Adrift in Choppy Waters

Playwrights Realm has been a champion of new writing since its inaugural production, Substitution, back in 2008, and has often introduced important new voices in theater. Last year’s offering, the thrilling My Mañana Comes by Elizabeth Irwin, won two Drama Desk nominations. However, Anna Ziegler’s A Delicate Ship, whose title is taken from W.H. Auden’s poem Musée des Beaux Arts, doesn’t rise to the same heights.

The three-hander, a meditation on adulthood directed by Margot Bordelon, involves Sarah, a young woman in the midst of a happy relationship with her boyfriend Sam, and Nate, a young man whom she has known since childhood. Nate arrives drunk and unannounced on Sarah’s doorstep on a snowy Christmas Eve. What has instigated his sudden appearance is the discovery of a poem (Musée) he found in a college textbook from 1993.

As events unfold, characters break the fourth wall frequently to describe themselves or comment on cohorts. Early on, for instance, Sarah (Miriam Silverman) tells us about herself:

"I am the woman reading The New Yorker on the subway, mostly the cartoons and the movie reviews and occasionally an essay about the failures of doctors and hospitals and how we could, all of us, die very young…. In this memory, tonight, I am thirty-three."

At another point, Matt Dellapina’s easygoing Sam reveals: "I’m a Mets fan—always have been, die-hard—even during the years when they were worse than awful. I love sushi, though I didn’t have the nerve to try it til I was thirty-two years old."

It’s quickly apparent that Nate (Nick Westrate) is carrying a torch for Sarah, although it’s never quite clear why Silverman’s overly patient hostess suffers Nate’s intrusion into a romantic liaison on Christmas Eve. She and Nate used to smoke a joint together in their building while growing up, but it hardly makes his visit credible. Soon Nate is baiting Sam with snide comments that eventually turn into full-blown insults.

The set-up promises drama, but the direct address to the audience distances one from the emotions the characters feel. Ziegler has some interesting things to say about parents and children, time and happiness, but the primary mode of interaction is philosophical debate, even though Ziegler tries to establish the groundwork by having Sarah declare of Sam: “He’s a singer-slash-philosopher-slash-legal secretary.” It’s impossible to imagine any of them uttering something as mundane as “Please pass the mustard.” At one point, Bordelon even allows Nate to jump up and down on Sarah’s sofa with his shoes on. Ziegler seems to suggest that adults are uncertain children in full-size bodies, but it puts a great strain on credibility.

Even though the dialogue is lively, and Westrate brings passion to the volatile, overbearing Nate, there's a secondhand feeling to the proceedings. Once Nate exclaims, “Let’s play a game!” you might feel like cursing Edward Albee and Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? and all the dramatic descendants that it has spawned.

Auden’s poem is not merely the source of the title, but a portion is read aloud. The poem itself describes another work of art, Pieter Bruegel the Elder’s Landscape with the Fall of Icarus, showing a leg of the overweening young man as he plunges into the sea in a small corner of the canvas. Meanwhile, life goes on around him obliviously, and, in Auden’s words, “The expensive delicate ship, that must have seen/Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,/Had somewhere to get to, and sailed calmly on.” Poem and painting make the point that, as the world experiences an ordinary day, someone nearby is having a life-changing event: death, ruin or horror.

Ziegler’s characters live that Christmas Eve with intensity, and in a sober, affecting coda, two of them meet years later in Prospect Park. (Here the blurry photograph of the New York City skyline that backs Reid Thompson’s simple set makes its most pointed contribution, suggesting the mists of memory.) Each has found happiness, known family loss, and had children. And parenthood, Ziegler implies, has forced them finally to grow up. It’s a beautiful finale to a sometimes awkward production.

A Delicate Ship plays through Sept. 12 at the Peter Jay Sharp Theater at Playwrights Horizons (416 W. 42nd St. between 9th and 10th Aves.). Evening performances are at 7:30 p.m. Tuesday through Saturday. Matinees are at 4 p.m. Friday and 2 p.m. Saturday. Tickets are $35 and can be purchased by calling Ticket Central at 212-279-4200 or visiting https://ticketcentral.com.

Fatalistic Fandoms

In the Ice Factory Festival’s run thus far, no play has managed to reconcile the New Ohio Theatre’s intimate space with the magnitude of its subject matter as well as George and Co.’s production of Holden. The wrathful claustrophobia that Holden emanates very quickly imbibes the audience itself, and we find ourselves shifting uncomfortably in our plush blue seats. But it doesn’t begin that way. We are lulled into enjoying the sarcastic dialogue, the self-aware movements of the actors and Billie Holiday’s sad voice, which croons occasionally as part of the play’s soundtrack. But this false security is made all the more frightening by the individual character revelations that slowly begin to transfigure and twist the production into an entirely unexpected and strangely arresting creature.

The set is an organic element of the story: its walls of chopped logs and floors of wood chips create a color scheme of unending amber brown. Typed-up sheets of paper hang from a clothes line. It is evidence that we are in a writer’s island. There is a spare cot, shelves stacked with books and a detective-like desk with a reading lamp, typewriter and magnifying glass. And everywhere, crumpled balls of paper litter the furniture and the floor. Holden already seems overly cramped in its setup, and we wonder how its actors will negotiate the space, but this is a calculated move on the part of scenic designer Nick Benacerraf.

Writer-director Anisa George notes that Holden exists “in an impossible time and place,” lending an otherworldly tint to the log bunker in which her story is set. Four figures lie sleeping in the darkness as crickets chirp drowsily outside. One man gets up, quietly turns on a reading lamp and opens up J.D. Salinger’s novel, The Catcher in the Rye. His name is Hinckley (Scott Sheppard) and he begins to retype the entire book, word for word, with a typewriter set in front of him until the tall, side-burned and bespectacled figure of Chapman (Jaime Maseda) stops him. Both Chapman and Hinckley are devotedly respectful to the pajama-clad, white-haired Jerry Salinger (Bill George), who wakes up from a war-torn nightmare (the real Salinger took part in the hellish storming of Normandy on D-Day), but Zev (Matteo Scammell) seems to be on equal terms with the author.

Zev, a serious young man in torn jean-shorts and a red flannel shirt is the "new guy," as Chapman and Hinckley derisively christen him. It is not until the closing stages of Holden that the two start calling him by his name. A little girl called Peggy (Adele Goldhader) is the only one who is able to enter and exit the bunker; she appears to be Salinger’s 10-year-old daughter, and keeps urging him to return to the rest of his family. But Salinger pays little attention to his environs, even completely disregarding his three bunkmates as he fusses and fumes with his writing.

As the play progresses, it becomes evident that Chapman and Hinckley are infamous men. The former is Mark Chapman, the man who killed John Lennon in 1980, and his compatriot is John Hinckley, Jr., the man who attempted to assassinate Ronald Reagan in 1981 (a sore point for him since he couldn’t "finish the job" as Chapman did). Both men were apparent lovers of The Catcher In the Rye, rationalizing their murderous intents with Holden Caulfield’s disdain for "phonies." Hinckley was famously obsessed with Jodie Foster’s character in the movie Taxi Driver, as George funnily references before she reveals the character’s true self, but still he and Chapman are scarily similar. When Jerry (in the play) writes down one sentence in a fit of inspiration and falls back asleep, his two fans are rendered speechless by his words: “In his mind, fulfillment meant loving a good woman and killing a bad man.”

George cleverly introduces her characters with relative anonymity. Maseda makes Chapman seem like a hyperactive publisher or agent, impatiently keen on the release date for Jerry’s new book. Sheppard renders Hinckley as a comically bumbling figure, interacting innocently with his environment. It is only Zev, played to ominous ferocity by a supremely talented Scammell, who remains unknown to us until the end. Why is he being held in this purgatory-like fan land with such company as Lennon’s killer and Foster’s stalker? He doesn’t even like Salinger, and thinks Holden is “kind of a loser” to the utter shock of his fellow bunkmates. We soon find that George has created an even more terrifying character in Zev, one especially menacing to the modern American. He is the nameless, unselective kind of killer who rejoices in the power of guns and in closed, packed places. Even Chapman and Hinckley are disgusted by him, and it is with a bloodcurdling, knowing shiver that we hear Zev’s words: “I don’t like people. I like maps...blue prints. I like to see where the entrances and exits are. Public places. Stadiums. Schools. Theaters.”

The audience is flooded with memories from the country’s collective consciousness: Sandy Hook Elementary, a movie theater in Aurora, Colorado, and a church in Charleston, South Carolina. We see the second generation of American violence in Zev, and it is an aimless, indiscriminate violence borne not out of emotion, but detached cruelty. Zev’s fight isn’t against "the phonies" like Chapman and Hinckley. His violence doesn’t require reason or impetus, but merely opportunity. This complete shift in tone and performance that quietly occurs halfway through the play is an unflagging testament to George’s intelligent directorship and riveting dialogue. Holden merits a visit, and it almost seems like a citizen’s requirement, as we remain mired in the sorrows of modern violence.

Holden ran from August 6-8 at the New Ohio Theatre (154 Christopher St., #1E between Greenwich and Washington Sts.) in Manhattan. For more information, visit www.newohiotheatre.org.

A Different Kind of Fourth Wall

If the walls of your high school bathroom could talk, they could probably tell you all you need to know about high school more than the halls ever could. While shy grazes between classes and aggressive shoves against the lockers can be very revealing about the high school experience, what is said behind closed doors—away from the hallway ruckus—can be just as illuminating. Under the pretty exterior is the ugly truth under the harsh light, and these revelations can differ depending on the person. In those few precious moments before class, in front of the bathroom mirror, every person is faced with the one thing that can be the difference between success and failure: themselves. Such moments provide the backdrop to Renée Roden's SHE, a production under Open Booth Theatre Company which explores the inner worlds of teenage girls, all within the confines of an actual bathroom located at Cristo Rey New York High School.

The third floor women's restroom is one which, despite its tiny space, signifies the oft-claustrophobic mind of a teenage girl. Indeed, from the moment one enters Cristo Rey, one is immediately inundated with images of various ways the media represents women, all plastered along the staircase walls leading up to the third floor landing. The claustrophobia sets in further once we are seated and left not only with a delayed, torturous silence, but also the silencing soundscape of our thoughts. As the title suggests, SHE centers around three female protagonists: the titular, intelligent She; the fun and gregarious Ryan, She's best friend; and Cassie, a talented ballet dancer and She's twin sister. In the privacy of the restroom, they worry about how their hair is behaving and whether they'll actually pass that AP Bio exam—and most importantly: whether any of them are going that party.  

By all accounts and appearances, they seem like your average, everyday band of teenage girls. However, under the bright fluorescent light of their seemingly normal exterior world lies the stark harshness of their individual psyches. As each girl is left alone, we discover that while the three are vastly different, they each silently harbor the same problems. And interestingly enough, just as their personalities strike certain contrasts between them, so are each girl's ways of coping. She seeks solace in ritualistic perfection, reciting a mantra throughout the entirety of the play. Yale-hopeful Ryan finds comfort through numbers, made known through her use of a calorie-counting journal. Labyrinth-obsessed Cassie escapes through art—mainly dance, of course. "Everyone has to have somewhere that they go," she says at one point, as she does a private ballet solo to music from La Bayadère. "I think we all have one. A somewhere where we can go be by ourselves."  

While the intriguing mention of a toilet-centric play definitely warrants a second glance, it is the powerful acting which completely leaves you in the play's thrall. Much of this is due to the strong performances delivered by the show's three leading ladies. Just as the play's three girls are living testaments of dichotomy, so are the three actresses. As She, Katherine Dudas walks the fine line between strength and vulnerability, a trait which makes itself known by play's end. For her part, Emily Dauer's Ryan balances her character's quippy one-liners with introspective observations about body image. Just like her character Cassie, Meaghan McLeod possesses a body of contradictions—at once both elegant and rough around the edges, in all her Bowie-inspired glory.

The small space also provides an interesting layer to the play's acting, with the actors not only periodically breaking the fourth wall, but also nearly "physically interacting" with the audience themselves. The lighting design utilizes dark, colored tones as the girls shift into their internal worlds, an effect that is powerful to watch. Similarly, the props design does an impressive job in suspending disbelief, by utilizing a few simple props to signify different locales such as the local Panera Bread and the house party. The use of music is equally important; songs such as John Mayer's "Your Body is a Wonderland" contrast with uptempo, Top 40s party anthems like Fifth Harmony's "Worth It," underscoring the play's recurring theme of appearances and society's pressures.

SHE examines the barriers between the private and the public selves—and whether a happy balance can be met. How many times have we tried to emulate that which isn't our actual self? Every day, as we are faced with these pressures, we often look to ourselves to blame. If we can lose that extra pound, make our lips plumper, or our hair silkier, we would stop hating the reflection staring back at us. However, it is only in looking outward and correcting society's standards instead that we can finally break through the barriers.

Open Booth Theatre Company's production of SHE ran at Cristo Rey New York High School (112 East 106th Street between Park and Lexington Aves.) from July 23 to Aug. 8. For more information on this and similar productions, visit http://www.openbooth.bpt.me.  

A Slanted Perspective

The reality in New York City and the rest of the modern world can seem absurd, morbid and mysterious from one minute to the next. Troy Deutsch’s In a Tilted Place shows just how strange life can really get. The production is a series of nine outlandish short plays, or wild scenes, and opens with a giddy, young woman (Cassandra Stokes-Wylie) retelling her “very, very real” dream. In her dream, she saw herself as a spirited girl, who had faith in God and ate ice cream at her local Dairy Queen. In her small town she “[biked] down Main Street with streamers on [her] handlebars.” Her story starts to take an unexpected turn when she shares about her first love, an “All-American quarterback.” She had group sex with her football player boyfriend and a brown, squirrel mascot who had “actual squirrel fur,” small paws and human eyes.

These creepy twists and turns are consistent throughout In a Tilted Place, and theatergoers wonder what this show is trying to say about the world we live in. The characters are in environments that seem normal at first and then their circumstances become bizarre and surreal. The female characters are often portrayed as controlling, manipulative, sex-crazed maniacs and the men are aloof, unavailable, drunk or driven mad by women. The value of this production is its ability to present ordinary, day-to-day life as uncanny, odd and whimsical. In a Titled Place is able to disgust, enlighten and provoke audience members.

In the second play, Chanel Chance, a lonely, desperate, young woman Ella (Kelsie Jepsen) sits in a cafe and tries to read Donna Tartt’s Pulitzer Prize-winning novel, “The Goldfinch.” Ella catches the gaze of a young man (Ronald Peet) sitting at another table and asks, “Are you someone? I’m sorry. But I noticed… Are you watching me? I’ve been looking over here and…” Their quirky exchange quickly becomes heated and even more awkward when Ella discovers that her own father has been paying this young man to spy on her. Ella forcefully kisses the man and demands, “Just look at me. Just smell me. Smell me. Smell my neck. Smell it. Smell it.” It is like watching a weirder version of an episode from “The Twilight Zone.”

This is Peet’s opening scene and his heavenly voice is abruptly overshadowed by Jepsen’s frenzied performance as she dominates the space. Peet is an exceptional actor from the Bahamas who graduated from the Tisch School of the Arts Drama program at New York University. Directors Ashley Brooke Monroe and Courtney Ulrich could balance out this scene by having Peet speak directly to the audience more often and have Jepsen slow down a bit. In a later play, Glowing Dinoflagellates, Peet plays naive and impressionable Benjamin. Benjamin is seduced by a powerful, horny, middle-aged woman (Pamela Shaw) to stay at her vacant inn on a cliff. Peet and Shaw’s authentic chemistry and first-rate performances complement each other extremely well and create a solid foundation for other actors to shine. Sex slaves (Sean Kazarian and Michael Kingsbaker) generously contribute to heightening this scene by bringing comic relief as they ramble on in unison about their torturous stay at the inn.

This production’s material is too insular and will likely not travel beyond audiences who enjoy fringe theater. In Brown Fish, a young woman sits on a bench in a concrete park and confesses to her male friend about her roommate’s poop cabin. She describes the poop cabin as “A brown, self-induced, feces log cabin. Like from pioneer days. But the logs, instead of wood, were made of poop.”  Wider audiences may not appreciate this production’s unconventional subject matter and style.

The set design by Kate Noll is uncomplicated with a few pieces of furniture and gray, bland walls that look like concrete. Viewers get the sense that these characters exist between a rock and a hard spot. It is like watching a group of people living in an emergency exit hallway in the basement of a skyscraper, and they do not know that the building is on fire. This minimalistic approach is not distracting and allows for audiences to focus solely on the performances. The simplicity works when a mermaid (Rachel Moulton) slowly drags herself across the floor and onto the stage in Call Me Daryl Hannah. Audiences are captivated watching her struggle as she pulls her body and huge fin across the bare, hard surfaces to meet a young, drunk man (Kingsbaker) sitting on a park bench.

In a Tilted Place relies on shocking and unusual subject matter to create tension and mystery. Audience members can turn into distant bystanders who are merely observing. As observers, they can become disconnected from these unique characters and not know how to relate. A clearer overall aim and vision could create a deeper appreciation for this production’s willingness to transcend traditional ideas.

In a Tilted Place runs until Aug. 30 at the IRT Theater (third floor of 154 Christopher St. between Washington and Greenwich Sts. in Manhattan). Evening performances are Monday, Friday and Saturday at 8 p.m. and matinee performances are Sunday at 3 p.m. Tickets are $18 and can be purchased by calling 800-838-3006 or visiting BrownPaperTickets.com.

Apocalypse Soon

Societies don’t come much more dystopian than that of Philip Ridley’s brutal and Darwinian Mercury Fur. In this vision of the future, staged in traverse by Scott Elliott for The New Group, Ridley posits a world—specifically New York—in the grip of post-apocalyptic violence. Zoo animals have been gunned down in their cages, riots fill the streets, and drugs are plentiful. 

Lanky Elliot (Zane Pais) and his dim-witted brother Darren (Jack DiFalco) have been sent to prepare a derelict apartment for a party; they are rearranging overturned, tattered furniture—though even “tattered” seems too stylish a description for the squalor designed by Derek McLane. Bits of white plaster and black chunks are strewn over the floor; the furniture is worn with holes, and graffiti is on the windows. 

The preparations are clandestine, and Elliot and Darren are skittish. They are thrown when they discover that one of the apartments in the abandoned building is occupied, by Naz (Tony Revolori, who played the bellboy in the film The Grand Budapest Hotel). Naz has met Elliot, who at one time was known as “butterfly man in the ice cream truck.” Naz traded an artifact he had looted from the Met for some of Elliot’s drugs, peddled in the form of butterflies—and everyone uses them. 

Naz is impressed to hear that Elliot and Darren are working for Papa Spinx, a legendary power broker. Darren pleads with Elliot to let the gentle Naz stay and help them. Elliot reluctantly agrees, but such is the sense of dread, fear, and jangled nerves that director Elliott creates that a tense viewer may want to yell, “Get out of there!”

Yet, other characters soon arrive. They include Lola (Paul Iacono), a drag queen who is Elliot’s lover and has been enlisted to prepare a young Asian boy, known as the Party Piece—for the upcoming event. But things don’t go as planned. The Party Guest has pushed up the date and yet is running late. The light is fading, so that Spinx may have trouble filming. (Splendid work by Jeff Croiter encompasses flashlights and candles, fire and dawn.)

When the gruff Spinx (Sea McHale) arrives, he has with him a blind woman dressed in a ball gown and known as the Duchess. Emily Cass McDonnell invests her with delusion and vulnerability that recall a Tennessee Williams character; a highlight is her attempt to sing “Climb Ev’ry Mountain” from The Sound of Music. (Ironically, Darren earlier recalls a memory of the movie his parents loved—about mountains and “do-re-mi.” But that unalloyed symbol of the triumph of good is a barely perceptible memory.)

Last to arrive is the Party Guest (Peter Mark Kendall), who has promised Spinx a good deal of money to stage a gruesome fantasy of his. Elliot, the most intelligent of the characters, is going along with Spinx only because he has to protect Darren and Lola. Elliot alone remembers history. He reads and he knows the past. “His brains are like the guts of a great white shark,” says Darren, who tells Naz, in a ghoulishly comic yet repellently vulgar rendering, the story of John F. Kennedy and his assassination, but mixes Marilyn Monroe and Hitler into the mangled history.

But, it turns out, Darren’s memory was induced by eating a butterfly, which Elliot presses him to describe. “What did it do to you?” Elliot asks. “Famous people … political leaders … killing them,” Darren answers. And Elliot divines, “Assassination. You ate a red with silver stripes.”

Mercury Fur is strong medicine. Although Ridley has a way with dialogue and description, it’s hard to judge whether his play merely wallows in depravity or is a legitimate assessment of mankind’s capacity for evil. Perhaps it’s so disturbing because the behavior of his characters leaves no doubt that any shred of decency will soon be utter moral desolation.

The New Group production of Mercury Fur plays at the Pershing Square Signature Center (480 West 42nd St. between 10th and 11th Aves. in Manhattan) through Sept. 27. Evening performances are at 7:30 p.m. Tuesday through Friday and 8 p.m. on Saturday. Matinees are at 2 p.m. on Saturday and Sunday. For tickets, visit TheNewGroup.org or TicketCentral.com.

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.

Global Impacts of Genocide

The bodies of about 1,000 dead Muslim men and boys are still missing to this day in the forests of Srebrenica, a small mountain town in Southeastern Europe. During the Bosnian War in April 1993, the United Nations declared Srebrenica a “safe area” in their peacekeeping mission and oversaw a Dutch battalion under Lieutenant Colonel Thom Karremans. In July 1995, commander Karremans failed and approximately 8,000 Muslim males between the ages of 12 and 77 were murdered by the Bosnian Serb Army of Republika Srpska under the "Butcher of Bosnia" Colonel General Ratko Mladić. Today 73-year-old Mladić supposedly suffers from "deception of memory" and struggles with his recollection of past events. At the United Nations, Russia, Britain and the United States are still arguing over if the Srebrenica massacre should be categorized as genocide. This tragedy seems like it happened last week in The International by Irish actor and playwright Tim Ruddy.

Although the Srebrenica massacre inspired the creation of this production and it is loosely based on the actual events, The International is a work of fiction. The United Nations, Srebrenica, Karremans and Mladić are not mentioned anywhere in the script and it takes place during an unspecified armed conflict in Bosnia and Herzegovina during 1995. The International focuses on evoking a greater conversation about the bureaucracy, ineffectiveness and self-righteousness of international peacekeeping efforts. It echoes the characteristics of other historical atrocities like the Armenian and Rwandan genocides.

The well-written script, seamless performances, and intentional direction by Christopher Randolph effectively captures the voices of a beautiful farm woman Irene (Carey Van Driest), an aspiring artist Dave (Ted Schneider), and a naive Dutch soldier Hans (Timothy Carter). The three share their experiences next to seven colorful, abstract paintings that transform throughout the story as the lighting by Derek Van Heel is brilliantly manipulated. As specific colors are intensified by the lighting, the paintings take on different images with great subtly.  The characters appear to be visiting a modern art gallery or museum in Los Angeles or New York by themselves.

At first, the production occurs as three separate monologues, but when the story takes a sudden turn, we are thrown into the interweaving of their lives. The issue at hand is rooted in the plot and the characters eventually show where they stand and their true identities. We witness how this armed conflict impacts Irene’s family, Hans’ personal character, and the $800 bet Dave could win if the enemy is successful at annihilating everyone. Dave would use his winnings to finally take his wife Bani, and their 4-year-old daughter Emery to Disneyland.

For those living in the United States, wars in other countries are often experienced by flipping through television channels or social media sites. Dave represents a demographic in America, and Schneider’s portrayal of him is so authentic that audience members will soon realize that they have met someone like Dave before. As an out-of-work sculptor who is struggling to live the dream in Los Angeles while providing for his family, Dave has a lot to lose. When Dave discovers his daughter is watching the news he says, “Not just the news, but the world news on CNN.” In Dave’s world, international affairs are a foreign language compared with the familiar sports and reality shows he watches in bars. The execution of this character is crucial because Dave provides a lens into this story that is instantly relatable.

This production’s value is in its elusive ability to successfully show the effects of war without overtly preaching, passively whining, or trying to persuade people one way or the other. Audiences are left to draw their own conclusions and make comparisons to similar historical events.  The material is not tear-jerking, but it does call for a standing ovation and is a must-see for general theatergoers. To convert audience members from observers of a staged horrific incident into participants, there needs to be greater emotional pull. The Peter Jay Sharp Theatre is modern and airy with light, wooden seats and exposed brick walls.  Do not take a photo of the stage with your cell phone or an usher may try to enforce the house rules by grabbing your phone.

The International does what live theater can do best, and that is to eloquently and magically show us the world that we are living in. It is a story well worth telling. The subject matter is nothing new, but the ingenious presentation and delivery of this production are powerful enough to have people stop and reflect the next time they are going to watch a war on CNN or Fox News. Audiences will leave this play with a different, possibly profound, perspective about the global impacts of warfare than what they originally had in mind.

The International runs until August 2 at the Peter Jay Sharp Theater (416 West 42nd St. between 9th and 10th Aves. in Manhattan). Evening performances are Tuesday-Saturday at 7:30 p.m. and matinee performances are Saturday and Sunday at 3 p.m. Tickets are $45 and $65 and can be purchased by visiting TicketCentral.com or by calling 212-279-4200.

When Art and Politics Collide

Potomac Theatre Project (PTP) has opened its annual residency at Atlantic Stage 2, which is to say its annual advocacy for the plays of Howard Barker, one of Britain’s most challenging playwrights. “A good play puts the audience through a certain ordeal,” Barker told a Guardian interviewer in 2012. “I’m not interested in entertainment.” Yet if he has ever written anything close to a crowd-pleaser, then Scenes from an Execution is it, and the PTP production at Atlantic’s Stage 2 is well worth a visit.

Regrettably, Scenes is also notable because of the recent announcement of its star, Jan Maxwell, that she is retiring from the stage. Maxwell is reprising the role of Galactia, a Renaissance painter modeled on Artemisia Gentileschi (1593–1653), that she first played for PTP in 2008. Her fierce performance is typical of everything she does, and if she keeps her promise, it’s theater’s great loss.

The action takes place in the late 1500s in Venice, and the preliminary scenes introduce Galactia, a supremely talented painter in the city-state, with an ego to match, and her younger lover, Carpeta, played by David Barlow with a nice combination of passion and wariness. 

Barker gives his characters names to suggest their qualities. For example, Urgentino is the Doge who has awarded Galactia a major commission and chafes to see it finished. At times, though, they are insufferably cutesy: one critic is named Lasagna and one of Galactia’s daughters is Dementia. One is left to assume that Carpeta is a character who is walked on by everyone, and that fits Barlow’s hapless lover. Carpeta has talent but recognizes it’s not on the order of Galactia's; a running joke is that he is in a rut of painting Christ among the flocks.

Galactia flourishes partly because she is a talented iconoclast, yet she resists being a leader for other women painters. Maxwell endows her character with intelligence and single-mindedness, but also a strange mix of guile and naiveté. When the arts-loving Doge (Alex Draper) commissions Galactia to depict the Battle of Lepanto (1571), a historical clash in which Venice defeated the Turkish navy and literally changed the course of history, she is determined to show the horror of war, assuming that the truth will not antagonize the establishment. 

Under Richard Romagnoli's direction, aspects other than feminism receive their due. In keeping with his working-class concerns, the playwright examines the preparation for the painting—mixing colors, sketching and finding models. Galactia interviews a veteran who survives with an arrow stuck in his head, and she uses him in the painting. She is unflinching in her commitment to observe, so she also insists on seeing the open hole that he brags is in his belly. An encounter with an angelic, drunken sailor (Nicholas Hemerling) provides Galactia another visage for the canvas. 

The Doge’s half-brother and the victor in the battle, the Admiral Suffici, poses for her as well, impeccable in his naval uniform. Yet Barker shows that even the most amenable patron has expectations: the Doge objects to his brother’s initial position in the painting: “He is the admiral and he is not big enough.” Says the dumbfounded Galactia: “He is fourteen feet high.” In his first scene, Bill Army invests the Admiral with a smirk and a sanguine sense of honor; a big payoff comes later, when Suffici is apoplectic with horror at Galactia’s portrayal of him. His indifference to carnage leaps off the canvas.

Although Barker also looks at critics and family, the primary struggle is between Galactia and the Doge, played by Draper with a suave reluctance to wield his full power. Ultimately the Doge wins, as governments do, by co-opting his opposition. He hangs the painting: “To have said this work could not be absorbed by the spirit of the Republic would be to belittle the Republic, and our barbarian neighbours would have jeered at us. So we absorb all, and in absorbing it we show our greater majesty. It offends today, but we look harder and we know it will not offend tomorrow.” PTP's production persuades one that Barker’s play is a powerful masterwork.

Scenes from an Execution is playing in repertory at Atlantic Stage 2 (330 West 16th St. between 8th and 9th Aves. in Manhattan) through Aug. 9, with two one-acts, Howard Barker’s Judith and Caryl Churchill’s Vinegar Tom. For dates, times and tickets, call 866-811-4111 or visit OvationTix.com.

Winnie and Willie

The Theater of the Absurd is a daunting prospect to the entertainment-seeking theatergoer—it requires the unconscionable appeal of, say, Sirs Patrick Stewart and Ian McKellen, whose season of Absurdist Theater last year brought Samuel Beckett’s Waiting For Godot and Harold Pinter’s No Man’s Land to Broadway. As Beckett decimated man's relationship to God and Pinter eulogized the doomed existence of memories and mind, audiences who had seen the X-Men movies or Lord of the Rings happily received their dose of British strangeness through the familiar faces of their beloved English thespians. Accordingly, this year, the Flea Theater’s production of Beckett’s Happy Days stars husband-wife team Brooke Adams and Tony Shalhoub, and through their familiar faces, they feed us that unfamiliar brand of the absurd.

Happy Days is insistently strange, as is director Andrei Belgrader’s conception of it; the premise of Beckett’s absurdist play holds that Winnie (played by the sparkling Brooke Adams) is stuck waist-deep in the Earth, while her husband Willie (Ms. Adams’ real-life partner Tony Shalhoub) is free to wriggle and struggle in a hole behind her. Sorrowful antics ensue as Winnie eventually reconciles herself to her happy entrapment. Winnie’s seemingly mindless babble—which we come to realize is a kind of coping mechanism, as well as the hidden engine of the play—is what she herself calls a “great mercy,” adding that “what one can bring up, one brings up all.”

Ms. Adams electrifies Winnie’s disillusioned musings on life’s slow passage; the otherwise strange and somber dialogue is rendered alive and active, so much so that even during Winnie’s particularly existentialist speeches, we find commonality in her persistent contentedness. Her pearly, infectious smile and rich, languorous voice hook us to our seats, as does the expressive grayness of her wide, limpid eyes. Her face is a performer all by itself since we only see her from the waist-up, and we rarely, if at all, see Willie’s face; Ms. Adams’ changing features are the only actors on stage that anchor us to Beckett’s dialogue.

Winnie’s props are an umbrella and a black bag that she takes significant comfort in—they are seemingly ordinary personal effects, but they take on a surreal life of their own as she meticulously presents them to the audience and proceeds to use them. She brushes her teeth, wipes her glasses, and shapes her fingernails in front of us, taking great pains in the doing. It is here, in these diurnal little acts of the everyman, that the ordinary theatergoer finds Beckett’s modern-day relevancies. He creates metaphorical meaning in the bland rituals of the everyday, and gives unsuspecting life to our possessions, shaming us for our grasping materialism but also identifying with us. Today’s encroachment of technology into our quotidian conventionalities is much like Winnie’s overweening attention to her lipstick, her toothbrush, her umbrella, her gun, or Willie’s penchant for reading aloud from the newspaper, or looking at erotic postcards (one of the few activities given to Willie, which Mr. Shalhoub soaks with comedy.)

Director Andrei Belgrader makes the production hum with a social and emotional dystopia that portends the end of life in more ways than one. Beckett’s dry observations (“the Earth is tight today” and “there is so little atmosphere”) are bleakly elemental, and even environmentally aware (a reference apropos of modern troubles.) The sun-bright lighting that trains on Ms. Adams’ captured form like many blinding spotlights is “the great heat” that Winnie spiritually beckons with the words “Hail Holy Light!” The set is a positive marvel of minimalist design—the yellow-brown hill that Winnie crowns and crows over slips into a depression behind her, shielding Willie from the sight of his wife, but not the sound of her voice. A panorama of blue skies contributes to the ostensible optimism of the production, all courtesy of scenic designer Takeshi Kata.

Yet, even with the magnitude of her role (Peggy Ashcroft called Winnie “one of those parts that actresses will want to play in the way that actors aim at Hamlet—a ‘summit’ part”), Ms. Adams minimizes her presence cleverly at times, watching the audience perform their laughs and silences just as we watch her slip in and out of her happy tragedies. Mr. Shalhoub, earthy veteran of stage and screen, is a discreet comedic presence, but his wife is the very symbol of theatrical emasculation as Winnie, and we can only pity Willie and laugh at him for his dazed benightedness. The happy days that the two share are peppered with Beckett’s discomfiting (yet deeply personal) existentialism, but the powerful, character-driven performance of Ms. Adams makes this a must-see for any complacently content theatergoer.

The Theater of the Absurd ran until July 18 at The Flea Theater (41 White St. between Church and Broadway) in Manhattan. For more information, visit www.theflea.org.

A Chinese Tragedy in Subtitles

At first glance, Yangtze Repertory Theatre of America's newest experimental production Behind The Mask seems as unapproachable and daunting as the foreign-language category of the Oscars. The entire play is spoken, performed and occasionally sung in that beautifully intimidating language, Mandarin Chinese. One might view it appreciatively from afar, mildly aware that time and effort has been put into presenting a culturally distinctive performance for a largely English-speaking audience. Film has progressed (in more ways than one) beyond that of its centuries-old grudging cousin, the theater. As with Ida, the winner of the Best Foreign Language Film at this year's Oscars, or as with any of the acclaimed films of Akira Kurosawa's pastoral Japan, Francois Truffaut's urban France, or Abbas Kiarostami's childlike Iran, one would expect theater to follow in film's foreign language experiment. But, as Behind The Mask shows us, the medium of theater performance does not always sit well with subtitles. 

Director Chongren Fan gambles with a single, slippery aspect of his audience's attention: that the subtitles running on a screen next to the performers will not distract from the performers themselves. Understandably, most of the audience is of Chinese descent, and the flashing white words do not faze them, but many (including this writer) possess an embarrassingly rudimentary understanding of Mandarin Chinese, and must prepare themselves for a veritable tennis match of reading the dialogue and actually watching the show. During one monologue, an actor mentions "the magic of attention" that first drew her into the world of theater. But the medium she professes to worship struggles to hold onto that magic, at least for English speakers watching an aurally enchanting, yet unhappily remote, Chinese-language performance.

But beyond such technical (and bodily) hardships, everyone in the audience—English or Chinese-speaking—understands that they are watching a play about a rehearsal for a play. A struggling theater troupe somewhere in China is putting on their production of an ancient myth about a tyrannical king who kills his master swordsmiths when he realizes that their blood is required to forge the world's sharpest blades. Sixteen years after the twin deaths, the swordsmiths' son Mei Jian Chi seeks his revenge against the bloodthirsty king, and (with a considerable recalculation of what it means to live and die) offers his decapitated "living head" as part of a deal to kill the ruler. In sporadic, poignant interruptions, the actors rehearsing the play break off into individual monologues, describing their lives as artists in a largely discouraging contemporary environment. 

Fan toys with several peculiar themes in Behind The Mask, but perhaps one is more ubiquitous than we think: life after death. Dead characters regularly walk and talk to living ones; death is signified by the removal of a brightly colored mask covering the actors' faces, and the mask itself becomes a "living head." Behind The Mask's ghosts, both real and cerebral, are as present as the living. Old vendettas and dead generational vengeances thrive in the hearts of the young, as do ancient values. In this respect, there is an organic, moving parallel to be drawn between Mei Jian Chi's quest to find his courage and each individual actor's risky decision to become a performer. Writers Fend BaiMing and Huang WeiRuo have mastered the stumbling, yet stirring, speeches of the sons and daughters of austere Asian parents. There is a controlled rebellion and rapt wonderment in their words as the actors of the theater troupe defend their creative decisions and their all-consuming love for the theater.

It is not difficult to picture any one of this play's actual performers delivering similar addresses to their own parents at some point in their lives. Behind their exuberant dialogue plays a rousing soundtrack, emotive and airy during the monologues, and warlike and drum-heavy during the mythologizing. It's no wonder that the music regulates the pulse of the play; composer Xiren Wang is a self-described "aural magician." More striking to the eye is the red-and-yellow-colored set, with flashy posters of Bruce Lee and eyeless Kabuki masks gazing out at the audience. A giant tragedy mask occupies center stage; it seems to portend an inevitable resolution to the play's tensions between life and death. So although the English speaker, that ever-adaptable breed of audience, finds a vexing inability to fully appreciate Fan's enchanting take on Behind The Mask, strong communal performances and a good deal of affable philosophy serve up a delicious, if neck-cracking, feast for their eyes and ears. 

Presented by the Yangtze Repertory Theatre of America, Behind the Mask—a Play by Chinese authors Feng BaiMing and Huang WeiRuo, ran at Theater for the New City (155 First Ave. between 9th and 10th Sts. in Manhattan) through July 12.  For more information, visit www.yangtze-rep-theatre.org.

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.

Mamet in a Minor Key

The umbrella title Ghost Stories encompasses two David Mamet one-acts that were produced together 30 years ago by Lincoln Center. Now revived by the Atlantic Theater Company for its own 30^th anniversary—it was founded by Mamet, William H. Macy, Glenn Close and Kate Winslet—the productions of Prairie du Chien and The Shawl at the Atlantic’s Stage II are miniatures, yet they bear the signs of Mamet’s hand. They are not just for completist fans of the author, however.

The opener, Prairie du Chien, takes place in 1910 on a train traveling through Wisconsin. As two men play cards (Jim Frangione is the older; Nate Dendy the younger, the Dealer), it’s apparent that the older has been losing and is suspicious of the Dealer. Their play, however, is mere window dressing for the story that unfolds in the other half of the car, where a younger man, aka the Listener (Jason Ritter), sits with a child sleeping at his side. In short order, the Storyteller (Jordan Lage, one of Atlantic’s founding members) enters, and he begins to tell the story of a farmer, a black hired hand, and the farmer’s wife. It is a love triangle that ends violently, but it also has elements that are inexplicable unless one believes in the supernatural.

The farmer, it transpires, suspected his wife of infidelity and killed her and the hired hand, then set the house and barn on fire and hanged himself. The sheriff and the Storyteller rode up and saw the flames; the former attended to the house, where the wife was, and the Storyteller rushed to the barn, where he found the hired hand and the wife, in a red dress, dead. But the sheriff claims the wife was in the house and directed him to the barn. The strangeness of the story increases as the red dress takes a crucial role in the bizarre tale of the sheriff’s demise years later.

Under Scott Zigler’s direction, the description of events unfolds in a leisurely manner, slowly building suspense; for both plays Jeff Croiter's atmospheric lighting contributes immeasurably to a mood of dread and uncertainty. Prairie du Chien originated as a radio play, however, and it depends heavily on dialogue, which Lage’s Storyteller delivers in a subdued manner, sometimes bordering on inaudible. Although a burst of violence—the only one in the evening—brings the story to a climax, the reliance on narration mutes some of the interest.

The Shawl is the more successful of the two. In it, a psychic (Arliss Howard) reels in a woman, Miss A (Mary McCann) as he “divines” why she has come to him and what her problem is. Howard plays the psychic beautifully, pausing and seeming to pull images out of the ether, with faraway looks and soothing speech, always using suggestion to help her reveal points about herself. He is assisted by his protégé/lover Charles (Ritter again), who wants to make a quick killing. “It comes down to confidence,” John, the psychic, explains to him. “They’ll test you. And you can do nothing till you have their trust.” John’s power to read clients rivals that of Sherlock Holmes, but Miss A proves particularly tricky.

McCann (also a founding member of the Atlantic) taps into Miss A’s wariness, yet also displays at times a brisk confidence. The table reading scene is particularly effective, as Howard’s bogus diviner plants the seeds of belief and tries to nurture them the trust of his mark. Miss A has a problem that she wants a decision about, and his ability to read her helps him lead her to it. Mamet has a double twist in store, however, that brings the drama to a fascinating, eerie conclusion.

The one-acts fit together nicely, since both are about what one can trust as true and what cannot be trusted. The search for the truth, suggests The Shawl, may lead to it, but in unexplainable ways. The revival of these one-acts are a fitting tribute to the Atlantic and its co-founder.

The Atlantic Stage II hosts Ghost Stories: The Shawl and Prairie du Chien through June 28 at 300 West 16^th St. Evening performances are 7:30 p.m. Wednesday-Saturday. Matinees are at 2:30 p.m. on Saturday and Sunday. Tickets may be purchased by calling Ovation Tix at (866) 811-4111 or at ovationtix.com; or by visiting the box office at 336 W. 20^th St. or visiting atlantictheater.org.

In Persistence of Mediocrity

Francis Newton Souza was an Indian-born visual artist who skyrocketed to the top of the London art scene in the late 1950s. His work at the time was heralded as “uncovering the underbelly of existence,” and the artist himself had “upturned everything.” Soon his fame dwindled, and he struggled to sell even his inoffensive landscapes (over his more emotive, sexually charged nudes). When Souza died a depressed, bankrupt pauper in 2002, his art began to sell at auction houses and museums like ice cream on a hot day. Sam Marks, writer of The Old Masters currently running at The Flea Theater, is particularly fascinated with this phenomenon: that of the "lost artist," the rebel in absentia. As his main character morosely points out, "There have been a few artists… who turned their back on the art world, in one way or another, and then became hot."

The play deals with failed artist and expectant father Ben Schmitt (Rory Kulz) as he fights against what he thinks is a slow descent into suburbia and ordinariness. His beautiful, sharp-tongued, architect of a wife Olive (Alesandra Nahodil) is pregnant, but her desire for a nuclear family is a menacing specter to Ben. His old art school friend Henry Olson has disappeared, but the latter’s paintings arrive at Ben’s door one morning, brought along by Henry’s girlfriend, the prettily mysterious Lara (Adelind Horan). As he shows them to galleries and his friend’s works cast a spell over the art world, Ben seeks to find his own calling, even at the cost of a lost artist’s success. 

The main stage at The Flea Theater is decidedly small (it seats 74 at maximum capacity), yet an even smaller space (seating 40) exists below it. The “joyful hell in a small space” that the Flea seeks to instill through performance is perhaps taken a tad too seriously; walking into this basement-like set is the first jolt of unnerving intimacy we get as the production runs its hour-and-a-half long course. The space itself is a long rectangle, perfect for set designer Andrew Diaz’s vision of an unfinished apartment, complete with piles of sheet rock, scaffolding, and dozens of half-opened cardboard boxes. The program includes a description of a featured artist’s works that hang on the incomplete walls of the set, in a rather ironic stab at publicity for contemporary visual art. 

The production is rife with a high Chelsea dialect, unique to that district’s art scene both in attitude and vocabulary; for instance, here’s Ben talking to a gallerist about Henry’s work: “There are touches of the photorealism. But when comparing them to other neorealists it’s not steely, like Richter, and it’s not candy coated, like Elizabeth Peyton.” But to shield us from our intellectual insecurities, there is Lara, the laid-back, spontaneous manic pixie dreamboat, with her defensive indifference to Rauschenberg and Klee and Richter. The rapid-fire delivery of the lines, particularly between Kulz and Horan, is reminiscent of Hollywood oldies like His Girl Friday and Bringing Up Baby, minus the screwball comedy, but double the erotic will-they-won’t-they. Director Brandon Stock’s “examination of marriage” might have benefited from fewer shouting matches and a greater focus on the couple’s dynamics itself; Horan’s Lara, rather than said dynamics, dominates the production. Yet there is a wry cynicism in Kulz’s performance that slowly progresses to despairing disillusionment, and his character is often brought down to earth by a staunchly realistic wife, played to sympathetic perfection by Nahodil. 

Kulz as a particularly reflective Ben. 

We find it especially difficult to sympathize with the main character; indeed, Ben spends most of the play as the insensitive, pretentious, wannabe-Old-Master who seeks to dethrone his Souza-esque best friend from the “allure of the lost artist” that Henry possesses. But it is in Ben’s temperamental evolution where Marks’ charged, controlled script reaches its dramatic crescendo, in more ways than one. At the tail end of a destructive fight between Ben and Olive, the audience finally understands the extent of Ben’s ambition, and how that ambition isn’t so different from our own. Ben seeks to rise above his forced mantle of mediocrity, and he struggles under the lightness of its weight: “I have tried. For years I have tried to be the guy who teaches a little and works a little and goes out a little and had a little career and fucks a little and has a little family and it doesn’t work. It doesn’t fucking work.” 

It is this passive struggle that seems to be the perennial cause of our own rare, active movements: quitting a dead-end job, abandoning a troubled marriage and ending a toxic friendship. Ben does all of these things, thinking it will give him a chance to soar above the rest of the muddled, mediocre heap of humanity and place him alongside the echelons of the Old Masters. But all he does is join our ranks. So if you don’t mind a few glancing blows to your comfortable existence, or a sudden urge to reshuffle your priorities, Marks’ new play is well worth a visit. 

The Old Masters runs until June 28 at The Flea Theater (41 White Street between Church and Broadway). Performances are Monday-Saturday at 9 p.m. and Sunday at 7 p.m. (Note: there are no performances June 23-26.) Tickets are $15-$35 with lowest priced tickets available on a first-come, first-served basis. For tickets, call 212-352-3101 or visit www.theflea.org.

A Lost Family

Middle-aged hippie housewife and Beatles’ fan Anna (Deborah Offner) is at the center of her dysfunctional family as she tests her Catholic faith and battles with the “awful monkey in [her] head” during the days before Christmas. The “monkey” is actually a belittling teenage version of herself as Anna 2 (Catherine Dupont), who recalls Anna’s past abortion and drug use. Her Jewish atheist husband Henry (Larry Cahn) suffers from dementia and sleeps his days away on the couch as their adopted 18-year-old son Jude (Adam Weppler) smokes marijuana and seeks his own identity.

Playwright Nancy Manocherian explores how this family struggles with loss, identity and being incomplete with the past. Anna “had to pay for [her] father’s suicide” because of her abortion and Henry stopped “being a Jew” when he was bullied as a boy. Jude never met his biological Romanian mother and believes the “cockroach will survive, but [humans are] on a path of entropy.” Even when Anna is confronted with a life-altering situation, her denial does not allow her to take responsibility for her actions. Hey Jude attempts to venture beyond a psychological inquiry into socially impaired family dynamics and leaves the audience craving closure with these characters.

Jude’s challenge to grasp his father’s dementia is authentically performed by Weppler. The dynamics between Jude and his retired father reminded me of my younger cousin who struggled to make sense of his father’s multiple sclerosis. Jude is so eager to understand Henry, but he cannot relate because Jude has never had dementia. Jude does his best to care for his father and wants to bond by attending sporting events together. Henry brings comic relief by wearing an adult diaper on his head and then later returns wearing Anna’s church hat. Even though Henry’s dementia is the elephant in the room, Anna’s lunacy does not give Henry the space to develop as a character. Also, instead of being an insanity trigger for Anna, Anna 2 could be a stronger antagonist for Dupont to portray. Offner effectively conveys her character's extreme complexities and subtle need to control everyone in her life. Director Kira Simring has the challenge of creating sufficient room for all of these characters to breath so they are not overshadowed by Anna’s mental illness. Hey Jude could be mistaken for Hey Anna.

The set design by Peiyi Wong increases this production’s value with an ideal living room outside of New York City in 2007. The light colored walls, shelves, curtains and hardwood floors allow for the decorated Christmas tree to instantly set the holiday tone. Finding Henry asleep on the plush, brown sofa and holding a pillow with the television on is like standing in a neighbor’s living room. This home is a natural representation of many modern households in America. However, the missing wall next to the xylophone is a distracting black hole and when the actors point at cockroaches there are none to be seen. The morning light in the windows by lighting designer Gertjan Houben adds to the ethereal feeling that the audience is waking up with this family, and we get to see how Henry starts his day.

For audience members who did not grow up listening to the Beatles, they might not relate to the Beatles’ nostalgia that Anna shares, or the era that she experienced as a young woman. The generational contrast can be felt when Jude says, “There’s never anything to eat in this house. Unless you’re a vegetarian, and Paul McCartney doesn’t live here.” Likewise, when Henry refers to the song “Rumania, Rumania,” some might not get the cultural reference or know of Yiddish jazz singers, The Barry Sisters, who were popular during the 1950s. Lastly, when Anna sings her version of Shirley Ellis’ “The Clapping Song” from 1965, some might not recognize the original lyrics. If you are not familiar with these songs, they are worth listening to online and reading the lyrics for their stories.

Hey Jude falls short of conveying a clear message and allows a general audience to draw their own conclusions. It is like driving past a fight on the side of the road and later wondering if the police or an ambulance ever came to take anyone to the hospital. We want to know if these characters ever find any peace or if they just continue to cope with their circumstances. The value is seeing aspects of our own family members in these performances. Hey Jude is recommended for those who are not so concerned about a resolution and are entertained by watching a modern family struggle.

Hey Jude runs until June 21 at Urban Stages (259 West 30th St. between 7th and 8th Aves.) in Manhattan. Evening performances are Tuesday and Wednesday at 7:30 p.m., Thursday-Saturday at 8 p.m., and matinee performances are Sunday at 2 p.m. Tickets are $45 and can be purchased by visiting thecelltheatre.org or by calling Brown Paper Tickets at 800-838-3006.

A Man Unmade

On the night of a performance, the stained glass windows in the Theatre at St. Clement's are shuttered up, and the fans spin drowsily above the darkened rostrum. The only light filters mutely through a grimy window of an abandoned warehouse on stage. The production company that has chosen the modest chapel to stage its newest play is The Private Theatre, which has a self-described penchant for “staging productions in unexpected venues.” So while St. Clement's might masquerade as a place of worship on Sundays, the dim, churchly setting belies the emotional violence of director John Gould Rubin’s production of A Queen for a Day.

An aging “made man” in the Costa crime family, Giovanni “Nino” Cinquimani (a chameleonic David Proval) is faced with a dilemma when he is told to give up his mob boss brother Pasquale “Pat” Cinquimani (Vincent Pastore) as part of a one-day immunity deal also known as "a queen for a day." Nino’s wary lawyer, Sanford Weiss (David Deblinger) urges his client to take the proffer agreement, but Nino’s loyalty to his brother and the crime family, as well as a lover from the past (in one of the more astonishing plot twists of the production) torment his final decision. Mononymously-named actress Portia plays the biting, disdainful federal prosecutor (Patricia Cole) who pushes Nino’s buttons, resolute in her determination to hear damning evidence against Pat Cinquimani.

David Proval’s blustering depiction of a “made” man slowly brought to pieces by his secretive past easily carries the production. Nino's apprehensions balloon as the primary players (Proval, Portia and Deblinger) triangulate about the stage in choreographic strategy. Rubin plays with the script’s alluring tension between masculinity and effete weakness to great effect, and the almost-bare stage is appropriate for the passions that seize the anguished main character. 

Proval and Pastore’s staccatic, shoulder-shrugging gestures and drawling, Italian-Brooklyn accents are immediately reminiscent of that particular brand of Mean Streets machismo and swear-happy dialogue from The Sopranos. Indeed, Proval brings some of his Sopranos character Richie Aprile’s irascibility to Nino, as does the hugely impressive Vincent Pastore, whose Salvatore “Big Pussy” Bonpensiero was a popular mobster on the HBO show. Even Proval’s respective character histories are striking in their coincidence: Richie Aprile worked for his younger brother, a famed mob boss, as does Nino, who serves as a caporegime under Pat, “the boss of all bosses.” But the presiding influence on this nostalgic play is the Italian-American neighborhood sentimentality that seeps through the mannerisms and the accented confrontations, and it is the result of a series of deliberate choices in the script, written by lawyer-turned-playwright Michael Ricigliano, Jr.

Through Nino, Ricigliano paints a picture of a cohesive Brooklyn community, heavy with Italian-American tradition: “The widows dressed in black for husbands who’d been dead for 30 years. All the old-timers played brisc and raced pigeons… we played stickball all day and parents thought nothing of smacking their neighbors kids like their own.” The famed mafiosi loyalty to blood and crime family kinship are adequately expressed as well: both Nino and Pat have a deep, unfettered love for their mother (who isn’t “crazy” like other Sicilian women), hatred of all things weak, and an ambition for all things "respectable." Consequently, Nino’s eventual breakdown becomes especially pitiful; there is a minute-long scene where the two brothers cry together on stage. Even when the dialogue slips into heavy-handed commentary—the gentrification of north Brooklyn is taken particularly seriously—the performances offset it with careful, nuanced delivery. A lengthy exposition on a Catholic festival’s annual Dance of the Giglio is punctuated beautifully with Proval’s breathy singing voice.

In a splendid cooperation of scenic and lighting design by Andreea Mincic and Isabella F. Byrd, there is a set and light change halfway through this intermission-less drama, but it involves none of your blacking-out, between-scenes music that usually accompanies the scraping of furniture or taps of hurried footsteps across the changing stage. The play ends on an irreverently cinematic note, suitably shocking and Scorsese-esque in its scope. The violence that usually accompanies a tale about mafiosi crime families explodes after an emotional peak, leaving the viewer somewhat distressed as the lights return and the actors take their bow. But genre-lovers will thrive on the conscious nods to wiseguy braggadocio, the darkly humorous jibes at crime culture, and an undeniably potent assembly of old Sopranos stars. Or, if you’ve only watched The Godfather once and think Gotti is a kind of Italian cheese, you get to see a most unusual mob boss sing and weep on stage.

A Queen for a Day is written by Michael Ricigliano, Jr. and directed by John Gould Rubin. It runs through July 26 at Theatre at St. Clement’s (423 West 46 St. between 9th and 10th Aves.). Evening performances are Sunday through Tuesday at 7 p.m. and Thursday through Saturday at 8 p.m. Matinees are held on Saturday at 2 p.m. and Sunday at 3 p.m. Tickets are $20 and available for purchase by phone at 866-811-4111 and 212-352-3101 or online at http://aqueenforadayplay.com/tickets/.

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.

All That Jazz

For many Americans, the height of the Jazz Age undoubtedly reached its apex in the Roaring Twenties; particularly, when the Harlem Renaissance had both black and white night owls of the country flocking to the neighborhood's mysterious speakeasies and smoky basement-level dens for some of the best live music New York City had to offer. However, for playwright John Attanas, the very new, percussive sounds of jazz was only just beginning to find its groove, as the country moved into the early 1950s. Such is the world of Attana's newest work, All Gone West.

Set in post-war New York City, we meet Sam Samos (Joseph Robinson), a young and handsome war vet who learns about the fast-paced rhythms of the city—and of course jazz—from his fellow vet and black saxophone player Sonny Green (Jesse Means). Not long after settling in the city, Sam finds himself falling for Mary (Kristen French), a beautiful secretary at City College, whom he encounters one night when she walks into his bar with an older man, Joe (Glen Williamson), a professor at the college with alcoholic tendencies. They hit it off, and after Sam's persistence, Mary gives in and they begin a courtship, leaving Joe to his own devices.

The two lovebirds eventually marry despite their clear differences: Sam, an idealistic modern, is intent on one day opening his own jazz club, while Mary leans towards the conventional, with no high ambitions and generally happy with the lot she is given. These differences start to strain their marriage as Sam finally makes his dream come true, with the help of his friend Willie (Anthony Bosco), a fellow gambler whose questionable connections provides Sam's dream the financial help it needs. His club—christened The Blind Spot—starts off smoothly enough until Sam has trouble booking jazz acts that would draw crowds. He looks to Sonny, who by now has been approached with a record deal, but also has been nursing a drug addiction. As the bills start piling up, Sam desperately attempts to get by with some further help from Willie, as well as the hire of a prostitute (Kristen Booth). Ultimately, their business folds, and the two decide to follow the national pilgrimage West, where better—if only practical—prospects lay ahead.

Told in a magical realist-style, with the two lovers narrating between scenes, West's mood is evocative of the film noir genre that was popular during that era, and particularly called to mind films like Sweet Smell of Success and The Big Sleep. Just as the genre plays with contrasts, so does the thematic through-line of the play itself: the conventional versus the unconventional, new versus old. This is reflective not only in the fact that jazz inherently defies convention, but also in the differences between the characters—in particular, that of the ambitious Sam, and the content Mary. In their respective leading roles, both Robinson and French seem plucked straight out of the period. From the way Robinson's cool vibe to French's spot-on "New Yawk" accent, they embody stars of a bygone era. Cementing these solid performances were the supporting cast. Means' Sonny is confident and cool, yet belies a vulnerability. Another vulnerable portrayal was that of Williamson, whose alcoholic Joe displayed his weaknesses from the very beginning. Both characters each succumbed to their addictions, but their respective arcs are buoyed by the performances of both actors. Finally, Booth, whom perhaps had the most difficult task of the night, portraying multiple characters, also proved to be another strong presence onstage.

Also vital in setting the overall mood of the play was the presentation itself: the set designed by Andrew Diaz was naturally minimal in the modest performance space. Despite these limitations, the audience was nevertheless transported in time. Furnished by a simple brick wall structure, plastered onto which are various vintage posters, featuring advertisements for department store Gimbels and the Aqueduct racetrack. The use of various props—which include a dining table set and other pieces such as vintage glass soda bottles, newspapers and telephones—also help in differentiating between locales and situations. Nicholas Staigerwald's costumes added another dimension dressing the actors in various sartorial styles that were typically in vogue at the time, and worthy of any Modcloth shopper's envy today—particularly, a monochrome polka-dot one-piece bathing suit Mary dons towards the end. Of course, the element that perhaps had the most impact was the live jazz band, which brought to life the era in which the characters lived, and provided a romping soundtrack to the story.

A play about all kinds of losses—from the old to the new; the death of New York and the rise of the East Coast—All Gone West is certainly anything but your average show.

All Gone West ran from March 28 to April 18 at Teatro Circulo (64 East 4th St. between 2nd Ave. and Bowery). For more information on this production, visit the show's website: http://allgonewest.org/.

Troubles in Mind

Catholicism and politics are at the forefront of Nate Rufus Edelman’s bittersweet drama The Belle of Belfast, being given a compelling production at the Irish Repertory Theatre. Edelman follows a small Catholic community in the Northern Ireland capital in 1985 as they negotiate the dominant strands of the troubles and how deeply they are ingrained in people’s lives.

The focus is on Father Ben Reilly (Hamish Allan-Headley), a 35-year-old priest, and his relationship to parishioners, two in particular. One is Emma Malloy, an elderly lady with a shaky grasp of sin. Embodied with warmth and earnestness by Patricia Conolly, the befuddled Emma stretches herself trying to find mistakes in her behavior, as Reilly repeatedly assures her that she hasn’t sinned. Her confession of taking a sip of whisky—Bushmills, she says—falls flat after Reilly assures her that a sip of whiskey doesn’t require penance. Then, conscious of the smallest political error, Emma makes a further clarification: it was poteen, not Bushmills. “I would never touch a Protestant whiskey,” she says.

Under director Claudia Weill, the wry humor of these scenes is a welcome contrast to the main event, which involves Emma’s great-niece, Anne (Katy Lydic), a red-haired knockout who has little use for Catholicism, let alone the church. Anne attends confession at her aunt’s instigation with great reluctance and scorn. She swears and makes clear to Reilly that she does drugs, has sex, and generally ignores church teachings. Her drifting moral compass is a result of the killing of both her parents in a bombing. That alone isn’t the most hurtful part—it’s that people regarded her parents as martyrs, although they were innocent bystanders. Anne loathes the politics that elevate her parents to political heroes and override her personal loss.

Reilly feels kinship toward Anne because he was also orphaned. After his parents were killed in a car accident, Reilly was determined to become a priest to make them proud. Unfortunately, Anne knows no boundaries. “Do you have anything to confess?” asks Reilly, and she responds, “No, I just came here to give you a blow job.” It’s the kind of thing an unruly teenager would say, but Lydic looks about 10 years older than the 18-year-old character, and it hampers some of the credibility of the play. However, Allan-Headley as Reilly is a compelling presence: sympathetic, vulnerable and masculine. The actor conveys the cleric's internal struggles, and he has the gift of charisma that makes it clear why Anne falls for Reilly. (All the actors, incidentally, have persuasive Irish accents.) 

John McDermott’s set nicely echoes the compartmentalization of emotions that are hemming in the principals. When the characters are not in the confines of the confessional, there are two primary playing areas. One is the small parish apartment that Reilly shares with Father Dermott Behan (Billy Meleady), a firebrand Sinn Fein partisan who has made peace with abnegation—no sex, but plenty of alcohol—and  expects to find a heaven where he can surf. The other half of the stage shows a concrete dock and a high wall topped by barbed wire, where Anne frequently meets her friend Ciara (Arielle Hoffman) to talk about boys and sex. Both spaces are prisons for their respective characters.

Ultimately, Anne (her nickname provides the title of the play) leads Reilly astray, but not for long, and the aftermath isn’t what one might expect. The doctrinaire Behan, who hears Reilly’s confession, holds fast to the outlook that plagued Belfast in 1985: “I’ve dedicated ma entire existence to a united Catholic Ireland and you have the gall to betray your church and your country…” But Reilly understands that political and religious doctrine can stand in the way of success as a priest. In a lovely coda, Anne and Reilly meet a few years later, and each has moved on from the experience, both physically and mentally. Anne has found happiness. Reilly has found solace. It’s a satisfying close to this poignant tragedy.

Nate Rufus Edelman’s The Belle of Belfast plays through June 7 at the Irish Repertory Theatre’s temporary home at DR2 Theaters (103 East 15th St.) off Union Square. Evening performances are at 7 p.m. on Tuesday through Thursday and 8 p.m. on Friday and Saturday. Matinees are at 3 p.m. on Saturday and Sunday. For tickets, visit www.irishrep.org or call the box office at 212-727-2737.