peterson weaves personal experience, historical events, and dramatic situations into an intriguing composite of a 70's protest.

Unlike docudramas such as Execution of Justice and Gross Indecency that use discursive approaches, Peace Now is static and linear. The show focuses on the group dynamics among the protesters (and one injured veteran) who find themselves at a crossroads between patriotism and revolution. Peterson draws a convincing set of characters, among which we know there is a Weatherman hiding in wait for the right moment to push the protest into violent extremism.

In an attempt to convey the play's underpinnings and context, Peterson uses certain characters as messenger devices. Joel, a theater major (capably played by Michael C Maronna), gives a speech about the Weathermen and their history. Liberti, a quick-mouthed protester (passionately portrayed by Adrianne Rae-Rodgers), makes a compelling argument citing various wars and how she hates war but still loves the solider.

In some cases, too much information outweighs the dramatic situation, and Peterson's style slips into a prescription for an apathetic generation that faces similar issues but does nothing. Where he excels, however, is in the point-counterpoint arguments between characters. The former soldier Petrovich (a stoic Matthew Decapua) debates flag burning with protest leader Elaine (beautifully played by Cameron Blair), resulting in a richly written and well-acted conflict, one that is playing itself out again in today's courts.

In fact, Peace Now offers a wide range of clashing ideologies that have modern-day echoes. Each character brandishes his or her own form of patriotism, and the bonds or infighting this creates effectively drive the play (and the country) forward. The cast is very talented, with standouts including the impressively understated Frank Harts (as Alan, who supports the Black Panthers) and fresh-faced Kim Shaw (Susan, the doe-eyed freshman).

The set is simple: a desk and a chair and a back wall of windows that the cast uses to egg on the protest and the National Guardsmen accumulating outside. This figuratively places the audience in the administration building with the play's dissidents (a wishful choice perhaps?). One suggestion: If that wall functioned instead as a fourth wall and the actors faced out, it would allow audience to shift from perspective to perspective: from a protester to a National Guardsman, or from a student to an administrator.

With their unresolved dualism, Peterson's crafted dialogues paint an evocative portrait of 1970 and recall a time when dissent and patriotism were not mutually exclusive, as many believe today. With more development, Peace Now could become not only a distant voice from the past but surely an important beacon of the future.

See Peace Now's Web site for the performance schedule at www.peacenowplay.com.

Roman Times

There are differing opinions floating about concerning the value of the scores of theater festivals that pop up in New York every year. Based on the success stories from these events, it's clear that their strongest asset to the artistic community is in identifying promising new playwrights and composers. At the Midtown International Theater Festival, a theater company appropriately named Unartistically Frustrated is presenting End Caligula, a smart, funny new play by Sean Michael Welch. As with most festivals, performances are scheduled back to back, to the detriment of those who like their theater to start on time. (On this particular night, the show began 20 minutes after its listed start time.) The three-quarters-arena black box with the fire engine-red seating contained a few props and set pieces originating from recent times. It was clear that this take on the famously equine-philic Roman emperor would be transported to the modern day.

The story begins as a middle-aged senator, Chaerea, tries to convince younger senator Sabinus that action should be taken to overthrow the Emperor Caligula. Much fun is had in the back and forth between the men, as the literal-minded Sabinus dissects Chaerea's statements even as he struggles to understand them. There are no satisfyingly concrete reasons given for their dissatisfaction in Caligula as a leader, though there is talk about the outrageous ways he supposedly entertains his houseguests.

Indeed, even when the man himself is brought onstage (accompanied by an amusingly tough-talking female soldier), there is nothing evil or crazy about him. Perhaps the stories spread about him are the fictional work of his Uncle Claudius, the stuttering, softheaded historian who may not be as dim as he lets on.

When the senators present Claudius with Caligula's report on the war in Germany, the elder gentleman mentions his nephew's strange affection for his horse. Upon leaving, Chaerea and Sabinus encounter news reporter/gossip hound Apostolus, played here as an oversexed, short-skirted, TV anchor-coiffed dame. Fearing that she'll write about their assassination schemes, Sabinus reluctantly ponies up the pony rumor. (History can fill you in on the rest of the story.)

Ryan Blackwell (Sabinus) and Matt Scott (Chaerea) make a fine team as the funny man/straight man duo. They seem to enjoy a strong rapport and ably handle the tricky and copious dialogue. Jesse Sneddon's Caligula is an enigma, all cool affability without displaying enough madness or sanity so you can make up your mind about his capability. As Claudius, Offie Sherman does a shticky, stuttering clown act in public, but comes across much differently when he's alone writing in his journals.

The cross-gender casting of the soldier and Apostolus does not strain credibility. Still, while Katherine Harte underplays as the Secret Service-esque strongman, Heather Lasnier overdoes it in Apostolus's flirtatious pursuit of a story. It would've been interesting to see her use the "helpless female" approach, so plausible in the patriarchal times portrayed, to get what she wanted.

Playwright Welch's story employs an interesting revisionist history, giving enough back story without becoming a documentary, and enough clever wordplay without stopping the action. As directed by Stacee Mandeville, the cast is given lots of stage business, much of which earns its own laughs.

In a summer bursting with productions, the theater audience has a lot of choices in genre, location, and price range. At the same time, it's difficult to separate the wheat from the chaff. For people who like original, intelligent comedy, go for these grains.

Show People

Life in the arts, particularly in theater, can be glorious, uplifting, and life changing. Of course, with this high that blesses so many hopefuls also comes the potential for extreme disappointment, exploitation, and devastation. Theater and film are littered with stories about life in theater and film, and among the examples of the glittery rise and fall tale are A Chorus Line, Gypsy, Rent, A Star Is Born, and The Muppets Take Manhattan. Or, for another instance of this dramatic arc, see 21 Stories: A Broadway Tale, now at the Midtown International Theatre Festival. Written by G.W. Stevens, directed by Michael Berry, and co-starring Stevens and Marilyn Rising, 21 Stories is often appealing and sometimes touching. But it does little to improve upon the genre, filled as it is with navel-gazing artists.

Set in 1984, the play chronicles the experiences of two young people who move to New York City to pursue their dreams. Billy Youngblood, played by Stevens with a consistent look of wide-eyed hopefulness and a toothy half-smile, is a native of Yorkshire, England. Back home he was a popular football enthusiast, but in New York he is an aspiring Broadway dancer. Margaret Evans, played by Rising, is from Texas. Abandoned by her father at a young age after he instilled in her a love and talent for the piano, she runs away to New York to find her father and perhaps become a great pianist.

Both are living on the 21st floor of a Manhattan high-rise, and they become friends who support each other through their trials: Margaret's Vicatin addiction and Billy's relationship with a drug-abusing playboy.

The set is mostly decorated with two elements: impressionistic images of New York and an ensemble of dancers who create the ambience for most scenes. Mostly wordless throughout the show, the nine dancers rush onstage to create crowded city streets, a busy club scene, small pieces of big musicals, and unfriendly swarms of cattle-call auditioners.

The dancers' presence, and the way they engulf Billy and Margaret and enrich their environments, is one of the most engaging and remarkable elements in the production. And the fact that every Broadway song is lip-synced and no one ever sings (except Billy, who sings in spurts and usually just for emphasis) may be simply for convenience, but it also adds a ghostly quality to the ensemble.

Because those emotional, half-sung moments go to Billy, he clearly owns the show, even though 21 Stories is billed as a look at a "couple of misfits." Understandably, Stevens, one of the co-writers, spends more time examining his character, who (spoiler alert) by the end succumbs to the despair of having contracted AIDS from a callous lover and then kills him and himself. Margaret, who we learn through a brief hint has prostituted herself for Vicatin, also kills herself, apparently for no other reason than her failure to find her father and the fact that she didn't get into Juilliard.

Stevens, while unquestionably charismatic and energetic, becomes a bit of a one-trick pony, relying on his considerable charm and watery blue eyes to create a sympathetic character. And while Billy's story is interesting, it doesn't give enough new insight into the tragedy of AIDS (or into broken hearts and dreams) to sustain a two-person show. Anyone who saw the semi-autobiographical Jonathan Larson musical Tick, Tick

In and Out of Eden

The story of Adam and Eve

Behind Every Good King...

The old line about who invariably stands behind every good man is often quoted. But how often do we stop to ponder the reverse notion

Fallen Star

Frances Farmer was a movie actress from the 1930's and 40's, loved for her radiant natural beauty, admired for her powerful, passionate acting, but remembered and immortalized for her tragic, wasted life. Her violent fall from grace was engineered by her mother, supported by a communist-paranoid government, and justified by a gossip-hungry press. In Sally Clark's fact based play, Saint Frances of Hollywood, currently running at The Manhattan Theatre Source, Sarah Ireland breaths vibrant life back into Farmer by skillfully resurrecting the feisty spirit and iron will that characterized Hollywood's most tragic starlet. Mounted on a bare white stage with no set, scenery, or props, Saint Frances of Hollywood relies on its tight plot, crackling dialogue, and well-nuanced acting to tell its story. The only special effect used to set the mood is a black and white movie clip from the 1930's Farmer film Come and Get It. Here the audience can see for itself why Farmer was once a beloved icon of the screen. Her glowing beauty is immediately evident. With high cheekbones, wavy blond hair, large blue eyes, and a face full of expression and charisma, her presence commands both attention and reverence.

Farmer's mother was a conservative, religious housewife determined to give her daughter a glamorous Hollywood life. But as Farmer matured, her mother's hold on her loosened. An idealist at heart, Farmer wanted to protest the treatment of migrant workers, join movements to help the poor, work with theater groups promoting social change, and find a way to make capitalism work for everyone.

Her passion for such changes was interpreted as a distaste for the government, which in that era meant being branded with the deadly label "communist." The press balked at her activities, her mother denounced her opinions, and the movie studio sent her to work in Mexico as punishment for canceling out on two big-budget films.

Farmer's refusal to pander to the press inspired it to paint her as a communist lunatic. After she physically lashed out at a hairdresser who called her as much, the government asked Farmer's mother to have her committed. Her mother readily agreed, then eerily proceeded to dress like her daughter and answer her fan mail while she was institutionalized.

Nine months later, Farmer emerged from the medical facility and attacked her treatment there. She reported that she was repeatedly raped by orderlies, prostituted to soldiers, subjected to constant electric shock, given insulin shots to stun her body, and forced to endure eight-hour baths in ice water. And yet her mother still sent her back to the facility a year later when Farmer announced she would rather return to the picket lines than to a Hollywood soundstage.

Unable to break her spirit, the mental institution performed a lobotomy designed to give Farmer only the most basic of brain functions. This time they sent her back into society as a shell of her former self.

With such heavy subject matter, humor is an essential aspect of this production. Fortunately, there are plenty of laughs, especially in the scenes within the mental institution. Jeffrey Plunkett hysterically plays Dr. Betelguese with a squeaky voice that makes every word play as a joke. Fiona Jones is perfect as Farmer's crazy, rubber ducky-obsessed cellmate, and Kendra Kohrt is excellent as a chipper nurse who breaks into Nazi-like seriousness when she means business.

But there is no doubt that the play is firmly planted on Ireland's capable shoulders. She gives a stunning performance as Farmer, one that, on a Broadway stage, would undoubtedly earn her a Tony nomination. Not only does Ireland have the same classic beauty and interesting face, but she manages to be spirited, zesty, and funny even in the darkest of moments.

Farmer's life was defined by her misfortune. Society took away her talent, butchered her beauty, raped her body, destroyed her mind, and sent her back into the world a compliant, mindless drone. Fortunately, her story lives on in movies like Jessica Lange's Frances, songs like Nirvana's "Frances Farmer Will Have Her Revenge on Seattle," and plays like Saint Frances of Hollywood. This legacy proves that even after lobotomy and death, Farmer's voice was never silenced.

Strutting and Fretting

Great quotes become clich

Murder, Third Row Center

A murder has been committed at Muldoon Manor, a remote, fog-shrouded country home, and the body lies in plain sight. Too bad the house guests, and the critics for that matter, are too self-absorbed to notice. The Performers Access Studio's spot-on production of Tom Stoppard's 1968 witty whodunit, The Real Inspector Hound, is a play-within-a-play that pokes fun at the murder mystery form while exposing the critics who decide "yea" or "nay" before the first act is done.

First, the play: Stoppard has created a telltale mystery that is comically aware of itself, complete with the attractive widow, Cynthia Muldoon; her busybody maid, Mrs. Drudge; the unannounced stranger, Simon; and the inept but dashing Inspector Hound.

Early on, when Simon remarks, "I took the shortcut over the cliffs and followed one of the old smuggler's paths through the treacherous swamps that surround this strangely inaccessible house," we realize that Stoppard is revealing how easily recognizable and implausible mystery-genre conventions are. The performers must remain aware of the molds from which they've been cast, exaggerating their horror and shock, their passion and anger in a constant send-up of well-worn tropes. As Felicity, Mary Theresa Archibold, for instance, accents every exit with a fluttering step and a sudden flick of her curly black hair that perfectly sums up her character's jilted pout.

Downstage left, in a short row of chairs identical to those in the audience, sit Birdboot and Moon, two critics who have been dispatched to review the murder mystery. A big name with an equally big ego, Birdboot is a career-making critic with a conspicuously absent wife and an eye for fresh young actresses, while Moon is a striving second-stringer who lives in the shadows of his superior, Higgs. They both seem to be watching the play, but actually spend a good deal of time musing about their own problems.

As the action in the first scene gets under way, Birdboot proclaims that the killer is not Simon, the unexpected guest, but Magnus, the wheelchair-bound brother-in-law of the lady of the house, who "ten years ago went out for a walk on the cliffs and was never seen again." Having made up his mind about the killer's identity and the review he will give the show, the weathered critic can turn his attention to the young starlets who grace the stage. And Moon, hampered by his own sense of inferiority

Mock the Casbah

Persians are "passionate people," argues Iranian-born actor Arian Moayed, and "all that hair," he offers as an afterthought, is just "to keep us warm." Issues of hirsuteness aside, if theater company Waterwell's re-envisioning of Aeschylus's The Persians is any indication, I would add that Persians are also somewhat schizophrenic, and not a little over-caffeinated. And thank the gods for it: what better way to shake some life into what is widely considered the world's oldest surviving play? First performed in 472 A.D., the work is remarkable not only for its age but also for the fact that it is the only extant Greek play to deal with an actual, historical event, namely the Persian king Xerxes's invasion of Greece just eight years earlier. With monumental hubris on full display, Xerxes amassed an army of nearly a million men

Woven Memories

Beth Kurkjian likes to crochet. A lot. The intricate, multicolored pieces that she crocheted for and wears during Age Less

Noir On-Air

Hard Boiled is playwright Dan Bianchi's latest crack at the world of pulp-fiction noir. Produced by Radio Theatre Presents, it is a send-up of gritty detective novels and the live drama of radio theater. The setting is straight out of a 40's black-and-white mystery, the kind where the rain is always falling amid the perennial darkness in some nameless city. Hard Boiled features the usual suspects: the jaded detective, the Hollywood matinee idol and his brassy agent, the mobster and his actress wife, and the mobster's stripper girlfriend. Thrown in for effective atmosphere are a sultry singer and her pitch-perfect band. The story is interspersed with clever advertisements for other radio programs and commercial products of yesteryear.

The play attempts to recreate radio theater, and to Bianchi's credit, he undertakes this endeavor with a great deal of passion. The problem is that Bianchi the director can't decide if he is presenting a play, a re-creation of a radio broadcast that is being watched as a play, or a radio broadcast that is being heard first and seen second. With elaborate costumes and props, Hard Boiled is very much a spectacle, but some of the actors simply use their voices while others use their entire bodies, giving fully physical performances.

The cast of characters is game if not fully able. Ryan Kelly as the Mae West-inspired agent, Joey Kapps, gives it her all. Unfortunately, her all is too much, and with wild eyes, Kelly ends up overacting to the point of distraction. John Nolan as the Host has the perfect "radio" voice, and he does keep the action moving, yet he often comes across as bored. Elizabeth Bianchi has several nice moments as mob moll Cindy Marsh, but they are quickly undermined by a comes-and-goes accent and a weak character. Adam Murphy, Dan Truman, and Sarah Stephens fare better in their commercial spots than in their poorly defined characters during the show's story.

Charles Wilson saves the day (and the play) as Detective Jack Carter. His character is a cocksure ladies' man and a master of words, full of dry sarcasm, Wilson seems born to play the role, and he brings Hard Boiled alive. Yet ironically the unsung hero of Hard Boiled is singer Rhe De Ville. A sultry and sexy chanteuse, she sets the play alight with her smoky voice. Looking like a million bucks and sporting a priceless set of pipes, De Ville alone is worth seeing the show. She is expertly supported by Brian Cashwell on piano and Jimmy Sullivan on bass.

Bianchi has written a flawed script that tries too hard. With a plot that is incidental