Opposites Attract a Solution

Hard and soft qualities and everything in the middle can characterize a man’s masculinity. Mark Borkowski’s two-act comedy The Head Hunter explores masculinity through the contrast of two cousins who take on life’s challenges. Late 30’s writer Casmir (Trenton Clark) and his rugged, older cousin Salvy (Jay Rivera) come from the same family but occur to be from two different worlds.

The production feels more like a family drama and takes place during a winter in Hoboken, New Jersey in Casmir’s outdated apartment. Casmir’s white refrigerator, stove, and oven could have been from the 1950s. The worn rug, antique writing desk and wooden chair with a missing wheel give the impression that Casmir has not left his apartment in years. Casmir’s bland clothes even looks like he sleeps in them and contrasts with Salvy’s new, stylish clothes. Salvy is also taller, stronger and has more facial hair compared with his younger cousin Casmir.  The two men do not appear or sound like they are from the same neighborhood.

Salvy challenges Casmir’s ability to stand up to a movie producer who has the rights to Casmir’s screenplay. Casmir mistakenly signed his rights away and does not have enough money to hire a lawyer. Casmir says, “You're right, I was desperate. I needed the money. I needed...the attention. Somebody was recognizin' me.” Casmir and Salvy conspire to get the rights back to Casmir’s script. Casmir prefers to take a polite, gentleman approach when faced with difficult situations and Salvy resorts to brute force. When Casmir finds out that Salvy is a head hunter who decapitates people for the mob, Casmir says, “No, how do we come from the same bloodline?” Salvy says, “What, you sayin' you better [than] me?! ‘Bloodline.’ Hey, don't forget, the same guy who made Christ also made the devil. So go figure. ‘Bloodline.’” Great dialogue like these lines can be heard throughout the play and the value of the production is in Borkowski’s writing.

The writing is worthy of traveling to other markets and easily relates to the modern world. The subject matter is not only limited to New York City and our current time but has universal meaning that can apply to future generations.  Borkowski’s writing sheds insight into the varying moral and ethical principles that people adhere by. Casmir says with great honor that his deceased father had pride and Salvy says, “Pride. I love that fuckin' word. Ya know what that word is? It's an excuse, another excuse for a man to keep himself down.” Casmir counters by stating that his father still had a conscience. Salvy later goes on to challenge Casmir’s masculinity and says, “'Cause [you're] soft. Your insides, they gettin' ripe. [You're] ready to be plucked. Forget that, you are plucked. Like a tomato. It hangs nobly on the tree. Whole and hard, as if it's sayin' don't fuck wit me. It gets soft, it falls off the tree and gets squashed. That's what happenin', my friend. You are getting squashed.” The dialogue is brilliant, authentic, thought-provoking and allows audiences to reflect on their own lives.

Director Richard Gekko has an opportunity to insert his own vision and interpretation of the material. It would be interesting to witness Gekko’s slant on the text. Gekko could also improve the overall pacing of the production. The Head Hunter struggles with timing and could be more intentional. For example, the intermission seems to go on too long and could be shortened. Likewise, when Casmir steps out onto the roof, audiences might start to wonder when Casmir will return. Lastly, Rivera could slow down and take some deep breaths before delivering his lines so his performance has time to sink in with audience members. On the other hand, Clark’s timing as Casmir was on point when he spoke and his performance did not feel rushed and scrambled.

When entering the Abingdon Theatre Complex, a poster for The Head Hunter is not visible. The Dorothy Strelsin Theatre is on the second floor and is not easily accessible via the staircase, but there is an elevator. The theater is intimate and audience members feel like they are sitting in the living room of Casmir’s apartment.

The Head Hunter is recommended for theatergoers who love great writing and appreciate seeing family members from different backgrounds coming together to solve a problem.  Borkowski captures the natural voice of a broken writer and his criminal cousin. Audiences are able to grasp where each character stands as the plot develops. The contrast between the characters is like looking at two sides of a coin. The vision is clear and the aim is accomplished. The writing carries the show and theatergoers will be keen to see any other productions that Borkowski writes.

The Head Hunter runs until Nov. 28 at The Dorothy Strelsin Theatre in the Abingdon Theatre Complex (312 West 36 St., 2nd Fl., between 8th and 9th Aves.) in Manhattan.  Evening performances are Thursday-Saturday at 8 p.m. and matinee performances are Saturday at 2 p.m. and Sunday at 2:30 p.m. Advance evening tickets are $35 and matinee tickets are $20. To purchase tickets, call 212-868-4444 or visit SmartTix.com.

An Interplanetary Love Odyssey

Is Peter Story, the star of Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus Live!, an actor or a stand-up comedian? Audience members may be surprised to find that although Story uses his real name, he is in fact performing a scripted one-man play at New World Stages.

Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus Live! tells the story of a man, named Peter Story, whose life was changed when he saw author John Gray speak about his best-selling book by the same name. This life-altering book explains many of the differences between men and women in the hopes of making married couples throughout the world more in-sync with their feelings. Story intimately shares with the audience how the lessons from this book have affected his marriage. With perfectly-timed jokes, hilarious physical comedy and a laugh-out loud funny script—Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus Live! is raucous in its relatability.

Though the stage is set with a couch, end table and stool—none of it is necessary. Story needs no lights, no set and no soaring orchestrations to have everyone in the audience nodding in understanding, clapping in collusion and laughing along with his illuminating realizations about relationships. The two-hour show flies by with a broad range of topics—from vulnerability to trust to things done behind closed doors. As the story is told by a man, the show may focus a little more on the irrational ways women behave (“I have nothing to wear”) but it is all done in an extremely tasteful manner.

However, the author of the book is not to be upstaged by Story. Gray makes a cameo appearance in two video clips shown during the play and these videos are two of the most brilliant moments of the evening.

First, Gray explains how serotonin and dopamine levels differ in men and women and cause different reactions to stress. Gray simplifies a complex scientific explanation with the help of extremely clever animations. 

Second, Gray tackles the “points system” used by women. A bouquet of roses equals one point to signify a nice action by their spouse. A single rose also equals one point. And women also award themselves points throughout the day, making it harder for a Martian to measure up.

The evening isn’t all jokes though. A touching moment comes when Story reflects on the instant he knew he would marry his partner. Gray’s videos are truly informative and educational. And while the audience can laugh at Story for his error in asking his wife, “Do you think maybe it’s that time of the month?,” the true value of Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus Live! is in challenging men and women to think about their relationships in a smarter, more attentive way. Relationships will never be perfect but they should always be a priority. 

Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus Live! is running at New World Stages (340 West 50th St. between 8th and 9th Aves.) in Manhattan through Nov. 29. Performances are at 8 p.m on Nov. 12, 14, 19, 21, 23, 25 and 28 and at 7 p.m. on Nov. 15 and Nov. 29. Tickets are $79. To purchase tickets, call 212- 239-6200 or visit Telecharge.com.

Kill Me Now

Carolyn (Lizan Mitchell) is a cranky old woman waiting for death. She asks her hospice nurse, Veronika (Nikki E. Walker), to help grant her last dying wish—to be killed before the day is over. As an outspoken and devout Christian, Veronika does not take this request lightly. In search of redemption, this duo reflects on their own identities and past experiences to determine whether suicide is the right decision or whether life should be treated as a gift.

Housed in Harlem's iconic National Black Theatre, Dead and Breathing is a forward-thinking play that challenges us to look at our own lives in order to understand the societal restrictions that exist in our community. It also challenges the audience to ask themselves to what length will it take for someone to change their views. Written by the young and talented GLAAD Media Award winner Chisa Hutchinson, this play captures the ideas that the policing of black bodies goes beyond physical violence and includes the restrictions in our lives that are created by the preconceived perceptions that society creates and upholds. It is these perceptions that shape our own identities and communities.  

Before the audience enters the theater, an exhibit is displayed in the lobby to help the audience understand the mindset of the show. The display poses the question: "How does language create a matrix?" This question is asked in hopes to help understand how the way of life can either liberate or restrict your mind. Once in the theater, the audience sits on lavish red seats that match the ambiance of Carolyn’s home. The set is beautifully displayed with golden frames hanging on the back wall, red carpeting throughout the room, a stain glass window in the bathroom and a large bath tub with golden feet. Even Carolyn’s costume also ties seamlessly with the set, revealing her upscale and rich taste. 

It is clear why Mitchell received the Helen Hayes Award for Best Actress. Her effortless enactment of Carolyn’s crude and blunt characteristics come across extremely well especially when delivering her exceptionally timed dry and sarcastic jokes. She has you continually laughing and sitting on the edge of your seat waiting to hear what she reveals about her past in hopes of convincing Veronika to help her die with dignity. Walker is the leading force that pushes the play forward. With her character constantly questioning and demanding answers, Walker effortlessly maintains the pace of the play and moves the story line towards an unpredictable ending. Together, this duo successfully creates a show that is extremely funny and entertaining.

Under the brilliant direction of Obie winner Jonathan McCrory, the scenic design (Maruti Evans), lighting design (Alan Edwards), costume design (Karen Perry) and sound design (Justin Hicks) effortlessly transports the audience into Carolyn’s extravagant home. Dead and Breathing proves that discussing very serious issues doesn’t have to be done with a serious face. With characters we rarely see on stage, this play gives a breath of fresh air on issues that need to be addressed within a comedy that allows us to humanize and connect with the characters. If for no other reason, people should see this show to experience a spiritual liberation that opens their eyes to the way they view their own lives in order to spark change.

Dead and Breathing runs until Nov. 23 at the National Black Theatre (2031-33 National Black Theatre Way at the corner of 125 St. and Fifth Ave.) in Harlem. Performances are Monday, Thursday and Friday at 7:30 p.m.; Saturday at 2 p.m. and 7:30 p.m. and Sunday at 4 p.m. The shows contain nudity. Tickets are $30. To purchase tickets, call 866-811-4111 or visit www.nationalblacktheatre.org.

Cheers!

The illusory brand of theatrical magic is difficult to find—especially in solo shows. Precious few one-man productions can effectively create that beautiful “baseless fabric” of a transportive play, and even then, their illusions are sometimes imperfect. A single body moves across a deserted stage with not much else but light and music and those elemental players for company. It’s easy to falter when carrying the weight of performance alone, but writer/comedian Terri Girvin, the multi-character star of director Michael Leeds' production of Last Call at the IRT Theater, bolsters an otherwise ordinary tale of a long-serving New York bartender with surprising humor and extraordinary moments of intimacy.

Pools of soft, yellowing light accompany Terri Girvin as she moves through her life story. She begins with a series of easy jokes; "Top 10 Ways to Annoy Your Bartender" is a recurring and sometimes quite delightful theme that runs through her monologues. She then proceeds to insert details of her family’s dysfunctional history in momentary, painful snapshots. These scenes are relayed with grim amusement on Girvin’s part, as it is her mother, a divorced, drink-happy ex-party clown who is the source of this dysfunction. Here, Girvin’s practiced, punch-line-delivering style gives way to the emotional drama of her relationship with her mother. Halfway through the play, the audience becomes unsure of its laughs, and seem more comfortable in silence.

But the scenes themselves are transitory. They seem more like floating motes of experiential anecdotes rather than seamless parts of an organic autobiography. Here is where Girvin’s talent for stand-up comedy interferes slightly with theatrical storytelling. The moments in which Girvin’s mother steps onto the stage in the guise of her own daughter are short; Girvin impersonates her mother uneasily, and is keen to relieve her audience’s tension with a joke. It’s easy for the audience to see that Girvin’s mother is an emotionally dependent, paranoid, unstable and completely unfit parent, but somehow her daughter doesn’t realize that this legacy is in her hands until the end. Consequently, Girvin’s mother, only heard and not seen, is never fully redeemed. For most of the production, she is a two-dimensional weight on her daughter’s shoulders. Girvin, by her own reckoning, deeply desires “freedom from the weight of her [mother’s] trauma.”

Regardless of these dips in storytelling, it is apparent that Girvin is the only person from her family who can stand her mother’s antics. She also seems, by her own telling, to be more involved in her mother’s disorganized life than her largely indifferent brothers. Girvin’s brother is especially blunt: “It’s fun when the circus comes to town, but when the circus never leaves!” A particularly hectic night at the bar sees Girvin taking close to 50 orders every 10 minutes. It is perhaps the aural and visual climax of the entire production. Girvin’s silent co-stars put on terrific performances, as evidenced by the unique collaboration between Grammy-nominated sound designer Phil Palazzolo and lighting designer Jason Fok.

With not a single prop in sight, Girvin clinks imaginary shot glasses onto the bar and pours fizzing drafts of beer into empty steins. She chats genially with the disembodied voices of her customers and slams a nonexistent cash register closed before turning to the audience and grinningly inquiring, “What can I getcha?” Every delectable sound, from the dull roar of conversation to the sloshing of a drink, matches in near-perfect synchronicity with Girvin’s expert movements. Every voice has its own extraordinarily ordinary life; Palazzolo and Fok have squeezed alchemical gold from the listless air with their superb intertwining of light and sound.

But the harmony of Girvin’s movements, in perfect beat and cadence to the swing of her bar, quickly devolves into chaos when she receives a call from her mother. Without revealing Girvin’s mother’s shocking escapade, and the proverbial last straw for Girvin herself, the harried and exhausted bartender ends up kicking everyone out of her bar. She listens shamefacedly to her customer’s insults and drunken raging (who only minutes before had flirted, smiled or laughed with her). She then slams her phone onto the bar, looking out teary-eyed and tired at her arrested audience as we wonder: Was that their last call?

It is this explosive scene that discloses the fundamental problem Girvin has with marrying the architecture of her life to that of her mother. We are never sure if she takes up the Sisyphean task of maintaining any semblance of a relationship with her mother after this. But this unmarried, diminutive, middle-aged working woman is still a hopeful, optimistic child at heart. Her ever-cheerful retort to the dull greeting, “How are you?” is a loud, “Living the dream!” The final scene is nostalgically beautiful, and we stitch up her disparate stories of love, loss and emotional pain into a safe blanket we wish we could cover her in. And in perhaps the most moving, and most fitting, end to this darkly humorous tale of a life not yet fully lived, Girvin leaves us with no ending. We only have her memories.

Last Call ran from Oct. 9-Nov. 1 at the IRT Theater (154 Christopher St., #3B) in Manhattan. For more information, visit www.terranovacollective.org.

Not So Perfect, Definitely Absurd

In Laugh It Up, Stare It Down we are introduced to Joe (Jayce Bartok), who convinces Cleo (Katya Campbell), a woman he’s just met, that their encounter is a pivotal crossroads. This should definitely end in Cleo joining Joe for coffee, he posits. Cleo resists, claiming that she’s already met her “romantic crossroads”—a man named George. By the next scene, however, Cleo and Joe have been dating for two weeks and there’s never another mention of poor George. Not surprisingly, this isn’t the last brush with unfaithfulness in this play written by Alan Hruska and directed by Chris Eigeman.

The rest of the play follows in much the same way as these first two scenes. A plot is introduced, questions are raised, and then the story jarringly jumps to a point in the future, leaving the audience to wonder how exactly the couple got from point A to point B. From their first encounter to their looming demise when a hurricane strikes their town on Rhode Island, Laugh It Up, Stare It Down offers snapshots of climactic times in the couple's lives.

An absurdist play, Laugh It Up, Stare It Down is consistently zany. In one scene, Cleo and Joe’s baby is misplaced by a befuddled nurse before being found and returned to the nursery. In another scene, they sit down for dinner at a restaurant with blank menus and one entrée option. Unfortunately, scenes like this, though entertaining in their wackiness, detract from the script's more thought-provoking and philosophical side.  

Bartok and Campbell realistically portray a couple navigating difficult situations and raising important questions like whether or not romantic love exists, or is merely an illusion killed by “a bit of intimacy.” Are they ready for children? Can they overcome infidelity? Can they maintain “ecstatic” love when life becomes routine? How will they feel when the end is near? All of the conversations revolving around these momentous milestones in their relationship create more questions still.

Bartok and Campbell are buoyed by Amy Hargreaves and Maury Ginsberg who play a variety of supporting characters and really add charm to the show with the different personalities they create. Hargreaves is moving as Alberta, vindictive as Dorothy and hysterical as the Waitress and Nurse Leaving. Ginsberg is detestable as Stephen, intriguing as Arturo and hilarious as Chalmers. It’s truly a treat to watch the supporting actors as they display their acting range.

The biggest standout of the night was the creative team behind Laugh It Up, Stare It Down’s ambiance. Kevin Judge's scenic design, Jennifer Caprio's costume design, Matthew J. Fick's original music and Peter Salett's sound design impressed throughout, but never more-so than during the final scene. A chandelier becomes a buoy, lighting and sound portrays a dark night out at sea, and the result is truly mesmerizing.

If you want a play that doesn’t require suspended disbelief, has a straightforward plot, and a standard happy ending, Laugh It Up, Stare It Down is not for you. This play creates more questions than it answers. But maybe that’s the point. Laugh It Up, Stare it Down isn’t perfect, but it’s certainly absurd—fitting for a show whose tagline is “Life Can Be Perfectly Absurd.”

Laugh It Up, Stare It Down plays through Oct. 10 at the Cherry Lane Theatre (38 Commerce Street) in Manhattan. Evening performances are at 7 p.m. on Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Sunday evenings and 8 p.m. on Friday and Saturday evenings. Matinees are at 2 p.m. on Saturdays and 3 p.m. on Sundays. Tickets are between $59-$99 and can be purchased by calling 866-811-4111 or visiting Ovation Tix.

Getting Down and Dirty

Over the years, musical theater has certainly seen its fair share of romantic comedies—from 1970's Company to 2011's First Date—the concept of young people finding love onstage seems almost as ancient and time-honored a ritual as love itself. However, none seem to match the irreverent and brashy style of Level II Theatre's Love is Like Mud. Presented as part of the 2015 New York International Fringe Festival, at intimate downtown venue Drom, Mud sets itself apart as a delightful, fizzy romantic comedy "cocktail"—heavy on the comedy.

At the show's open, we meet lovelorn Jon (Gavin Rohrer), as he, following a recent breakup, laments to his parents about the merits of love. In an attempt to comfort his son, Marshal (Jay Liebowitz) memorably dispenses this piece of wisdom: "It's pliable, dirty. Love isn't like a diamond. It's more like...mud." With this thought in mind, Jon enters once more into the breach, braving the city streets alone in search of that messy thing called love—until, like a clod of dirt in the face, it finds him. In what could only be described as a "Missed Connections" advertisement come to life and set to music, Jon meets Anne (Taylor Kate Manns) after recognizing her from their regular commute home ("Same Spot Again"). He asks her out, and after the success of their first date ("Excellent Choice"), they embark on a relationship together. For a while, all is well and at the height of their time together, even Jon's parents get in on the act, prodding them about taking that "next step" in their relationship ("Grandkids").

Soon afterward, the "honeymoon goggles" come off and their seemingly-blissful phase starts to wane. In a complete turnaround, Anne begins to recount Jon's faults ("The Little Things") and Jon, for his part, soon develops that ever-dreaded roving eye ("Wanderlust"). The two eventually part ways, and at the instruction of their friends, drunken metal-head Angelo and yoga health-nut Maya (also played by Liebowitz and Elise Raynard, respectively), try playing the field ("Revolving Doors"). But as the saying goes, absence makes the heart grow fonder, and after bumping into one another at a farmer's market, Jon and Anna both realize that they're only stronger together ("Other Girls [The Only One Ever]"). 

As far as romantic comedies go, Mud doesn't stray too far from the pack, plot-wise. However, its clever coupling of onstage antics—particularly those concerning plush genitalia—and campy song lyrics provide a much-needed offbeat kick. Writer-director Benjamin Folstein's band, Level II, lends much of Mud's comedic flair through its catalog of original songs, which references influences from jazz to 90s pop-rock. Both lyrically and structurally, the songs do not follow the traditional musical theater format, presenting a unique take on the genre that is ultimately much fresher than the show's "dirty" name implies.  

It is the aforementioned performances of the actors, however, which certainly add the "oomph" to the music's kick. As the two twenty-somethings at the center of the show, Rohrer and Manns demonstrate great chemistry with one another, both vocally and physically. The latter's solo performance in the middle of the show ("There You Are")—reminiscent of Karessa's solo in Jonathan Larson's Tick, Tick... Boom!, another off-Broadway hit— definitely brought the house down. For their part, Liebowitz and Raynard are the perfect foils to the more even-tempered lead duo, providing much of the show's comedic relief. 

Love is patient, love is kind; but what they never tell you is that it's also kind of a hot mess. Folstein and Level II Theatre's Love is Like Mud gets down to the nitty-gritty of it all, while also gettin' down to some good, ol' fashioned rock 'n' roll. The music may not always feature pretty little love songs, but they still get to the heart of the matter. That is, after all, what love's about.

Level II Theatre's production of Love is Like Mud ran at the DROM (85 Avenue A between 5th and 6th Street) in Manhattan from August 15-29 at the New York International Fringe Festival. For more information about this production, visit www.loveislikemud.com.  

Dressed to Cross

Matthew Lopez, best known for The Whipping Boy, an intense drama about slavery and the Civil War, could hardly have followed it with something more different than The Legend of Georgia McBride, a confection of spangles and sass at the Lucille Lortel Theatre. The new play is a farce in the vein of La Cage aux Folles and Tootsie, leavened with some obvious sermonizing about finding one’s inner self and celebrating the indomitability required to wear a dress and padding—sort of “Climb ev’ry mountain, find ev’ry frock.” It’s good fun, and there are plenty of laughs, but it’s also predictable. Uptown, for instance, an empowered drag queen saves a whole factory full of straight people by manufacturing irrepressible footwear.

Skillfully structured by Lopez, and well-directed by Mike Donahue for MCC Theater, Georgia McBride follows a young married man, Casey (Dave Thomas Brown), who can’t manage to support his wife, Jo (Afton Williamson), by performing as Elvis. When they’re about to be evicted from their home because they’re behind on their rent, and Jo is pregnant, the irresponsible Casey reassures Jo with “We’ll figure it out."

The bar in the Florida panhandle—Panama City, to be exact—where Casey is working is hanging on by a thread. Georgia McBride takes off when Casey’s boss, Eddie (Wayne Duvall), brings in a distant cousin to transform the club into a gay bar “destination.” The cousin, Matt McGrath’s tall, skeptical Tracy Mills, is a drag queen who arrives backstage resembling a Tennessee Williams character, turbaned and weary. She has another drag queen in tow, Anorexia Nervosa, aka Rexy (Keith Nobbs). Casey’s Elvis impersonation is eliminated, but Eddie is kind enough to let him stay around to tend bar. Rexy, however, has a drinking problem, and one night before her “Edith Piaf number,” she passes out. Quicker than you can say “bouffant hairdo,” Casey is put into a wig and dress and ordered to perform as Piaf.

 

“I don’t know anything about doing drag!” whines Casey. “Has that ever stopped anyone?” Tracy sensibly responds. Casey is initially disastrous—but Donahue has pitched the gradual transformations skillfully through a succession of scenes, until Casey fully inhabits the drag and finds his true persona, a country music diva named Georgia McBride. All the way along Brown is excellent, persuasive both as the straight husband and the feminized drag queen. Helpfully, he never registers as androgynous; he’s a masculine male, yet in women’s clothes his Y chromosome never shows.

Under Tracy’s tutelage, Georgia starts as an ugly duckling but becomes a star. In typical farce fashion, however, Casey doesn’t tell his Jo what he’s up to. He just hands her the increased income and explains that bookings of heavy metal bands have increased profits at the bar, which is 40 miles from their home. Eventually, of course, Jo finds out everything, and there’s some dramatic hand-wringing about whether she will leave him, but none of it rings true, and Williamson in the thankless role can’t do much to invest it with suspense. 

The cast is mostly outstanding. Nobbs plays two roles, and as Rexy he’s not really convincing as a woman, unless you think “roller derby.” (The idea that Rexy could pull off Piaf is ludicrous.) But as Casey’s henpecked neighbor Jason, the actor shows why he’s one of his generation’s outstanding artists. A highlight of the production is Jason’s recollection of his dating “a gender nonconformist” that Nobbs imbues with nostalgia, rue and gentle humor.

McGrath as Tracy has the showiest role, and he seizes it with relish, by turns sympathetic, caustic, disdainful, but most often indomitable. He has the fun of dropping most of the inside references: to Stephen Sondheim (Company, Sweeney Todd and West Side Story), What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?, and Auntie Mame, among many others.

Anita Yavich supplies all the explosions of color one expects from drag costumes—and there are plenty of them—and Ben Stanton’s lighting is sometimes subdued, sometimes garish, and always fun. Donyale Werle has contributed a set that screams “sleazy white trash.” (It’s a stereotype that Lopez indulges in as well, when Jason speaks of his wife and children: “There were rumors we had some cousins in common, and now I think that might have been true.”)

All in all, The Legend of Georgia McBride covers well-tilled ground, but has enough wit and wisdom of its own to make a visit pleasurable.  

The MCC Theater production of The Legend of Georgia McBride runs at the Lucille Lortel Theatre (121 Christopher St. between Bleecker and Hudson Sts.) in Manhattan through Oct. 11. Evening performances are at 7 p.m. on Tuesday and Wednesday, and 8 p.m. on Friday and Saturday, with Thursday evening performances at 7 p.m. on Oct. 1, and at 8 p.m. on Sept. 24 and Oct. 8. Tickets may be purchased by calling 212-727-7722 or visiting www.mcctheater.org.

Chilled Irish Tales

The very first staging of The Weir at The Royal Court Theatre Upstairs in London shot to almost immediate acclaim, with nascent visionary playwright Conor McPherson winning a Laurence Olivier Award for Best New Play in 1997. Following incarnations of The Weir have starred current TV mainstays Brendan Coyle (of Downton Abbey fame) and Michelle Fairley (as a particularly aggrieved member of the Stark family in Game of Thrones). And The Weir does seem to require the same expressive vocal drama and expository storytelling that television shows afford us. With its extraordinary character appeal and its fascinating series of spine-chilling Irish folktales, the Irish Repertory Theatre's production of The Weir is a darkly bloodcurdling, utterly captivating take on McPherson’s well-crafted play.

Set in a rural Irish pub, bar owner Brendan (a serenely gruff Tim Ruddy) and friendly barflies Jim (John Keating), Jack (Paul O’Brien) and Finbar (Sean Gormley) try to welcome a lovely, mysterious import from Dublin, Valerie (an aptly cast Amanda Quaid), as she acclimates herself to her windy surroundings. The men proceed to tell haunting tales of faeries, poltergeists and abandoned houses, all the while struggling to reconcile their forced bachelorhood with their sudden, protective interest in Valerie—who has an eerie story of her own to tell.

Director Ciaran O’Reilly carefully fleshes out each character through the exquisite exposition of each individual story, courtesy of McPherson’s chillingly arresting words. Somehow, distinctly Irish turns of phrase possess an earthy accessibility under his pen, as well as a surprising amount of humor. There is an understated, rugged comradeship that the men share in their familiar curses and ubiquitous swigs of Guinness. The Irish flavor of it all is surpassingly delightful, as are the fantastical folktales borne out of that stout-and-song tradition; McPherson deftly paints his characters as traumatic products of their stories, and it’s difficult to distract yourself from their beguiling eeriness.

Valerie’s tale holds a deep, desperately weary grief. Jack’s dual yarns of a coldly enchanting faerie adventure and a haunting lost love both possess an expertly gleeful, then progressively sorrowful mannerism. Perhaps most harrowing are Jim and Finbar’s stories, for different reasons; an endearingly odd Keating imbues Jim with a trembling, wide-eyed respect for the supernatural, while Gormley’s Finbar is an uneasy skeptic, begrudgingly honest in his retelling of an eerie encounter, but steadfastly refusing to believe in anything out of the ordinary. But it is O’Brien’s gruff, garrulous take on Jack that gives the entire production that heady, hallucinatory magic. He keenly modulates the volume of his voice—whispering at climaxes and chuckling in practice disbelief—until it becomes an actor all its own. The back-from-hiatus (and excellent) Tim Ruddy makes us wonder why Brendan is still a bachelor.

Ciaran O’Reilly has woven each of these character’s stories with some unknowable alchemy. Even as a single actor seems to commandeer the stage with his or her tale, a magnificent change comes over their compatriots on stage: they become the audience. We are mirrored in their slack faces and uneasy composures; just as the seated audience writhes inwardly against our collective imaginations when Valerie narrates her ghostly tale, Jack, Jim, Brendan and Finbar cannot move. A magnificent design and sound/light team induce much of the trance-like state the audience enjoys.

Courtesy of scenic designer Charlie Corcoran, the bar room is a study in light and dark browns, cleverly synthesizing the homey, fire-crackling hearth ambiance perfect for storytelling. The lighting by Michael Gottlieb is an understated marvel dimming almost indiscernibly during the narrative sequences. During these instances, the audience hears a hollow, equally imperceptible whistling of wind, perhaps the most effective minimalist contribution to the play, overseen by Drew Levy. But the actors’ voices are so spellbinding that the whistling seems an organic soundtrack to their story. 

The Weir ends much too quickly and the actors’ final exit leaves us with an irrational hope that they might come back on stage and tell us their hauntingly beautiful tales in their seductive Irish slang once more. Instead, we hear the familiar refrain of good luck, as Jack was accustomed to say before downing a pint, and the companionable reminder of the power of storytelling. In the end, when McPherson’s words have run out, we are left with a sweet, silent ache for some similar kind of chilling magic.

The Weir ran until Sept. 3 at The Irish Repertory Theatre at the DR2 Theatre (103 East 15^th St. between Union Square East and Irving Pl.) in Manhattan. For more information, visit www.irishrep.org.

Losing the Plot

Of the three plays open to critics at the Ice Factory Festival this summer, Losing Tom Pecinka, staged at the New Ohio Theatre by Morgan Gould & Friends, is most given to playfulness. Even with the story’s grey backdrop of Tom's death (an immediately evident plot point), writer and director Morgan Gould is more intent on good-humored self-mockery. But even with the occasional laugh that this meta-humor elicits, Losing Tom Pecinka struggles to elevate its story, and regularly defuses its own comedic fireworks.

The story surrounds the event of the eponymous character’s passing, and the destructive attempts of his friends in coping with it. The character Tom Pecinka (whose ghost and flashback-version is played by Zack Segel) is named after a real-life founder of Morgan Gould & Friends, and we assume that the title is a play on the actual Pecinka’s move to the Yale School of Drama. Janice (Tommy Heleringer, pretty in a dress) is a guilt-ridden ex-girlfriend, constantly at odds with Kai (Christopher Geary), Tom’s bitter best friend. Ryan Pecinka (Amir Wachterman), brother of the deceased and funniest of the lot, suffers silently in his love for Janice.

Wachterman is the undeniable talent of the show, straining laughter from even the most confused situations. His fairly ingenious dress-up as a sweaty tennis player, complete with a white sweater tied around his shoulders, making love-stricken speeches to Heleringer’s Janice makes for an uproarious incongruity. Heleringer himself is a shrill delight, making do with Janice’s oftentimes puzzling situational comedy to great effect. The entire cast bubbles with an underlying humorous energy, but their fractured dialogue and the intractable intent of Gould to exercise her didacticism, crowd out any real comedy. The plot is threadlike at best; Gould focuses more on unveiling her satiric takes on comedic tropes and stereotypes she has found in theater.

Indeed, the point Gould tries to make is that theater, and entertainment in general, has fallen into dreary, acceptable routines. These are routines from which her audiences need to be jolted out of; hence her lackadaisical attitude towards public relations (as evidenced by the production's promo). But the primary fault of Losing Tom Pecinka resides in its stubborn insistence on such satire. A heated discussion between Ryan and Janice, which held some potential for good drama, devolved into a satirical scientific run-on, the kind Christopher Nolan or Steven Spielberg would be proud of.

Even these scenes struggle to take off. We are left wondering whether the ghostly Tom that appears to Kai after his death is a comedic poke at depictions of the afterlife in traditional theater (perhaps Hamlet’s ghost?) or a product of Kai’s dramatic, psychological breakdown. It is only at the very end of Losing Tom Pecinka that we finally understand Gould’s directorial intent. Since the plot is a bare canvas, only present to hold the entire production together, the ending loses its finality and importance. Even after a seeming resolution to the play (all the characters huddle around Tom's grave in nostalgic remembrance), they all abruptly break into song, in an ineffable attempt at satirizing the musical.

There are moments of real hilarity, however. The ending is a particular delight to watch, since we are now certain that they’ve been making fun of our seriousness all along. Pregnant pauses and audience interactions with the cast produce considerable audience laughter, especially towards the end. Abrupt changes in time and place heftily undercut the sometimes-awkward interactions between actors, and keep us curiously waiting for the next scene. The sexual tension between Heleringer’s Janice and Wachterman’s Pecinka is palpable, but never serious. Even the eponymous character’s death is rendered comical, somehow. Yet, a willful need to jerk its audience out of its seated stupor and be “not boring” makes Losing Tom Pecinka a parody of itself: to be new and exciting might not be so interesting after all.

Losing Tom Pecinka ran from July 8-11 at the New Ohio Theatre (154 Christopher St., #1E) in Manhattan. For more information, visit http://www.NewOhioTheatre.org.

Souls Drowning in Sorrow

Dramedy very infrequently serves its stories well. Add to that alloy the well-worn narrative of an unfolding mystery, and one can easily overflow an already full cup. But Sea of Souls is an adamant proponent of such a mixing, so long as they can evoke every audience emotion from terror to laughter. Souls has a swift undercurrent of drama, cast over with ostensible shades of black comedy, all of which crashes together in a series of messy, heart-thumping climaxes. Ion Theater Company's presentation of this Southern-accented, surprisingly action-packed new play, has traveled across the country from it's home in San Diego to an off-Broadway reading at the Peter Jay Sharp Theater. 

The play is like Picnic, in that its characters struggle to bury themselves under tough, yet brittle, exposures, and then it takes on something of a Tennessee Williams-like series of haunting personal revelations. Set in an unnamed mining town in the South, sometime in the late sixties, suspicions abound when a wandering folk singer from New York arrives at the town's bar (mysteriously named Sea of Souls—the acronymized cry for help is the production's first big clue to its audience) and won't stop asking about where she's from. When she clashes with Casey, the bar's bitter, sharp-tongued owner, Sam proceeds to uncover a series of clues about the small town's unsavory past. 

Perhaps Souls' greatest offering is the formidable Catalina Maynard, whose uncompromising, biting portrayal of the lead character Casey grounds the entire production. Casey's sharp tongue lashes out indiscriminately, and her stiff social graces provide everything from mild comic relief to extraordinarily fierce dramatics. Ms. Maynard's performance elevates Casey's character to that elusive kind of antihero likability, and few middle-aged matriarchs on stage can achieve that. With the potency of Ms. Maynard's presence, the other characters play up to her (with a singular exception), sometimes with affecting results. 

Abby Fields as the aptly-named Joan is the beguiling mystery at the heart of the play. She starts out as the mildly irritating moral center of Souls (she introduces herself by staring eerily at us and saying, prophet-like, "I know things. I have a gift.") But quickly, and quite beautifully, she evolves into a haunting symbol of her small town's deadly past, and it is in this transformation that we find Ms. Fields' strength as a character performer. Her powerful presence on stage is only rivaled perhaps by Ms. Maynard and Evan Jason Heil, the "new-in-town" deputy sheriff Roy whose aw shucks persona has no end to its audience appeal. 

Carl, the mischievous runaway and disillusioned Nam vet, is infected with a Kerouacian wanderlust typical to the sixties. Evan Kendig plays him with an endearing earnestness; it is easier to love the roguish Carl that it is to find commonality with the wandering Sam, played by the sometimes-interesting Rhianna Basore. Sam is something of a blank slate, and it is unclear if Ms. Basore meant to play her that way, or if it is an unforeseen consequence of an occasionally vacant performance. Carl and Sam are the thematic opposites to the dwellers of Souls' small town setting; Casey sets up a unique tension with the "Northerner" Sam who walks into her bar, bristling at the assumptions the former makes about her Southern hometown. Yolanda Franklin is delightful as Lila, the fast-talking foil to Casey's wrath and rage. Ms. Franklin portrays her with delicate intensity, as the only person who can control Casey's lashing tongue. Their banter seems a product of an eons-long friendship-turned-symbiosis, and provides a priming, emotional depth to Souls. 

In particular credit to the script and its writers, Glenn Paris and Claudio Raygoza, the dialogue manages to synthesize the nearness of an emotional apocalypse that every character on stage seems to be running from: Vietnam, spousal abuse, past murders, an abandoned child. Paris and Raygoza, also artistic directors, are keenly aware of their time period, and dress up speeches and arguments with the colloquialisms of that volatile time, the sixties. The characters take up an inherent residence in the cultural and political fabric of America in the sixties, yet never leave the diner tables and bar stools of their small Southern town. 

The mood of the production alternates seamlessly between sombre remembrances of said town's past, and the brisk diurnal rituals of 'good mornings' and humorous exchanges. The set itself beams with bright oranges, yellows and greens - overhead lamps glisten redly above the bar, and a colored jukebox sings soft folktales between scene changes (songs which happen to be original compositions by the sultry-voiced, and hugely talented, Linda Libby.) Most of the climaxes that clutter the ending (for there are multiple) take place in the dark, and more than one audience member shuddered at the bloodcurdling screams and bangs that suddenly reminded us that we were done laughing at Casey's sarcasm or trying to work out Sam's sorrowful origin story. Sea of Souls isn't realized fully until the explosive ending(s), but that's a good thing - it builds its mysterious stamina over time and sprints to a breathtaking finish. 

Sea of Souls ran until July 11 at Peter Jay Sharp Theater (416 West 42nd Street) in Manhattan. For more information, visit http://iontheatre.com/#ion-home-page.

The Devil’s Advocate

Classic Stage Company’s production of Christopher Marlowe’s Doctor Faustus, directed by Andrei Belgrader, doesn’t do away with Marlowe’s mighty line, but his pioneering iambic pentameter has a hard time keeping up with a good deal of lowbrow tomfoolery inserted by Belgrader and his co-adaptor, David Bridel. To be fair, Marlowe larded his play with comic relief, but the CSC production often strains for humorous effect. Early on, when two necromancers visit Faustus, they speak in silly voices for no apparent reason, one of them sounding like a hoarse Munchkin. 

The comedy helps leaven the well-known story of death and damnation for the medieval scholar with encyclopedic knowledge who seeks omnipotence as well. Besides Marlowe’s play, its most notable appearances are in operas by Gounod and Busoni and in a novel by Thomas Mann (the last is not easy reading).

By selling his soul to Beelzebub, Faustus gains the service of Mephistopheles for 24 years, but he fritters away all the advantages he has with childish nonsense. He tweaks the Pope and European rulers; he summons long-dead historical figures (including Helen of Troy, “the face that launched a thousand ships,” in Marlowe’s phrase); and has himself a lot of sexual fun. Initially, Faust demands that Mephistopheles find him a beautiful wife, but Mephistopheles tells him that marriage is a sacrament of God, and because Faustus has renounced God, he must be content with concubines. That’s apparently not a problem.

Bridel and Belgrader have understandably changed a great deal. They have cut whole passages skillfully, dropping many references to classical myths and characters and adding plenty of business that's not in the original, including audience interactivity that’s surely more close-up than Elizabethan actors ever got to their spectators. The changes get down to the nitty-gritty, too, as the adapters substitute individual words for ones they deem too obscure for a modern audience, and update archaic locutions. Thus Marlowe’s

Faustus, begin thine incantations
And try if devils will obey thy hest
Seeing thou hast pray’d and sacrific’d to them.

is streamlined to:

Faustus, begin your incantations
And see if devils will obey your will
Once you have prayed and sacrificed to them.

The reworking is extensive, and only occasionally puzzling. Surely Marlowe’s “The framing of this circle on the ground/Brings thunder, whirlwinds, storm and lightning” not only has better iambic scansion than “The framing of this circle on the ground/Brings whirlwinds, tempests, thunder, and lightning,” but “storm” is also a word more commonly used than “tempest.”

As Faustus, Chris Noth handles the verse with clarity and intelligence, and he shows a troubled, ambitious, scornful spirit. But Faustus’s philosophical musings cannot sustain one’s interest entirely, so besides comedy, Marlowe includes pageantry (the Pope, an emperor, a selection of demons and phantoms) for the eyes. The pageantry here is pretty thin, but Bridel and Belgrader embrace the secondary plots more than that of Faustus, and the imbalance is noticeable. It’s present in the underlings enlisted by Faustus’s own servant, Wagner, who doubles as the Chorus: Lucas Caleb Rooney’s strapping Robin, who swipes Faustus’s books of magic with a barking, raffish energy to teach himself the dark arts; and then Robin’s own protégé, Ken Cheeseman’s idiot peasant Dick, who gives rise to plenty of punning. “I shall be the Devil’s Dick,” he cries exultantly, in just one of a series of Dick jokes that bump vulgarly against the higher-brow issues involving God and the fall of man. 

Zach Grenier brings a weary glumness to Mephistopheles, the devil who remembers longingly the joys of Paradise but who has adapted to the reality that he’ll never know them again. His glances at Faustus show what a fool he thinks the doctor is, and he seems the real tragic figure. Belgrader also includes a good deal of audience participation, as Mephistopheles sniffs out sinners at close quarters, and there is one clever twist as the Seven Deadly Sins are presented, although their forming a kick line as they whinny out a song is just directorial froufrou.

Still, if bumblers and hijinks diminish the tragic effect and Marlowe’s transporting poetry, the production retains integrity. And if Faustus’s final descent to the fiery pit isn’t likely to bring forth any catharsis, that’s partly because Faustus concerns himself with trifling pranks. It's too bad, though, that Belgrader couldn't imbue this production with a bit more gravitas.

Christopher Marlowe’s Doctor Faustus plays at Classic Stage Company (136 E. 13^th St. between 3rd and 4th Aves.) through July 12. Evening performances are at 7 p.m. on Tuesday-Thursday and 8 p.m. on Friday and Saturday. Matinees are at 3 p.m. Saturday and Sunday. Tickets may be obtained by calling 212- 352-3101 or visiting www.classicstage.org.

A Thief for Our Hearts

London’s eccentric thief Mary Frith wore men’s clothing and was supposedly known to be a pimp, pickpocket and reseller of stolen goods. She gained the nickname “Moll Cutpurse” after being arrested for stealing purses. Her reputation inspired playwrights Thomas Middleton and Thomas Dekker to create their comedy The Roaring Girl during the Jacobean era (1567–1625). The title is borrowed from young, drunk men who were called “roaring boys,” and they would pick fights on the streets. The Roaring Girl is filled with campy sexual innuendos and manipulative characters who challenge our cultural beliefs about gender roles, marriage and status.

In this fictionalized dramatization of Mary Frith’s life, Sebastian Wengrave (Jacob Owen) attempts to trick his greedy father Sir Alexander Wengrave (Matt Walker) into allowing him to marry his true love Mary Fitzallard (Anna Clare Kerr). Mary’s dowry is too small to meet Sir Alexander’s demands and he threatens to cut Sebastian out of the family. Sebastian tries to outwit his father by pretending to be in love with infamous thief Moll Cutpurse (Malloree Hill) so that his father will eventually prefer to have Mary as his daughter-in-law, and not an outcast. Sebastian’s plot is thwarted when Sir Alexander has whimsical Ralph Trapdoor (Max Hunter) spy on Moll. Sir Alexander unsuccessfully tries to have Moll steal diamonds so that he can frame her. Moll is too savvy and does not take the bait, and later unmasks Trapdoor when he pretends to be a wounded soldier.

Deceit and seduction are also played out in two other parallel stories about marriage. Laxton (Joel DeCandio) and Goshawk (Ryan Mills) both pursue taking advantage of two married women whose husbands eventually get involved. The ploys and subject matter from this era have withheld time and still translate to modern culture. The test of one’s character ultimately holds more weight than appearances and titles in this production.

After stepping off of a noisy downtown street and walking up four flights of stairs you will find yourself in a cozy space decorated with a rainbow carnival canopy. The warm hardwood floors are inviting as you find your seat at a red jazz club table and play with colorful feathers in glass bowls. There are amusing table signs with written tips for comprehending a Jacobean joke: “If you think it’s about sex, it is,” and “If you don’t think it’s about sex, it still is.” The actors suddenly appear from behind you and they will even put their feet up at your table without asking first. Director Anaïs Koivisto and this youthful, vibrant cast also bring choreographed sword fights and group brawls in beautiful period costumes.

The show runs for two hours and 15 minutes with a 10-minute intermission and might occur as long at first. There was a slight dead period right before the opening and the audience members were left waiting and wondering. However, the live singing, group dancing, and guitar and drum playing, will keep you entertained throughout the entire show.

Hunter consistently provides the needed stamina and physical comedy required to perform as foolish Trapdoor, and he becomes a guiding light throughout this production. His energy is complimented when he teams up with Gull (Quinn Warren) as a disguised soldier. The spunk and moxie that Warren brings to feisty Gull can be summed up when she says, “I am call'd by those that have seen my valour, Tearcat.” At times, Hill lacks the same level of power as the heroine Moll to carry out this show. She does capture some of the masculine characteristics of Moll, such as her stance, and she maneuvers through the sword fights with ease and grace. When challenged or questioned about Moll's reputation, Hill’s facial expressions appeared quietly surprised and passive. It could be more fitting for Hill to not avoid Moll’s defiant history, and instead own her past. If Moll were alive today, she would probably be living her life as she wished and have little or no regard for laws, social norms or being politically correct.

The Everyday Inferno Theatre Company delivers on their commitment to provide classic material to a wide audience while maintaining low production costs in The Roaring Girl. This production is one of two plays in a rotating repertory called Punks & Provocateurs. For those who appreciate Shakespeare and are interested in a sexy alternative, The Roaring Girl is worth your attention. It is not an everyday occurrence to experience Middleton and Dekker’s witty material performed in an intimate and unimposing downtown setting with an eager ensemble.

The Roaring Girl runs until June 21 at the Access Theater (380 Broadway between White and Walker Sts.) in Manhattan. Evening performances are Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday at 8 p.m. and matinee performances are Sunday at 3 p.m. Tickets are $18 and can be purchased by visiting punksandprovocateurs.bpt.me or by calling 347-291-1805.

A Spoiler in the Room

In her early film career, Bette Davis set herself apart by being willing to play characters who were unsympathetic; her bad women in Of Human Bondage and Jezebel were her tickets to fame and marked her as different from other studio stars. Jesse Eisenberg is equally unafraid to take on characters who are unpleasant—even loathesome. His performance as the cold and arrogant Mark Zuckerberg in The Social Network won him an Oscar nomination. In The New Group’s production of his play The Spoils, he plays Ben, whose social graces are in much worse shape, and whose behavior is often repellent.

The actor's first two plays, Asuncion and The Revisionist, proved he was a promising dramatist. In the latter, he co-starred with Vanessa Redgrave, whose participation suggests she can spot talent, and, indeed, Eisenberg has not only written himself a terrific part in The Spoils, but he performs it with élan.

Eisenberg’s Ben lives in a high-flying modernist apartment (luxuriously designed by Derek McLane) purchased for him by his father; he shares it with a roommate he found online, Kalyan (Kunal Nayyar). Kalyan has come to the United States from Nepal to study business and has written a book; he’s not wealthy and probably couldn’t have come without Ben’s help. Ben, however, disdains capitalism and has altruistically offered Kalyan the apartment rent-free, though Kalyan is reluctant to take charity. When Ben runs into an old childhood acquaintance, Ted, who works on Wall Street and has the ability to help Kalyan, he is persuaded to bring Ted over for an introduction to Kalyan, even as he belittles Kalyan’s ambition to work on Wall Street.

The playwright builds the tension gradually in different ways. Ben badmouths Ted, particularly since Ted is about to marry Sarah Newburg (Erin Darke), a girl Ben has had a crush on since their ages were in single digits. He must, nevertheless, bolster Kalyan in his quest to land a Wall Street job even though Ben, a failed filmmaker, is disaffected and resentful of financial success in others. He talks an artistic game but he lacks inspiration. “I wish the world wasn’t a fucked up string of unfair situations that I seem to be embroiled in,” he declares with self-pitying confidence. He is also physically graceless, pushing his body into others’ spaces and sprawling all over the furniture.

Nayyar’s Kalyan is just a tad wishy-washy, manipulatable by Ben; Kalyan is devoted to his benefactor but not spineless. He is dating Reshma (Annapurna Sriram), a doctor who mistrusts Ben and speaks her mind to his face—another source of tension. Ben nonetheless tries to pull off outrageous gambits—claiming a back injury at one point—although Reshma suspects he’s faking. 

Eisenberg has given the rest of the cast solid parts, and director Scott Elliott has chosen his actors wisely. Michael Zegen’s Ted is a likable, decent guy, not threatening or ruthlessly businesslike but with a blandness that wears thin quickly. Sriram’s impassioned Reshma is often at the side of the stage, texting or making cell phone calls, as any doctor might—Elliott cannily attends to the details. Darke is exceptional as Sarah: mature, sensitive, and yet devoted to Ted. In a crucial scene, Ben confesses a cringeworthy, scatological childhood fantasy to her—one that is prepared for earlier when he tells it to Kalyan. (The playwright gets further mileage out of the story in a re-enactment; three times is a charm.)

In the end, though, Eisenberg’s play is less a portrait of a young generation than a character study of someone who hasn’t found his way and denigrates the paths that others have chosen in order to justify his own failure. The questions that roil underneath it are whether success should be judged on ambition or accomplishments, and whether an artist who cannot make money at his art is really worth anything. Ben attempts to concoct a film, based on the story Kalyan has told him, to impress Sarah; when he presents it to her, she sees immediately how bogus he is.

But Eisenberg’s brief coda highlights another crucial question: Can adults be hamstrung by events in their childhood that they barely remember? If so, he intimates, redemption may be possible. Something good that Ben once did may just help him to redefine himself.

Jesse Eisenberg's The Spoils plays through June 28 at the Pershing Square Signature Center (480 W. 42nd St. between 10th and 11th Aves.). Evening performances are at 7:30 p.m. Tuesday through Friday, and on Sunday, and 8 p.m. on Saturday. Matinees are at 2 p.m. on Saturday and Sunday, with an additional matinee at 2 p.m. on Wednesday, June 24. Tickets may be purchased by calling (212) 279-4200 or visiting ticketcentral.com.

Dean Martin at Cafe Verona

Shakespeare's best romances, whether they end in tears or in double weddings, start off fraught with comic possibility, and most stagings of The Two Gentlemen of Verona are intensely aware of that fact. Director Hamilton Clancy and The Drilling Company's production of one of the Bard's earliest plays is properly sensitive to said comedic potential, even in the somewhat chaotic environs of Bryant Park on a weekend afternoon. The play seems particularly popular this season, with an acclaimed production by Fiasco Theater running concurrently with this one. A three-storied stage serves as a set for both Cafe Verona and the Emperor's Court in Milan; Shakespeare's two gentlemen gravitate between the two cities, just as their inconstant affections flit from one girl to the next. 

An ambitious Proteus (Brian Patrick Murphy) woos a particularly fearless Julia (Tori Ernst) in Verona, while his friend Valentine (Andrew Gombas)—Shakespeare’s requisite love-mocker—goes to Milan to seek his fortunes. Both Valentine and Proteus fall hard and fast for Silvia (Kristin Piacentile), and later deal with the oncoming storm of nascent comedic devices dear to the Bard’s heart: lost love letters, cross-dressing women and fickle men. The unsurpassed star of the show is Chewy-Bear Aquino, the winsome little dog that plays Crab; he almost outperforms his master, Launce (Eric Paterniani). 

The comic performances are reliably humorous, with a fantastic Speed (Drew Valins) and near-incoherently accented Launce, played to perfection by Eric Paterniani. Bryant Park on a spring evening is anarchic, and the players strive to hold our attention; Brian Patrick Murphy struts about and gestures like a Mean Streets antihero (Mr. Murphy is involved in Mr. Scorsese’s upcoming Rock N’ Roll project), while Julia and her wonderfully sassy best friend Lucetta (Lauriel Friedman) engage in girlish banter and the odd catfight.

But there’s a reason why The Two Gentlemen of Verona isn’t performed on stage as much as other works in the Bard’s canon. Lines of love and longing that would later become peerless in Shakespeare’s romances are rendered lukewarm here, barring perhaps Valentine’s famous love monologue to Silvia. The words utterly redeem Clancy’s bumbling-in-love Valentine and give him the deep solemnity of a lovelorn, despairing man torn from his betrothed: "What joy is joy, if Silvia be not by?"

Shakespeare’s early play depends greatly on the manic expressiveness and movement of its actors (it was performed with restless gusto by a Royal Shakespeare Company revival of Two Gentlemen last year), but Clancy otherwise mutes what might have been rip-roaring situational comedy in favor of schmaltzy music cues and no-fear-Shakespeare every man references (“I am one that am nourished by my/ victuals: Chipotle!” and “stop mewling like a bum on the L train!”). At times, there seemed to be more humor in the glances of passers-by eyeing the makeshift stage with the wary curiosity of watching a street performance and hearing Old English simultaneously. 

But the undisputed strength of this Two Gentlemen production rests on this theme: the easy forgiveness of friends. The neat double wedding that concludes this Elizabethan comedy could just as easily have been a funeral: when Proteus begs Valentine’s forgiveness for trying to steal his girl, there is a moment of unyielding hatred in Gombas’ raised fist, and the audience wonders (as it often does in Shakespeare’s dark comedies) if Valentine will go the way of Vergil’s Aeneas and strike down his mercy-seeking enemy. Instead, he lets his hand fall and embraces his best friend in forgiveness, as does Julia, who has a startlingly pre-feminist line: "it is the lesser blot, modesty finds/women to change their shapes than men their minds."

The set seems deliberately makeshift, with three raised platforms serving as a restaurant, an emperor’s court and an outlaw’s hideout (appropriately called Governor’s Island, in keeping with the production’s New York flavor) but set designer Jennifer Varbalow makes the festive Little Italy habitat quite endearing. The setting itself is unabashedly Italian, and Dean Martin’s lilting voice is a constant refrain between scene changes. Perhaps "That's Amore" too neatly captures the senseless scrappiness of love; it’s one of those songs that play on a loop in your head. So if you're looking for that elusive alliance between Shakespeare and New York City, this season's Bryant Park Shakespeare might just serve you with a decent caper through Little Italy and a few laughs for good measure. 

Presented by Bryant Park Shakespeare, The Drilling Company's production of Two Gentlemen of Verona ran from May 15- 31 at Bryant Park (6th Ave. at 42nd St.) in Manhattan. For more information, call 212-873-9050 or visit www.shakespeareintheparkinglot.com and www.drillingcompany.org.

Life with Father, Irish Style

Hugh Leonard’s Da is a painful coming-of-age story being given an engaging and rare revival by the Irish Repertory Theater in its temporary home at DR2 Theatre off Union Square.

Set in a rural town in Ireland, Leonard’s 1978 Tony winner deals with Charlie, a middle-aged man who has returned to his family home after the death of his father. The memories he has are painful, and it’s clear immediately in Charlotte Moore’s production that Charlie feels some relief at the recently severed tie to his father. But Da isn’t done with his son: his ghost, a boisterous and peremptory Paul O’Brien, shows up to harangue and browbeat Charlie. And Charlie, for his part, feels resentments bubble up in him once again. As the play unfolds, one learns about the origins of their friction, as well as Charlie’s adolescence and working life. He is, in fact, an adoptive son to Da and his Ma (Fiana Toibin).

Clues come early on about how difficult Charlie’s life was, as the family prepares for the arrival of a Mr. Drumm who will interview Charlie for a job. There’s a battle over the shirt that Charlie is supposed to wear. (Adam Petherbridge plays the younger Charlie with a mixture of rebellion and Catholic guilt, while Ciarán O’Reilly shines as the more confident and calmer adult observing his life.) He doesn’t want to wear the one that his mother has patched, and his resistance causes a squabble and earns him a slap. 

After Sean Gormley’s thin-lipped, priggish Mr. Drumm arrives, Da, though warned to speak minimally, launches into praise of Hitler. (Some Irishmen supported Hitler because he was at war with their historical enemy, England.) Drumm, judgmental and bloodless, has nothing but contempt for Da, and he expresses it bluntly. Drumm offers Charlie a job nonetheless, with the warning that he shouldn’t stay in it too long—a warning that Charlie, a budding writer, doesn’t heed for more than a decade. A nice irony is that Drumm, unsusceptible to sentiment, gives Charlie sounder advice than his parents offer: “You’ll amount to nothing until you learn to say no.”

Leonard’s story slips from memory to the present and back, sometimes a bit strangely: older Charlie doesn’t merely watch his younger self in scenes—they converse about what’s going on, with the older self advising the younger. O’Brien’s Da is by turns morose, cheerful, overbearing, and proud, and it’s clear he will never be a figure his son will worship. In spite of the cozy warmth suggested by James Morgan’s crockery-filled parlor, this autobiographical play is also rife with unhappiness, stupidity, and emotional abuse. 

Leonard’s rich language— “Old faces. They’ve turned up like bills you thought you’d never have to pay”—gets full weight from an excellent cast. Although men are the focus, two actresses in smaller parts make the most of their single scenes. Nicola Murphy plays Mary Tate, a reputed good-time girl that Charlie wants but who has more sweetness than he appreciates. Petherbridge is terrific in the scene, alternately bashful and on the make, and Murphy brings true poignancy to poor Mary, initially aloof, then warming to Charlie’s charms. It’s to Leonard’s credit that Charlie, his own stand-in, comes off poorly. As Da’s employer of decades, Kristin Griffith arrives late in the play to deliver a clueless, insulting pittance to the man who has served as her gardener for years, while she eagerly gathers the bounty he has cultivated. Da is ever the apologist for his poor treatment, too proud to claim more than others are willing to give him, and that gripes the older Charlie. It undoubtedly reflects Leonard’s own struggle to find confidence in himself that he is never destined to receive from either father or mother. Yet, as Charlie finally learns, "Love turned upside down is love for all that."

Performances of Da by the Irish Repertory Theatre take place through March 8 at the DR2 Theatre at 103 E. 15th St., off Union Square. Evening curtains are at 7 p.m. Tuesdays and Thursdays and 8 p.m. Wednesdays, Fridays and Saturdays. Matinees are at 3 p.m. on Saturdays and Sundays.

The Lighter Side of Communism

It's probably safe to say that George Gershwin’s notion of Russian drama as he described it in his classic “But Not for Me” is probably what most people think of it: “I’ve found more clouds of gray/Than any Russian play could guarantee.” It's to Moira Buffini’s credit that her 2007 adaptation of Nikolai Erdman’s play The Suicide will come as a surprise to anyone who thinks Russians don’t write comedies.

Buffini, herself a playwright (Loveplay, Dinner), has dug out the laughs in Erdman’s 1928 satire, renamed Dying for It, while keeping the pointed social commentary on the desperation of ordinary Russians a decade after the Bolsheviks took power. Although the play is rarely revived, it is not completely obscure: it was seen on Broadway briefly in 1980, with Derek Jacobi starring.

As the play begins, life for the hero, Semyon Semyonovich Podeskalnikov (Joey Slotnick), and his wife, Masha (Jeanine Serralles), is anything but peachy. They’re poor, he’s hungry, and they sleep on a bed in the hallway of a tenement house, with blackened stairs, acutely peeling wallpaper, and no privacy. The Communist revolution hasn’t brought the prosperity hoped for by the poor. Moreover, Semyon’s mother-in-law, the opportunistic Serafima, inhabits the room off the landing.

The despairing Semyon complains of a lack of food, much like the tramps in Beckett's Waiting for Godot. When he finds an advertisement for playing the tuba under some floorboards, he thinks he has the ticket to wealth: he’ll learn it and be paid for playing. But just from looking at Slotnick, who brings a Sad Sack quality to the character, it's evident that things aren’t going to pan out. His struggle with the tuba comes to an amusing but bitter end. Semyon decides to commit suicide, and runs off to buy a gun, leading to a comic chase to rescue him that involves his upstairs neighbor, the bearish Kalabushkin (CJ Wilson); Kalabushkin's lover, Margarita, who owns a popular bar; and Yegor, a postman and devout Communist who lives upstairs.

Semyon returns with the gun, but before he can use it, Erdman introduces a variety of colorful characters eager to delay his promised death until they can further their own ends through influencing his suicide note. They include Aristarkh Grand-Skubik, a dispossessed landowner who wants Semyon's note to blame the government; Kleopatra “Kiki” Maximovna, a romantic who wants him to dispatch himself for her in the name of love; and Father Yelpidy, a dour Orthodox priest who wants Semyon’s death to stand for the godlessness of the current society, in hopes it will bring people back to the church. Civil servant Yegor steps in to urge Semyon to “do it for the Party…you owe them everything.” Last to put his two rubles in is Patch Darragh as Viktor Viktorovich, a poet (“I am the voice of the Russian man,” he declares); he wants Semyon to declare in his note that Russia needs art.

This string of visitors to Semyon might have become repetitive, but director Neil Pepe has cast some splendid comic actors in the roles, and they’re varied enough not to wear out their welcomes. The ever-reliable Robert Stanton is a dapper and high-minded Aristarkh; Clea Lewis is a squeaky-voiced, beckoning Kiki; Peter Maloney is a delightfully high-kicking, hard-drinking cleric; and Ben Beckley as the straight-arrow Yegor reveals some creepy sexual inclinations.

As Semyon, Slotnick uses his nebbishy looks and deadpan delivery to create a character floundering with neurotic bewilderment. But he is also an Everyman for these tough economic times of chronic unemployment: “I have no dignity, no labor, no value at all,” he says. Slotnick manages to keep a balance between hope and despair, so that one is always guessing whether he will or won’t shoot himself. Seralles has some comically explosive moments as Masha, and Mary Beth Peil as her manipulative mother has one of the slyest comic lines in the play, as she offers a bite to the priest: “Father, I poked around and found a little bit of meat. I know you’d rather have a biscuit, but it’s chicken-style stew.”

Erdman’s play was banned in the Stalinist era, and it’s easy to see why. But apart from its politics, it still has a lot to say about the importance of work and the effects of unemployment and poverty on people’s lives. With Buffini's refurbishment, Dying for It proves astonishingly apt for the times.

Dying for It plays at the Atlantic Theater Company, 336 W. 20th St., through Jan. 18, with evening performances at 8 p.m. Wednesday through Saturday, and at 7 p.m. on Tuesday. Matinees are at 2 p.m. on Saturday and Sunday. For tickets, which are $20 and $65, call OvationTix at (866) 811-4111.