No Frills Bard

Less is more. This mantra, the coup-de-grace cliché amongst most university acting programs, was all-too-familiar to Shakespeare. Being no stranger to the fact that the power to influence an audience is derived directly from the relationship between language and imagination, Shakespeare found his Art in words. And in a visually-dominated, high-definition, 3G, broadband connected society, this is a refreshing sentiment – if not altogether a foreign concept. It seems fitting that a Theatre like Ten Ten, whose historic imprint on NYC theatre is undeniable, would choose to kick off its 53rd Season with a production of The Tempest which befriends the ear and scorns the eye. Hamlet himself would approve of such an approach…up to a point.

For those outside of the know, The Tempest was written circa 1610 and is considered not only one of the greatest works of Shakespeare, but also his last non-collaborative work. The main plot concerns the Sorcerer (and rightful Duke of Milan) Prospero who, along with his daughter Miranda, has been stranded on an island for 12 years due to the jealous nature of his brother Antonio. At the play’s opening, Prospero – having divined that Antonio is on a ship passing close by the island – conjures a storm which causes the ship to run aground…thus foreshadowing the imminent brotherly reunion.

The Tempest is, perhaps, one of the most poetic and mature works of Shakespeare but was often overlooked for productions until well after Shakespeare’s death and the release of the First Folio in 1623. Textually, it is not only seaworthy but seemingly bereft of any leaks and could easily be considered a structural recipe for good dramatic writing. With such an unsinkable script, it is hard to imagine how anything short of magnificence could be achieved…but, all too oft, such is the case.

Under the navigation of Judith Jarosz, this production generally steers true but has an infrequent tendency to be tossed about like Gilligan’s Minnow. The small, intimate space (a sectioned-off portion of the basement theatre at the Park Avenue Christian Church) is charmingly effective and promotes a personal investment between both audience and actor. Acoustically, it proves troubling at times with line deliveries that are garbled or drowned in reverb but, thankfully, this is an exception rather than the norm.

Giles Hogya & David Fuller’s exposed set may lack visual excitement (a multitude of black platforms with only a single tree/plant to suggest location), but it provides a nice canvas for Jarosz and her cast to work the language free from optical distractions. Interestingly enough, Elizabethan staging conventions functioned similarly. Aaron Diehl’s sound design has some nice musical interludes, but some sound effects ill-timed with actor movements draw chuckles.

As with all of Shakespeare’s plays, acting is the key to success. In many productions, actors recite lines that they themselves are unsure about and tend to compensate with stylized over-acting. And while the former is not necessarily an issue for this production, it does suffer a bit from the latter. This would not necessarily be a bad thing, but it does tend to have a distancing effect on a production which appears to strive for a more human, if not touching, approach.

David Fuller’s (Prospero) performance is not only genuine, but endearing and goes a long way in bridging the gap between a Prospero who is omniscient and yet wonderfully human and frail. Similarly, Kendall Rileigh (Ariel) is a pure delight who embodies the magical/mystical nature of Ariel physically, vocally and musically. Scott Michael Morales (Caliban) is to be commended on his vocal and physical endurance, but his performance is much too reminiscent of Gollum from The Lord of the Rings movies.

Overall, The Tempest feels like a piece that could achieve a bit more. Rhythmically, it stutters early on (which might explain why the audience was notably lighter after intermission) but redeems itself admirably in a swift second act. Less, we are told, is equivalent to sounding greater depths, but, as in all things, it cannot simply be relied upon as an altruism. A bit more, perhaps, with minimal effort would serve this production better and have Hamlet cheering in the wings.

Illegitimate Theater

It’s part Milton Berle, part Bob Hope, part vaudeville, part farce, with a big dose of camp thrown in for good measure. The Ladies Auxiliary might find it irresistible. It’s Love Child. Unlike vaudeville, though, there are no costumes or even hand props. The performers remain in their street clothes throughout the performance, making Candice Donnelly’s costuming job perhaps the easiest in all New York City theater. What you do get for 80 minutes are two middle-aged men (writer-performers Daniel Jenkins and Robert Stanton) running around, playing many characters simultaneously, and frequently screaming. Stanton and Jenkins are perhaps a bit too fond of inventing their own sound effects for everything taking place in their world, including various bodily functions. Imagine two droll Robin Williams’ verbally going at each other, sometimes oblivious and possibly high on speed, and you’ve got Love Child.

Competently directed by Carl Forsman, the production is ridiculous and waggish. Several of the characters are trying to mount an updated version of Euripedes’ Ion in a theater in Red Hook. Joel, the production’s manager/actor, played by Jenkins, gets an opening night visit from his eccentric aunt (Stanton) and his disturbed mother, also played by Jenkins, and the ancient story of the bastard child, Ion, becomes a real-life adventure for the confused Joel, as he learns the identity of his biological father.

Neil Patel’s set is essentially a phone in, with huge drop cloths draped over paintings, possibly from another show. The set itself consists of six chairs which Jenkins and Stanton use as launch pads to strenuously portray 20 less than hilarious characters in this manic game of musical chairs. Lighting design by Jeff Croiter and Grant Yeager is smart and crisp; at one point they briefly transform the stage into a disco.

Stanton and Jenkins are not untalented. Though their knowing and frequently politically incorrect brand of humor picks some easy targets — effeminate men, welfare mothers, the homeless, their impressions — of Joel’s neurotic mother and a Mexican talk show host, for example —are temporarily interesting in an over-the-top way. Their timing is impeccably precise; they have clearly worked hard on this show.

The problem is that Love Child just isn’t funny. The bit that drew the biggest laugh was a recurring one where Stanton slips on a greasy floor. Yuk-yuk! For a second I thought the ghost of Sid Caesar might materialize, until I remembered that he’s still alive. Ba-dummm-chhh!

One problem is that Stanton and Jenkins jump too frenetically from character to character and situation to situation; it's like a Family Guy episode. After a while, you stop trying to pay attention and just let the waves of cheese wash over you. This brand of comedy is so antique, so bygone, so outmoded that I wouldn’t be surprised if Love Child someday becomes a hit on the Buffalo dinner theater circuit.

All in all, Love Child is another harmless mediocrity in the dysfunctional family comedy genre. In this case, the family is a theater family. Stanton and Jenkins valiantly attempt to lace the comedy with anecdotal profundity that, more often than not, also flops.

With the possible exceptions of two brief and semi-clever quasi-musical numbers, Love Child is, in a word: lame. A lady in front of me kept flicking on a blue LED light to check her watch. It was annoying but I peeked over her shoulder every time she did it.

The Boy Who Wouldn't Grow Up, For Grown-Ups

Few twentieth century stories have enjoyed as many successful adaptations, in such a variety of media, as J.M. Barrie’s Peter Pan. Best known today in the forms of Barrie’s novel, Disney’s movie, and the Mary Martin musical, in 1904 Barrie’s story of the boy who wouldn’t grow up premiered, in its first fully realized form, as an adult stage play. As adapted by Brooklyn’s Irondale Ensemble, that play is a joy to watch. Peter Pan serves as the inaugural production of the company’s new home, The Irondale Center, a former Fort Greene church. The Center officially opened its doors earlier this month; eventual plans for the space include an art gallery, a café, office and conference rooms. How fortunate for the community to gain such a dynamic arts center; how fortunate for Peter Pan that those projects are still in the works. As it stands now, the former sanctuary possesses an intersection of dusty stateliness and ethereal magic. Tension between those two poles forms the crux of the Peter Pan story, and their physical representation in the performance space is terrific.

Ken Rothchild’s scenic design utilizes the raw space to great effect, creating levels, so important to the suggestion of flight, with metal scaffolding and the church’s own balcony. Scaling stories-high scaffolding and bounding in from the rafters, the cast displays buoyant energy. As Peter Pan, Jack Lush posses an athleticism that is at once wild and determined. He captures the character’s childlike belief in a singular right and wrong, while hinting at the inner complexity of the boy who wouldn’t grow up.

Despite Peter’s insistence of his desire to avoid the world of rules, he himself possesses a profound sense of justice. Though Peter famously loves adventure and mischeviousness, Barrie suggests that the boy’s inability to expect dishonesty, ever, is perhaps what separates Peter from all other children. Audiences are informed so by Barrie himself; the production is adapted to include Barrie’s stage directions and authorial voice.

The audience doesn’t need a narrator to understand the story; Jim Neison’s directorial skill conveys Barrie’s intentions without actually putting his stage directions into the dialogue. Yet inserting Barrie as a character, surrounded by his characters, is nonetheless a dynamic choice. Barrie’s onstage characterization acknowledges the source of the Peter Pan mythology while indicating the ways that Barrie himself now figures in to the myth.

Neither the perverse recluse of literati folklore nor a starry eyed cook in the vein of Johnny Depp, Damen Scranton’s Barrie is a refined storyteller. He at once controls the world around him, placing props in characters hands and instructing the audience as to their motivations, while at the same time conveying a curious sense of powerlessness. Although the characters are his brainchildren, he appears to see their fates as inexorable. His frustration with his characters, more than his love for them, makes his presence welcome.

A small, boisterous ensemble playing a wide variety of roles enhances the notion that these characters are fictional constructs. Under Neison’s seamless direction, the talented cast shifts roles not just from scene to scene but from moment to moment. Although the shifts are occasionally confusing, quick character changes help keep up the pace of the over two-hour production. Liz Prince’s costume design keeps the aesthetic simple and eases the transitions; whites and beiges make up the world of the play. Peter Pan stands out in his signature green.

Peter and Wendy are the only characters whose actors don’t play multiple roles, a choice that highlights the fact that both characters are protagonists (significantly, the first novelized version of the story was titled Peter and Wendy). In the Irondale production, Scarlet Rivera’s Wendy is neither as saccharine as the animated and musical versions with which audiences are familiar, nor as worldly. Rivera and Lush make a great match for one another, successfully portraying children who play-act romance without overtly sexualizing them. Equal parts dutiful and petulant, the evolution of their relationship – her anticipation of womanhood and his dread of it – create subtle rifts in their otherwise happy home. Watching the alignment of their games come undone is startlingly sad to watch, even when, from the outset, audiences know their separate trajectories.

In one of the play’s creepier moments, after Wendy sends the lost boys to bed, childlike Peter checks with her to make sure they are only pretend husband and wife. She answers that it’s pretend so long as he wants it be. A more ironic production would turn the moment into meta-theater; here it creates a sense of palpable unease.

Though we often think of Peter Pan as an adventure tale, it is as much a story of homemaking as of pirates. Wendy, after all, goes to Never Land because Peter wants someone to take care of the boys and keep house. As such, it's a fitting inaugural production for a company that has at last found its home.

The Forget-Me-Nots

Questions abound in Lee Blessing’s overly existential play A Body of Water. Why don’t the two adults who awake together in bed recognize themselves, or each other? Who is the woman who shows up at their house with bagels? Why does her story about their identities keep changing? Which, if any of them, are true? Beyond all of the questions, though, one central mystery dominates the play: What is Blessing trying to accomplish here? The playwright creates quite a challenge from the outset of this Primary Stages show, in that none of his three characters are reliable. Though it takes a while, we learn the names of our mystery pair: Moss (Michael Cristofer) and Avis (Christine Lahti). They have no memory of anything in their lives – not the lake house in which they find neither themselves nor the reason why they may have possibly woken up naked together in bed. The two attempt many different methods of discovery, including Avis examining Moss’s genitals with a pair of kitchen tongs, all to no avail.

After an overlong period of time, a younger woman named Wren (Laura Odeh) arrives, breakfast in hand. After a lot of dancing around the subject, Moss and Avis cop to their total memory loss, of which Wren is actually well aware. She admits that she is their legal defender, assigned to them following the mysterious murder of their eleven-year-old daughter. A new question arises. Is their amnesia a cognitive reaction to this trauma, or is it selective? Wren’s job is to jog their memory enough to prove their innocence, or to determine if Moss and Avis are indeed lying to cover their tracks.

Explaining away Moss and Avis’ odd behavior as a result of retrograde amnesia makes sense, but in a disappointing, derivative way, since many writers have employed this as a theatricality. Just when we think Blessing has set the story straight, though, he throws another curveball. Wren discounts her entire first story and claims to be the couple’s grown daughter. Weary of a lifetime of dealing with two parents locked in a perpetual Groundhog Day-style daily forgetfulness, she claims to toy with them, either to make fun of her condition for her own amusement or to shock them into remembering their life.

Body is comprised of five scenes, taking place over the course of three days. In each of these scenes, Wren’s explanations of who she is and who Moss and Avis are to her change, sometimes oscillating back and forth into old explanations. Blessing’s point, if there is one lurking underneath this play, is that his audience will never really know the truth, but that makes for a hollow show. If we know nothing about all three characters, and are never told the truth about their past or their connections to each other, why is worth any investment on our part?

Blessing also backs himself into a dramatic corner with all of his characters’ exposition. True or false, all of Wren’s talking and Moss and Avis’ questions add up to a lot of redundant talking. Body cannot show, so it tells, adding up to little more than a lecture. Director Maria Mileaf finds no artful way to advance Blessing’s non-linear plot (indeed, her blocking throughout the show has these characters merely moving around in circles), and the result is a static show.

Mileaf has assembled a checkered cast to shape Blessing’s caricatures into something more human. Between the two of them, Cristofer and Lahti have won an Emmy, a Pulitzer, an Oscar and a Tony; together, the duo locates the emotional undercurrent of Body and deftly figures out a rhythm for these two characters who know each other and yet at the same time do not.

Odeh has a more difficult role. Wren, as written, suggests an impatient, petulant girl, but we do not know if this is her real personality or a persona she adopts to goad Moss and Avis, nor what her agenda is in any of the situations she describes to Moss and Avis. Odeh registers a commanding presence during her scenes, but she has been given an impossible character to realize.

What Body lacks is some kind of edge. Blessing has chosen an interesting topic – does our memory shape who we are? – but he needs to attach it to a gripping story that makes the audience care what a play’s characters remember and forget (take, for example, the film Memento, which addressed a slightly different type of amnesia in riveting form). Despite the many mysteries posed and red herrings thrown about, Body is a static show. It is hard to create food for thought when there is no meat provided.

A Weak Cornerstone

Henrik Ibsen poured his late-life preoccupations into The Master Builder: it’s a portrait of a man fearing age, of an creator driven by his muse, and of the personal sacrifices any artist makes in pursuit of success. Hilde Wangel, the young woman who captivates the title character, is a reflection of a girl of 20 with whom Ibsen became infatuated in his sixties during a vacation in the Tyrol. But, in addition to its earthbound concerns, it also has strange conversations about trolls and demons that hark back to Peer Gynt and give it an unearthly quality. Ciaran O’Reilly has underlined the supernatural elements in his new staging at the Irish Rep, which has linked the Norwegian playwright to its mission by using an adaptation by noted Irish playwright Frank McGuinness .

Aging architect Halvard Solness (James Naughton) is a visionary whose people skills are lacking, though his arrogance and libido are not. He works in a studio with his assistant Knut Brovik (Herb Foster), whom he has supplanted as the chief architect in the area, and Knut’s son, Ragnar (Daniel Talbott), who hopes to launch his own architectural business but needs Solness’s stamp of approval on one big project. Solness, terrified of being pushed out by younger talent, has no intention of giving it. Also working in the office is Ragnar’s intended wife (and his first cousin), Kaja (Letitia Lange), who has been having an affair with Solness. His attraction to her is partly male midlife crisis, Ibsen suggests, but also clearly, in the coded dialogue, because Solness’s wife, Aline (Kristin Griffith), has physically withdrawn since her ancestral home was destroyed by fire and their twin sons died. After that, Solness stopped building big public buildings with towers and spires; he took up designing residences with no phallic overtones—except for their new home, just completed, which has a tower.

Into the midst of this tightly knit group arrives Hilde, a young woman around 20. Departing from Ibsen, who has her enter through a door, O’Reilly has Hilde enter through a hidden panel that swings open in an upstage wall amid an unusually bright light (from Michael Gottlieb) that signals a supernatural quality. Hilde identifies herself as a young child that Solness picked up 10 years earlier at the dedication of a church and says he had promised to build her a castle and make her a princess. She now wants her castle in the air. For all her beauty, she seems to be a female Rumpelstiltskin come to claim her due.

In the pivotal role, Naughton is a disappointment, stiff and hesitant with many lines. McGuinness’s translation doesn’t always help, with occasional awkward phrasing: Solness’s “Who had the brass neck to tell you that?” sounds Victorian, and “Then shift Ragnar from this silly idea” is a very British idiom. Those instances, however, don’t account for the dull and dutiful performance. Naughton has his moments (notably in his late speech on the demands of the demons), but the master builders here are the people around him.

Though British critic James Agate famously called Aline “the dankest tank among all Ibsen’s woeful cisterns,” Kristin Griffith, holding her arms stiffly from her sides, creates a character who is emotionally stunted and yet aching with pain (she also generates a bit of dark humor from flinching at Hilde's exuberant embraces). Critics have viewed Aline as a cold fish, because her remorse at the loss of her dolls and jewelry in the fire affects her more than the death of her children. But Griffith somehow suggests a supernatural reason: they are talismans to help Aline survive. She has confidence her babies are in heaven, but without her totems, she is bereft.

As the free-spirited Hilde, Charlotte Parry radiates youth, exuberance, and admiration. There’s a frisson of sexual perversity when Hilde announces to Solness that her underwear is “terribly soiled,” and even more when she confesses a fascination with the thought of being raped by Vikings. Solness is enchanted by her and unburdens himself, talking about his demons, and she becomes his confessor.

It’s a mark of the success of O’Reilly’s production that one can’t decide on her nature. Is Hilde, sylphlike and radiant, really a maleficent spirit who leads the overreaching Solness to his doom, or just a strange young woman who unlocks an old man’s psyche? Or is she an angel, come to punish him for his turning away from building churches with spires? Hilde’s last words, “Master mine. My master builder,” leave one stuck satisfyingly on the fence.

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.

Prelude Advances

In the October 2005 issue of American Theatre, Jeffrey Jones published an article entitled "Thinking About Writing About Thinking About New Plays." In his article, Jones makes the point that museums, through audioguides, catalogues and other contextualizing efforts, have generally been successful in turning the public on to modern art. Theaters, in contrast, have made less progress in developing and disseminating a common vocabulary for emerging forms of playwriting and performance, a fact that Jones feels has contributed to difficulties in expanding the market and audience for this type of work.

This year, the curators of Prelude '08 decided to tackle this challenge. By restructuring the five-year-old festival and organizing it around a central theme, Andy Horwitz, Geoffrey Scott and Frank Hentschker produced a festival that not only showcased a cross-section of New York's downtown talent but also generated lively critical discussion about contemporary performance.

The central theme they chose is "Between the Black Box and the White Cube: Performance, Place & Context." The various performances were organized into one of six "exhibits:" Performance Art, Interactive Art, Compositional Performance, Media Performance, New Theatre, and New Plays. At the end of each track, participating artists joined a moderator for a panel discussion in which they conversed and responded to questions about the entire afternoon of work. The conference also featured panels of experts discussing relevant topics such as New York real estate's impact on theater art, touring, and the role of dramaturgy, and a Saturday spotlight session focusing on the work of boundary-pushing Polish playwrights.

For much of the conference, two theaters were in use: the Elebash auditorium and the more intimate Segal Theatre. The spaces in between, including the lobbies and hallways, were put to good use showcasing surprising performances by WaxFactory and Raul Vincent Enriquez. Informative and plentiful signage assisted attendees in following the two-track program and planning their festival experience.

The annual Prelude event originated as a complement to the international programming at the Martin E. Segal Theatre Center, housed in the CUNY Graduate Center complex. Frank Hentschker, Director of Programs, decided to develop an annual showcase for the work of New York City artists. The initial incarnation featured programming selected by lottery. The second and third editions were co-curated by Hentschker and Sarah Benson, who is now Artistic Director of Soho Rep. Prelude has always served as a valuable opportunity to sample the work of a wide variety of up-and-coming artists working in downtown theater in a single weekend. Previous festivals featured highlights of the upcoming theater season, with each individual reading or workshop performance followed by an artist talkback session.

In 2007, the Prelude co-curatorship passed to Scott and Horwitz. "The plan was always to rotate the curatorship every two years, to allow for fresh perspectives," says Hentschker. For the first time, the conference included an international spotlight, on Japanese performance and playwriting.

Strategic meetings for Prelude 2008 began soon after the 2007 event. The curators decided, based on feedback from previous conferences, to group similar performances and to hold an artistic conversation with all the artists in the group at the end of the set. They decided to overturn a previous Prelude rule that artists and companies that had presented at previous years' events could not be invited to present again. The goal was to show how these groups' work has changed over the years that Prelude has been operating, and to allow the audience to compare newer ensembles with those who have been working for longer periods of time.

Once these decisions was made, Scott and Horwitz reached out to their advisory board for suggestions of potential participants, and began to plan the program. "We also kept talking about what we had been seeing in the past year," explains Scott. "As an artist, I work primarily in the visual art world, and Andy has a lot of connections there too. We kept seeing plays in museums, and discussing the characteristics of museums, theaters, and other performance spaces, how they impacted the art and the audience's experience." Horwitz and Scott share an interest in the work of Tino Segal, a visual artist who creates interactive performance pieces designed to be staged in museums. "We kept asking each other, why do people understand art concepts at museums, but theaters feel they can't present work that is difficult, that people won"t tolerate it?," Horwitz explains. "And why is the museum setting so much more profitable than the theater?"

As the theme emerged, the curators decided to involve a dramaturg, Morgan von Prelle Pecelli, in helping them to further shape the program. "We share an interest in enhancing the role of the dramaturg in this country," Scott said, of himself and Horwitz. "Instead of merely discussing what dramaturgs do, we wanted to show what they can add to a conversation, as more active collaborators."

All of the organizers are pleased with the event. "The brilliant audience played a major role in the success of the event - we had people fly in from Canada, Mexico, Vienna," Hentschker said. "A lot of participating artists and outside artists attended the sessions and contributed strong creative energy. It was a truly special atmosphere."

In upcoming months, discussions and preparations for Prelude 2009 will begin. The curators plan to keep the exhibit format they employed this year, with themes for each day of the conference, and multi-artist panels following several series of related performances. They hope to include a third international spotlight, and repeat the popular opening and closing night parties. Prelude 2008 was the first theater festival in the world that was entirely online in Second Life. The curators hope to continue to work with emerging communications technology and to explore its potential for enhancing dialogue about the theater arts.

Part museum gallery, part academic conference, part festival showcase, Prelude '08�s hybrid model has proven to be a successful medium for intelligently discussing the hybrid theatrical forms that it seeks to highlight. Hopefully, as New York theater artists continue to experiment with their creative work, the Prelude curators and other innovative presenters will continue to build a vocabulary of terms and formats to use in contextualizing and expanding the audience for this cutting-edge work.

For more information, check out the official Prelude website www.preludenyc.org.

Make It Hurt So Good

The Atheist , a solo show written by Irish playwright Roonan Noone, and starring the charismatic Campbell Scott (recently of ABC's Six Degrees ) is the Culture Project's and Circle in the Square Theatre's latest engaging and precocious brainchild, currently running at the Barrow Street Theater. The character of Augustine Early -- a newspaper reporter of Machiavellian sensibilities and a Midwestern trailer park upbringing -- is inhabited so gleefully (and with no little charm) by Campbell Scott that he manages to securely carry the audience over narrative waters that occasionally strain credibility.

Augustine cites his lack of faith in God (and the two broken legs that resulted from an early attempt to fly off of his childhood trailer) as almost a corollary to his rabid ambition. Possessed early on with an appetite for fame, he sets out already willing to walk over bodies to secure headlines (of appropriate size and font) on the front page of the newspaper.

His first slippery steps involve injecting some leading adjectives into his coverage of a rape trial. The heady rush that Augustine embodies physically upon seeing how much history depends on who is telling the story is akin to watching an addict prepare for an even stronger hit. Scott’s skill is most evident in passages like this one, as he somehow manages to present a unlikable personage as a man merely invested in presenting a sort of undeniable human logic.

The next chapters of Augustine’s sordid career involve athletic sex with an aspiring actress and a starring role in pornographic videos filmed via a tiny camera planted in her bathroom by non-other than the Governor himself. While this set-up can stretch the limits of believable convenience, it seems a natural “Aw Shucks” moment in Scott's hands as he recounts Augustine's rise to power.

And the carnage continues with blackmail of the governor, which leads to a full-time job on the paper, and internet leakage of a revealing video from the governor's private collection which ultimately aids the career of Augustine's girlfriend, the actress pejoratively known as Jenny the Jugs. (Women in this piece, and Augustine's view, seem far more one-dimensional than the men).

If all of this sets the stage for a grand-slam expose on the Governor, it also eventually leaves the governor's seemingly innocent wife open and vulnerable to succumbing to the charms of Augustine himself. Or is it the other way around?

Obviously the media's role in cultural presentation is lambasted here, and there is considerable play on the notions of victim and victimizer and image and the image creator/journalist. Perhaps that is what is signified by the film noir backdrop (created by set designer Cristina Todesco) to which the show defaults at alternating moments. It gives Augustine's image a greater life than his own for a few moments, perhaps in a sort of Plato's cave allegory.

Most of all it's fun to watch a good actor be verbally dexterous and relish playing a villain whom he presents as a man with a mission who simply lost his way. In short, The Atheist , offers an entertaining evening for journalism junkies and theatergoers alike, and represents a real acting achievement for Mr. Scott.

All The World's a John Hughes' Movie

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

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

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

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

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

In Case You Forgot, Election Day is Nov. 4

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

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

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

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

Long-Distance Haul

British playwright Kate McGovern has said that the plot of Blue Before Morning was inspired by a taxi ride from New York to Philadelphia, but the road trip in her own play pushes the boundaries of both geography and credibility. A young woman, Ava (Kether Donohue), hails a cab in New York City and urges the driver, Jerry (Chris McKinney), to take her to Port Authority. Missing her bus, she then badgers him to take her to Columbia, S.C., claiming it’s urgent but explaining nothing. You might think her evasiveness would send up more red flags than a May Day parade in Moscow—stories of cabbies being murdered are more common than those of long-distance jaunts—but it doesn’t. In New Jersey they rescue a pregnant woman, Ella (Jenny Maguire), from a downpour, and the three share the cab. Now, New York to Philly is a ride that’s plausible, but the idea of a cab excursion that goes beyond the Mason-Dixon line also goes beyond belief. The improbability of a cabbie driving his taxi to South Carolina with two strange, often abrasive women—and for no money—remains a 500-pound gorilla in the back seat, as it were.

To be fair, Jerry has reasons for succumbing to Ava’s pleas, but they aren’t revealed until too late in the play to dispel skepticism. As the trip progresses, each traveler summons recollections of a relationship in scenes that take place outside the replica of a car interior that, with an upstage wall of gray suitcases stacked like concrete blocks, constitutes the set.

Ava’s relationship involves her mother, Eileen, a former drug addict who gave her up for rearing by Ava’s grandmother, who has died. Now back with her mother in the flashbacks, Ava is deeply embittered. She resists every heartfelt attempt by Jennifer Dorr White’s contrite Eileen to connect, and she flees for college in New York City.

The pregnant and lubricious Ella, meanwhile, is on the run from her boyfriend Steve, who is given a lackadaisical dependability in Flaco Navaja’s winning performance. However, Ella has no bent for nurturing.

Jerry’s story includes a wife, Rita, whom he met while studying to become a teacher. Rita is initially impressed by Jerry’s commitment to teaching, but after she becomes pregnant unexpectedly she too balks at mothering. “I can’t have a baby right now,” she tells him, claiming it’s too soon in their relationship. But, she adds, “I can’t not have it.” It’s no reflection on the excellent Phyllis Johnson that Rita, presented initially as elegant and composed, loses credibility as the character’s objectives change. She worries about Jerry’s income after he decides he can’t afford to continue school with a baby coming. When she walks out, she tells him: “You could be one of those executives you take to work! You could be going up into those high-rise buildings instead of waiting curbside in front of them.” What happened to the woman who was impressed with his career goal of teaching? Did she not know what teachers are paid? The transformation in the character feels arbitrary.

Faced with characters sitting much of the time and an inevitably talky script, director Gia Forakis supplies mimed food breaks, as they get out and stretch, accompanied by projections of dawn and dusk and a digital clock ticking off seconds (thanks to S. Katy Tucker). Nonetheless, the play can’t escape feeling static.

Jerry tells Ava at one point, “Mothers are born. Fathers have to be made.” It’s an ironic and foolishly romantic statement, given the play’s action. The women here are often whining harpies, and sympathy falls to the men, in spite of some feminist digs at them. (As Ella and Ava observe two flies copulating, Ella says, “It’s a straight-up business transaction.” And Ava adds, “They’re finished. And he doesn’t hold her at all. Just flies off.”)

In fact, it’s Jerry and Steve who accept parental responsibility in the play, while the women lack dependability and behave selfishly (apart from the reformed Eileen). McGovern may be saying that some women aren't prepared to be mothers (or loving spouses), and that may be true. But if she has a solution to the problem, it’s not readily apparent.

Fable in a Factory

13P was founded in 2003 with the intention of enabling each of its member playwrights to see a full production of one of their plays, produced in accordance with their own creative vision for the piece, within a ten-year period of time. Crawl, Fade to White is 13P’s seventh production, the midpoint of the organization’s endeavor, and writer Sheila Callaghan has taken full advantage of her opportunity at the helm. Crawl, Fade to White is a tale of love, relationships, and loss with mythic overtones. Single mother Louise (Carla Harting), struggling to pay for daughter April’s (Jocelyn Kuritsky) college tuition, sells an antique lamp that is her only remaining connection to April’s father, Niko (Shawtane Monroe Bowen), and her own estranged extended family. In the meantime, April and her boyfriend Nolan (Matthew roi Berger) have dropped out of school after burning down a student dorm. They are intercepted by Louise while attempting to break into her house to steal the lamp.

The lamp’s new owners, the quirky, agoraphobic couple Dan (Matthew Lewis) and Fran (Black-Eyed Susan), plan a yard sale to finally rid themselves of mementos of their long-deceased twin children. April and Nolan invade their home, hoping to take back the lamp, and the elderly couple attempt to adopt them. The intermingling of the two households sets off a chain reaction of revelations, confessions and vengeance which climax in an ending that no one expects.

A plot summary, however, does not do justice to the full experience of this play, as much of the meaning arises from the language the characters speak and the images presented onstage. Director Paul Willis does an excellent job grounding the characters in the emotion of each moment while allowing the larger metaphors to operate freely. The acting choices are specific and effective.

The show’s venue, the Ideal Glass Gallery, has never been used to present a play before. In fact, in order to stage Crawl, Fade to White here, 13P had to construct the entire lighting grid from scratch. Their efforts, however, pay off. The cavernous space features irregular walls, exposed brick chimneys, and a pair of spacious balconys with ladders leading to the main floor and staircases leading to the roof. One of the balconies, with its ladder and staircase, is used to great effect as a secondary playing area for the scenes from Louise’s teenage romance with Niko. The industrial architecture and sheer volume of space in which the action is suspended contribute to the feeling of distance between the various characters and their floating sense of loss.

Additional elements of the ambitious set, desiged by Anna Kiraly, include spinning platforms with partial walls and windows that represent the two houses. The light, sound and costume design are all effective and contribute to the show’s coherent visual style.

13P’s Crawl, Fade to White is a superior production of an innovative script. It is unusual enough to interest the veteran theatergoer, accessible to the casual viewer, and not to be missed.

Bed, Laugh and Beyond

“In married life, three is company, two is none,” Oscar Wilde’s witty altruism, could have easily derived its inspiration directly from the pages of Alan Ayckbourn’s personal diary (or blog for all you post-Gen X’ers). No stranger to dysfunctional relationships, Ayckbourn relied heavily on the theme of marriage in many of his plays from the early 1970’s and Bedroom Farce is no exception. And what this piece lacks in the “creative title” department, it more than makes up for in its facetious attempt to examine the nature of connubial bliss. First written for the National Theatre in 1975, Bedroom Farce is a voyeuristic peep into the lives (and bedrooms) of four British couples in various stages of their marital tenure (think Love, American Style with a through-line). The play takes place over the course of one Saturday evening and concerns itself with Trevor and Susannah, a couple on the verge of divorce who naively impose their respective burdens on friends and family alike. The result is a blithe, insightful examination of both human nature and the institution of marriage.

Given the play’s 30-year absence from New York audiences, it is no coincidence that the acclaimed Actors Company Theatre/TACT – whose mission is to produce “neglected or rarely produced plays of literary merit” – celebrates the launch of its 2008-09 season with what is arguably one of Ayckbourn’s most charming, if not overlooked, comedies.

Under the skillful direction of Jenn Thompson, the production appears effortless and comfortable on Robin Vest’s exposed, multi-leveled (and sometimes a bit too confining) set, which consists of three separate bedrooms occupying a split stage configuration. Thompson’s staging, much like the text, takes few risks but maximizes the space efficiently and capitalizes on her undeniable mastery of physical comedy.

Rhythmically, the show stumbles a bit early on, but hits its full stride with the introduction of Trevor (Mark Alhadeff); a wonderfully adorable, self-absorbed psychoanalytic who has trouble communicating effectively and is innocently impervious to the reprimands of others. Alhadeff’s portrayal is, at the very least, genuine and apologetic and is reminiscent of a child who, oblivious to the consequences, continues to reach across the hot stove for the forbidden cookie jar. Trevor may have a lot to be sorry for, but Alhadeff is the joyful opposite whose performance alone is worth the price of admission.

Other noteworthy performances include TACT founding member Larry Keith (Earnest) as Trevor’s misplaced and somewhat abstract father, who is more concerned with the leaky roof than his own wedding anniversary. Similarly, Scott Schafer (Nick) as the sarcastic, bedridden husband of Trevor’s ex-girlfriend, Jan, is both hysterical and, at times, wonderfully inappropriate.

Despite its lackluster title, Bedroom Farce is a lively, if not altogether astute, commentary on the state of our unions which legitimizes itself in the masterful hands of TACT. With a lean running time of just under two hours (including a 15 minute intermission), Bedroom Farce leaves plenty of time to analyze your own relationship with your significant other on the subway ride home. After all, if marriage was this fun, Ayckbourn would be one comedy short and Wilde one short of comedy.

Misery Loves Company

Sarah Kane’s first play, Blasted, written when she was just 21, is making its New York debut at SoHo Rep nearly fourteen years after its London premiere. Blasted is neither the “disgusting feast of filth” that Jack Tinker of that city’s Daily Mail once called it, nor is it the masterpiece that it’s been mythologized to be in the wake of Ms. Kane’s 1999 suicide. Cleverly directed by Sarah Benson, Blasted is brilliant in places. Its over-the-top violence tracks the brutality of which Ms. Kane is reported to have believed the world is largely composed. The legendary violence of the play, while not gratuitous, is frequently exaggerated and redundant. It's needed, though, to illustrate just how one can be de-sensitized, over a span of years or even a few hours, to unbelievable acts of destruction and examples of human misery. The redundancy is also endlessly fascinating as one braces for the next act of savagery or assault—they only get more horrific. Only later does one realize that Ms. Kane has told us the same thing over and over. While the production’s press notes state that, ultimately, the play is a vision of “redemption and love,” I’m not sure I entirely buy that, and I wonder whether that bit wasn’t injected to pre-emptively soften the script’s many excesses.

The violence in Blasted follows a trajectory. Slights and insults start out small but hurtful in the microcosm of a hotel room, turn into physical assaults and later reach catastrophic proportions. Ian (Reed Birney) is habitually cruel to the tender Cate (Marin Ireland), a former lover who naïvely visits Ian’s Leeds hotel room because she wants to comfort him in his obvious physical (Cirrhosis? Cancer? Both?) and psychic distress. He rewards this act of kindness by calling her “stupid,” and makes fun of her stuttering and her tendency to suffer seizures when stressed. When she refuses his crude and pathetic sexual overtures, he rapes her.

Mr. Birney gives a startling performance as the prematurely decrepit and spiritually bankrupt Ian. Ian’s work as a journalist may or may not be a front for work with some sort of violent underground political movement. An unapologetic racist, he also chain smokes, downs gin the way others drink water, and carries a gun. He’s already had one lung removed and appears to be coughing out the other one. And he doesn’t care. He claims to welcome death.

Yet, Ian is not as tough as he pretends to be (Cate at one point calls him “soft”) and he has a strong instinct for preservation. Intrusions from the outside world—a ringing phone or room service—are suspect. We know we’re in a war zone but we don’t know why. There is much evidence that Ms. Kane was inspired by the horrors then taking place in Bosnia, and the apathy of her native England and the rest of the world.

The events on the outside invade the room in the guise of a depraved soldier (Louis Cancelmi) who holds Ian hostage. Soon, there is a bomb blast which not only destroys the hotel room but explodes the boundaries of this play itself—we are no longer dealing with space and time as Kane initially presented them. The characters are now in a world over which they have not even nominal control.

Cate has already escaped through the bathroom window. The soldier makes a confession of sorts to Ian about all the horrible things he has done and seen and why he does them. Then he brutally assaults Ian in various ways. If you’re concerned that I might be giving away the plot, don’t worry, the best—or worst—is yet to come.

Mr. Cancelmi struggles with some sort of accent that turns much of his communication into grunts. Perhaps that’s the point — to demonstrate just how human beings can become hideously bestial. The soldier, though, is the least credible “character” in this play. Anyone so informed by viciousness is unlikely to explain his rationale. Remarkably, Ian has several chances to attempt resistance, and perhaps hasten the death he appears to crave, yet never once takes the chance.

Blasted strives, really, to hammer home one major and fundamental point, and the orgy of violence, sexual and otherwise, that ensues is the vehicle through which Ms. Kane blasts us with her message. This play isn’t about the violence, per se. We’re inured to violence like this from watching films like Saw and Pulp Fiction. What this play appears to be saying is just how easily and unthinkingly we, when conditions are ripe, will commit physical and mental violence on other human beings.

The production itself is superlative. Louisa Thompson’s set efficiently replicates an upscale hotel room in all its coldness and antiseptic qualities. Later, the very same room is thoroughly transformed into a bombed-out ruin. It’s quite remarkable just how quickly Ms. Thompson and Props Master Sarah Bird accomplish these alterations. The play’s ending, too, is astonishing and staged, believe it or not, quite beautifully. Kane figuratively blasts the characters through the violence to another side, whatever that might be.

As bleak as Blasted is, there’s still humor in there. Ian’s vulnerability allows us to resist the temptation to loathe him completely; his reaction to his inability to commit suicide with an empty gun elicited chuckles among the audience members. He knows that Cate sees through him when he tells her that he does bad things to her because he loves her. We have to laugh at such exchanges. In the end, Cate is the one who rises above and adapts to this new wicked world.

Ultimately, Blasted illustrates just what contemporary theater can do when we let it. When much of what we see these days worships the trite and the transparently contrived, Blasted serves as a potent reminder that theater can be a trenchant political and emotional force.

Camera, Action

“A good fight” says Bruce Lee’s martial arts teacher in Soomi Kim’s production, “should be like a small play, played seriously.” If the martial artist’s maxim holds true, then the production is like a good fight. A cleverly titled deconstruction of gender in the life of Asian-American action star Bruce Lee, Lee/gendary is remarkable for its graceful aggression and unapologetic self-seriousness. The play tells Lee’s life story in a mostly linear fashion through a variety of contrasting performance techniques: found and imagined dialogue, live music and filmed projections, martial arts fight sequences and stylized dance all find their way into the single act production. Under the direction of Suzi Takahashi, the multidisciplinary performance achieves a fast-paced fluidity without ever growing sloppy or even rushed.

The talented ensemble plays a variety of roles, from nameless school bullies and adoring fans to lovers who deeply influenced Lee’s life. At times, the cast is divided into racially “appropriate” roles (for example, the white actors play British bullies and the Asian actors play Chinese bullies; both, it seems, motivated young Bruce to take up martial arts in self defense). In other moments, the cast functions as a chorus, where presence takes precedence over ethnicity.

While the other performers shift between a variety of recurring characters, Kim plays Bruce Lee at various stages of his life. A Korean-American theater performer trained in gymnastics, dance, and martial arts, she says in publicity materials that she was inspired to craft a piece about Bruce Lee after learning that he had been given a female name at birth in order to ward off evil spirits. Kim inhabits Bruce without irony. Her female body draws attention to the issue of gender; her committed performance disregards it as a non-issue. It’s an effective dichotomy, especially given that Lee’s identity is more often examined through a racial lens than a sexual one.

Although the production sometimes features male and female perspectives of Lee and of martial arts in general, it’s too smart to ascribe particular gendered meanings to different aspects of his identity; his human complexity is never diminished. The play missteps in its final moments, when Lee literally battles different aspects of himself to the death. Surrounding Kim with full-length mirrors, the ensemble would fit at home in a chorus scene of Lerner and Leowe’s Camelot as the play’s rapid-fire indications of Lee’s inner turmoil give way to heavy-handedness.

A more sophisticated use of the chorus occurs in a scene during which the courtship, wedding, and marriage of Lee (Kim) to Linda (Ariel J. Shepley) is enacted in pantomime to the Everly Brothers’ All I Have to do is Dream, which sets the sixties time period. More essential to the ambiance than period, however, is the ensemble, which lines the dimly-lit stage while executing slow, repetitive martial arts infused choreography and, occasionally, holding tea lights. Thanks to the performers' sense of intent and Takashi’s steadfast direction, the scene achieves a whimsical aesthetic just short of ironic. That impressive balance suits the spirit of Lee/gendary beautifully.

About the only time irony enters the picture in Lee/gendary comes when the performers act out scenes from Lee’s movies while lip-synching the soundtrack. Isolating the use of irony to those scenes highlights the discrepancy between Lee’s inner life, which Lee/gendary purports to explore, and the life the films imply he led. It’s a cute choice that reminds audience members less familiar with action films of the qualities of his success while providing his fans an opportunity to enjoy the hero’s famous lines.

Lee/gendary has returned to the HERE Arts Center after premiering two summers ago in HERE’s now-defunct American Living Room Festival. The show then received a slot in last year’s First National Asian American Theater Festival. That production history makes itself apparent in this clean, confident production.

Small Mercies

Adam's Rapp new play, Kindness, currently running in a limited engagement at Playwrights Horizons, is suspenseful, funny and tightly written. Under the author's own discreet direction, the members of the small ensemble cast take their time on stage and seem to revel in the quality material. The result is an act of kindness in itself for weary theatergoers. The play centers on Dennis (Christopher Denham), a small-town high school student who has come to New York with his terminally ill mother, Maryanne (Annette O'Toole), ostensibly to have a close-to-the-end bonding weekend attending an uplifting Broadway musical.

The potent opening scene touches on the uneasy sexual tension between mother and teenaged son. In this bland midtown hotel room, impeccably designed by Laurie Helpern, the minutes pass painfully in a chasm of enforced gaiety and impending loss, and in the absence of a father saddled with a chronic gambling problem.

After several rounds with her surly non-Broadway-musical-loving son, Maryanne invites Herman (Ray Anthony Thomas), an attentive cab driver, to attend the show in his place. Left in the hotel to face a lonely evening, Dennis encounters a striking and quite elusive woman named Frances (Katherine Waterston).

While it’s difficult to discuss more of this play without divulging its plot, it’s easy to talk about the elements that make this production so good. Need drives this play, in the best possible sense. There is a palpable chemistry among its characters, as they bang against each other in a desperate push-and-pull attempt to survive. Rapp’s direction is subtle, and his use of the stage (including periodic disappearances into the bathroom) is excellent. There is also an underlying element of suspense that keeps the play constantly in-the-moment.

Denham, who also appeared in Rapp’s Red Light Winter, is a wonderful blend of bravado and longing. There is great humor in his scenes with his mother, which he handles with verbal skill and timing. Quirky and beautiful, Waterston’s performance is also acutely intelligent. While she may have been given one too many Mae West style lines (some are terrific), she executes an offbeat impromptu dance with pluck and vulnerability. Thomas is a completely believable and likeable cab driver, a sort of moral beacon to whom kindness is a way of life, and the focus of much of O’Toole’s rabid second act hunger.

Kindness is a stone-thrown-into-the-pond kind of play, the ripple effects of which expand outwards from the action itself. Equally the play leaves a growing impression on the viewer much after its ending. I strongly recommend that you catch this gem of a play before its limited run is over.

In the Zone

With the economy in the throes of collapse and a historic election looming, I think everyone can agree that this is a unique period for the American experience. At the core of the TMZ-esque obsession with Sarah Palin and the good intentions leading to this fiscal perdition, the root problem seems clear – a fundamentally misunderestimated sense of priority. This predicament is expounded well in Spin, the stageFARM’s bite-sized treatise on lop-sided public opinion, currently playing at the Cherry Lane Theatre. Spin is comprised of five short plays, each slickly directed by either Alex Kilgore or Evan Cabnet, exploring the crossed-up ethics of the current American zeitgeist. Spin provides novel juxtapositions, such as those between prisoner torture in Guantanamo Bay and the world of Fetish Porn, and also the search for a line between reality television and infotainment. Though at times ridiculous, this dialogue merrily sums up the current landscape with equal parts honesty and satire.

The first entry, “America’s Got Tragedy” by Gina Gionfriddo, provides the most on-the-nose commentary of the evening, by staging a reality show where an Aristotle-quoting literature professor judge must decide whose life is more tragic according to the classical definition: Brittany Spears or a soldier recently killed in the Iraq war. While Gionfriddo’s piece is delicate in the right places, it sometimes errs too much on the side of preposterousness – for instance, Brittany and the dead soldier eventually hook up. All told, the piece fulfills its primary goal in exposing the scope of American concern very well, and Dreama Walker plays a very relatable, compelling Brittany.

“90 Days,” written by Elizabeth Meriwether, was my favorite of the five plays. On Elliot’s last day of rehab, he speaks to his wife-to-be Abby on speakerphone, and becomes painfully aware that his drug problem probably wasn’t the only thing wrong with their relationship. This play works well within Spin’s broader concept, when you consider celebrity rehabilitation centers like Promises and the current fad of checking in and out without really solving the problem. Here, the simplicity of having one character walking around, talking to another who can’t see what he’s doing is a brilliant conceit, making for much comedy and visual irony. Patch Darragh’s silent, secret reactions to a fiancée whom he is clearly very mixed on are hysterical. Rebecca Henderson also gives an amazingly clear and textured performance, considering she is only heard via speakerphone.

In Judith Thompson’s monologue “Nail Biter,” a Canadian CSIS agent, David, attempts to justify his torturing of a fifteen-year-old detainee in Guantanamo Bay. As the soberest piece of a predominantly comedic evening, one wonders if “Nail Biter’s” guilt-inducing testimony about human rights in the age of Youtube will land the way that Thompson hoped it would. The script’s downbeat tone notwithstanding, there is no denying either the power in examining a torturer who believes himself vindicated or Jesse Hooker’s honest, restrained performance.

“Fun,” by Mark Schultz, has much to say about trust, human connection and art through the lens of the fetish porn industry. Grady is a seasoned politico-porno actor, who often stars in X-Rated films with a social or political bent. (One vague description involved Nazi’s, but beyond that it’s up to our imagination.) He’s sharing a ratty waiting room couch with Jamie, whose unique ability – vomiting on people – the avant-garde producer wants to feature in his films. Where Schultz could have hung everything on the vibrant cat and mouse game between Patch Darragh and Dream Walker, he instead takes “Fun” into a surprising realm of significance, suggesting that living in the exciting now, which may or may not include bloody psycho-sexual fistfights, is a good way to blot out a much regretted past. Darragh and Walker are fantastic here: natural, funny and not afraid of the rawer material.

By the time “Tone Unknown,” the final piece by Adam Rapp, came around, Spin had already been through reality television, rehab, torture and fetish porn. Wondering what could possibly finish off an evening like this, I was not disappointed. The Rapture, of course! In this piece adventure journalist Victoria Houselight (who uses a fake British accent) has brought her cameraman on an expedition to find Cerval Hyler, a reclusive rock legend, said to be able to recreate the sounds of The Rapture on his electric guitar. And in a move that echos the opening ceremony of the Olympics in China, Houselight hired an actor with better abs to stand in for the shirtless, bag-headed musician on camera. Rebecca Henderson absolutely owns this piece as the haughty Houselight, and though there seems to be a lot that Rapp wants to say about fake news, theater school and repressed sexuality, the script swings into full-blown absurdity before it reaches any sort of profundity.

Spin largely succeeds in humorously contrasting the disparate elements of the early 21st Century climate and even more so in asking us to distinguish cultural importance from media nonsense.

A Tale of a Fateful Trip

Based on a play as wild and fantastic as the storm that opens the show, Classic Stage Company’s take on Shakespeare’s The Tempest deftly navigates the uneven seas, with its jolly highs and dull lows. When Prospero, the magician controlling the weather, restores calm, the play conforms to the expectations of a comedy, albeit with bizarre tangents, ending in marriage and applause. With impressive staging and clever sets, along with brilliant comic performances, the show is riotously funny and visually stunning. However, there are some disconnects, particularly involving Prospero’s speeches. Adherence to the letter of the script guides this production, which, though admirable, does not make it consistently accessible, and the viewer can sometimes feel lost at sea. As the lights go up, accompanied by a thunderclap, we see a small white ship, seemingly made of paper, perched atop a suspended quadrangle—a reminder of scale that also cleverly brings sublime natural phenomena to the stage. The ship’s inhabitants include Alonso, King of Naples, Antonio, Duke of Milan, Gonzalo, the King’s counselor, and Sebastian, Alonso’s brother. In the face of the storm they are weak and afraid, traits that will figure into their comeuppance. Also on board is Ferdinand, the King’s brave son.

The tempest that deposits the ship’s passengers on an island off the African coast is the work of Prospero, a magician with a score to settle. Mandy Patinkin plays up the ferocity and capriciousness of Prospero, his booming voice resounding with grave authority. Prospero inhabits the island with his beautiful daughter Miranda (a charmingly naïve Elizabeth Waterson), to whom he explains his reasons for raising the storm, and thereby fills the audience in on the history. The play’s weakest points are these explicative passages, which are long-winded and convoluted. Yet, such speechifying exemplifies Prospero’s boorishness, one of several character flaws that make him an unusual hero.

Prospero’s rage seethes as if the betrayal occurred yesterday when he recounts his usurpation by his shamelessly opportunistic brother, Antonio, and his flight from Italy that landed him, his daughter, and, amazingly, his entire library, on the island. Prospero’s supernatural powers derive from his books, and besides raising tempests, he spends his time commanding the spirit Ariel and the native Caliban, the disfigured son of the witch Sycorax, who died before Prospero’s arrival. Caliban is the opposite of the learned man: coarse, unintelligible, and obviously Other. Yet, despite the play’s judgments of Caliban, Nyambi Nyambi’s nuanced rendering can be discomfiting and touching.

As he enacts his vengeance, Prospero makes use of Ariel (an exhilaratingly shrill and mischievous Angel Desai). Ariel works her magic on Ferdinand (Stark Sands), whom Prospero wishes to marry to his daughter. Assuming the form of a sea nymph, she likewise charms the King and his retinue, sowing seeds of jealousy and anger, ultimately leading them to Prospero’s cell, where all of this scheming results in a slightly anticlimactic reckoning.

With many simultaneous plots, the playwright is forced to abruptly tie his loose ends. There is a hasty wedding ceremony, the pardoning of Antonio, the release of Ariel from servitude, the embarrassing comeuppance of the play’s fools (Stefano, Trinculo, and the hopeless Caliban), and Prospero’s restoration as Duke. Ends neatly tied, the play concludes with a gentle epilogue from Prospero, who directly appeals to the audience for their indulgence and his release. Finally, he and the rest of the cast get the applause they deserve.

The production is worth seeing for the perfect buffoonery of Trinculo (Tony Torn, playing the silliest, most enjoyable drunk I’ve ever seen) and Stefano (Steven Rattazzi), whose performances recall a Three Stooges bit. Similarly, Antonio and Sebastian trade sarcastic barbs, mocking Gonzalo and the King’s other attendants. In these scenes, Shakespeare’s language glows with vitality.

Under Brian Kulick’s skilled direction, and with a marvelous set from designer Jian Jung, the play becomes a comedy of sublime proportions. Jung’s set makes use of Classic Stage’s cavernous space, and Kulick positions his cast across its many levels (in dirt, on ladders, atop a wildly spinning table, in the wings, and on platforms set into the back wall). Furthermore, the use of the quadrangle as a representation of sea and sky (on alternating sides) is ingenious and lovely. The golden sky, with touches of darkness, is painted, but is so lit and tilted as to seem to change with the tenor of the scene. The color of the clouded sky is echoed in the sand beneath it, and in Oana Botez-Ban’s lustrous but simple costumes of rich yellows and crisp whites.

The show is an energetically acted, brilliantly staged interpretation of one of Shakespeare’s most disjointed comedies. Despite its odd plot and unsympathetic hero, it can be a crowd-pleaser, and this production focuses its exquisite attention on the high notes.

Something In The Way They Move

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.