American Kitchen Sink

The characters in Utility, Emily Schwend’s drably titled but fascinating new kitchen-sink drama at the Rattlestick Playwrights Theater, belong to a social milieu that seldom appears on the American stage. They’re working-class folks in the lower socioeconomic spectrum. An offer of coffee means heating a mug of water in the microwave and mixing instant powder into it. Work constitutes holding down more than one shift at a time or just picking up shifts sporadically. Dinner, often as not, is reheated leftovers.

The play opens on a porch in east Texas, where Chris, a guy who has recovered from a pill addiction, is trying to wheedle Amber, his wife, into letting him move back in, just to help with the kids. Chris (James Kautz) has been sleeping on a sofa at his older brother Jim’s place, but Amber (Vanessa Vache) is reluctant to let him come back home. In this short prologue, Schwend lets us know further that Chris has cheated on Amber in the past, with someone at work; that he has a daughter, not by her, who is living with her mother; and that Amber is organized and self-sufficient and probably doesn’t need Chris’s supplementary income, even though her finances are stretched thin.

The focal point of the drama is a birthday party for Amber’s daughter, Janie. (Although the children are never seen, Kate Noll’s deft kitchen design reminds us of their presence: there are children’s drawings under magnets on the refrigerator.) Chris isn’t the child’s father—children with various parents are part of the fabric of this social stratum—but is helping to coordinate the birthday, which puts him in good stead with Amber’s mother, Laura (Melissa Hurst), who proves an unlikely champion for Chris.

“All I know,” says Laura, “is I seen Chris running around here all day long fixing up this house for a birthday party for a girl ain’t even his own daughter.” But, Amber is on top of school, doctors, and box lunches, and responds, “It’s not like it’s just suddenly easier with him here. I’m the one got two jobs, and he’s still another mouth to feed. Another person in the bathroom in the morning. And in and out of work. Can’t send a check when he says he gonna send a check… And actually? It’s easier when I don’t gotta think about him.” In these passages, Schwend displays a gift for dialogue to convey information and attitudes of her characters.

Meanwhile, Jim (Alex Grubbs) is working on restoring Amber’s house, which has apparently been damaged by flooding. He’s in and out of the building, and his presence irritates Amber even though he’s doing the work gratis. He doesn’t get much sympathy from Laura either; she has only a cold shoulder for him.

Director Jay Stull keeps tension in the action and yet lets the strands of Schwend’s drama play out, sometimes just a bit sluggishly, and at others in a pleasantly leisurely way—there’s a late scene that is daringly silent for a considerable stretch while Amber just smokes. His cast is superb. Vache is a grounded, skeptical Amber, a woman perhaps too easily irritable, but also hurt once too often by Chris. She is a formidable protagonist. Kautz finds in Chris an easygoing decency; whatever his past has been, he has left it behind, but he is also not a fully operational adult. The play’s title comes from the utility bill he has forgotten to put money down on—paying it all would be too much for this family—and the power suddenly goes off the day before the birthday party. Hurst’s Laura is also a bit of a strain for Amber; what help she offers comes with opinions, not just about Chris and Jim, but about the danger of vaccines, for instance; at the same time, she has money she has put by and is willing to lend if needed.

Finally, Grubbs as Jim gives a marvelous performance: laconic, grounded and probably in love with Amber. He finds comedy in the deadpan character, and in the comparatively brief amounts of dialogue he is given he manages to convey decency, yearning and self-restraint. The word, “utility,” carries a double meaning of electrical power and  “usefulness.” In that sense, the title is apt because the work serves as a useful calling card for Schwend’s dramatic talents as well as the cast’s.

The Amoralists’ production of Utility plays through Feb. 20 at the Rattlestick Playwrights Theater (224 Waverly Place between West 11th and Perry Sts.) in Manhattan. Performances are Thursday-Saturday at 8 p.m., with a special Wednesday evening performance on Feb. 17, and a 3 p.m. matinee on Feb. 14. Tickets are $18 and may be purchased by calling 866-811-4111 or visiting https://web.ovationtix.com/trs/pr/953828.

Payment of Revenge

In this world, it seems everyone is indebted to someone for something; a job, a simple favor or an important introduction. The grateful understand this and are appreciative, often "paying it forward." However, not everyone who goes out of his or her way for another does so with a kind heart. Generosity of spirit may be misread, or at other times, the creditor plans to collect somewhere, sometime. The central theme of Creditors, written by Swedish playwright August Strindberg, weaves a demanding tale of love—controlling love and abandoned love—and, unfortunately, exacting revenge as when the creditor makes a well-planned and malicious visit. Creditors is currently playing at The Wild Project through Feb.14 and is presented by Phoenix Theatre Ensemble.

Through the filtered afternoon light of vertical blinds, disheveled artist Adolph (Josh Tyson), is fumbling with a new sculpture surrounded by finished and unfinished paintings. He is an accomplished artist who has driven himself to the edge of sanity and good health producing painting after painting, yet full of self-doubt and insecurity now toying with the idea of sculpture. His acquaintance, Gustav (Craig Smith), in an off-white summer suit and untied bow tie meanders the stage, replenishing his cocktail often. Goading Adolph in a familial manner, Smith embodies the part as an art dealer might, critiquing the work and then, just as easily, reverts to roll of doctor imparting medical diagnoses. He appears to know more than the casual friend often chiding the fragile Adolph, or at times, touching him intimately on the face. Eventually, Gustav maneuvers the conversation to Adolph’s wife Tekla, who has been away on a short holiday. Here is where Gustav frenetically whips up the dialogue to further lead Adolph down a rabbit hole of despair, teetering into the world of jealousy. It is clear that Adolph’s health and mental state are at risk.

Tekla (Elise Stone) brightly arrives after Gustav scurries off to secretly observe the interaction of the couple. In his fragile state, Adolph attempts to test her fidelity. Tekla, obviously older than her husband, desires to be adored and has no interest in sitting at home or being lectured about her flirtations. Stone’s voice is alluring even when her dialogue is burdened with childlike terms of endearment; she refers to them as "brother/sister." Tekla floats nervously across the stage in a diaphanous gown hoping to appease her husband as their disagreements intensify.

Woven throughout the dialogue is the reoccurring argument—who "made" whom. The older, educated Gustav used his position in a Pygmalion manner to bring language and style to her when she was young, a world she later abandoned. It appears as if Adolph picks up where Gustav left off. Adolph’s success as an artist may have allowed Tekla the time to write a successful book while introducing her to society but at what cost? Gustav’s students poked fun at him when they realize he was characterized in her book as a stupid fool. Anger, resentment and revenge have been fomenting—the creditor is demanding payment. Stone, Tyson and Smith deliver.

In 1888, Strindberg created a fast paced and uncomfortable, revenge-driven script in Creditors. (The current translation is by David Greig.) Kevin Confoy took complete advantage of the brisk dialogue with his direction by giving the actors the space to move about and the motivation behind the written words.

The set is a villa at the shore strewn with art and art supplies, an ample bar cart and a fainting couch. At the back of the stage hanging on a line are simple line drawings on paper. On either end of the drawings, the two stage entrances; one to the lobby of the villa and arriving ferry, while the other implies more rooms of the suite.

The entrances are lit with colors that change with a scene and during a scene. While emphasizing the mood of the dialogue, the lighting change is too noticeable at times. An interesting use of lighting is in the second scene where the bottom of the art, hanging at the rear of the stage, is lit in a razor’s edge blue underscoring an ugly undercurrent of the script. Credit for both set and lighting design goes to Tsubasa Kamei.

Although not an endearing play, Creditors is captivating and full of well-crafted characters. Stone brings the middle-aged woman not wanting to be considered old, and longing to be desired, to full breadth. The young, tortured artist and husband, who really does love his wife, is fully present in Tyson. Smith, the jilted, revengeful lover delivers a multi-faceted character to the stage through his frenetic action and vocal cadence. He easily transitions from devious to charming and almost caring as he exacts his final, gloating revenge.

Creditors is presented by Phoenix Theatre Ensemble and runs through Feb. 14 with a mix of evening and matinee performances at The Wild Project (195 East 3rd St. between Aves. A and B) in Manhattan. Tickets are $25 and can be purchased by calling 212-352-3101 or visiting http://www.thewildproject.com/performances/2016-CREDITORS.shtml.

Confessions from a Bathtub

How does she get those bubbles to last an hour? This might be a very logical thought as audiences watch this delightful, boundary breaking, one-woman show Broken Bone Bathtub written and performed by Siobhan O’Loughlin, presented by Elephant Run District in bathrooms across New York City. The premise of the project is to have volunteers donate their bathrooms for an unforgettable evening of theater. Most of the donors are friends and fans, following in the New York tradition of playwrights who staged plays in friends' homes. The location of the show is revealed about a week before which adds to the mystical allure of the production. Upon entering the locale, the audience is greeted warmly with wine and hors d’oeuvres. The host’s living room serves as the lobby and waiting area, where complete strangers get the opportunity to mingle and converse prior to the show. The ambiance and cozy nature sets the tone for the intimate experience that lies ahead.

The audience enters the bathroom, which is quaint. It seats four if the toilet is used as a seat (which it was). Before going in, the team asks if everyone feels comfortable with audience participation and if there is anyone that really feels comfortable. Someone’s hand goes up and the selection is finalized.

Our gusty volunteer enters first. O’Loughlin is waiting in the bubble-filled tub. The show begins. At first, the setup may appear to be a naked, woman in a bathtub having an intimate conversation with four strangers in yet another stranger’s home. The levels of awkwardness have definitely heightened by this point. Yet, the true structure of the production reveals itself as she begins to tell her story of what happened to her arm and why she needed to use her friends’ bathtubs.  

After a serious bike accident,  O'Loughlin finds the strength to ask her friends for help as she heals not only her arm but her soul. She tells the explicit details of her accident as she delves into human issues and ideologies. She tries to dissect the nature of human relations and connection, all while performing the cleansing act of taking a bath. One thought-provoking moment occurs when she asks the audience, “When was the last time you held someone’s hand?” It was a simple question yet the answers can vary greatly: sad or happy, romantic or friendly, and healing or hurtful. The audience paused for a minute to fully grasp the depth of the question. After a few responses, O’Loughlin makes a rich connection to hands and touch, and how in many ways, simply holding someone’s hand is a true act of humanity. It had an endearing quality and made the audience think and feel.

O’Loughlin does an excellent job of storytelling and audience engagement. It takes bravery and heart to sit share a story and seek comfort with strangers while sitting naked in a bathtub. O’Loughlin is extremely charismatic and has a magical quality that compels audiences to stay and wash her back.

Broke Bone Bathtub is running until Jan. 31st. Tickets are sold-out for the remaining shows tonight at 7 p.m. and 9 p.m. and tomorrow, Jan. 31 at 2 p.m. and 4 p.m. For more information, visit http://siobhanoloughlin.com/nyc/ or http://elephantrundistrict.org.

Quatorze, Rouge, Manqué, Pair!

The Gambler opens much like a Sunday afternoon in the Arbat District of Moscow in the 1800s—the cast strolling across the stage familiarizing us to the characters. Charming, enigmatic, prideful, stuffy and arrogant are just a few attributes that come to mind when observing each character. Glyn Maxwell’s play, based on the 1866 Fyodor Dostoevsky novella of the same name, is currently running at The Wild Project in New York City through Feb. 14. Dostoevsky, in a time of financial difficulties brought on by an out-of-control gambling habit, dashed off the novella to pay down debts basing the work on his current state of affairs. The set is perfectly stark with a bench and four chairs, which are aptly utilized throughout the one hour and 45 minute performance. Lighting, by Tsubasa Kamei, creates scenes perfectly suited to the sparse set, although some shadows need to be addressed. The playwright crafted an ensemble piece in The Gambler, and with the direction of Karen Lordi-Kirkham, we are invited to experience a vivid ensemble, led by the affable Alexi, played by John Cosentino. What Cosentino is truly capable of becomes evident during an interchange with Matt Stapleton, who brings all the best qualities of a Brit as Astley. Rounding out the suitors is Joseph J. Menino, portraying the ruthless French investor, de Grieux, who delivers an equal amount of bravado and rich mannerisms to his character.

These three suitors, each in their own style, desire the attention and hand of Polina, (Poppy Liu) the General’s niece and ward. Polina is conniving in a schoolgirl way, and yet, “is no one’s ward,” further declaring, “I am no one’s anything.” Given as much rousing attitude as comes through in Liu’s words and expressive eyes, a more upright attitude in her posture would have been an added bonus. Whereas next to Alexi, whose posture takes on downtrodden, subservient qualities, Polina requires the stature her upbringing would have taught her thus far in life.

John Lenartz effusively rounds out the performance as retired General Zagorski, with the vibrant Elise Stone bursting on the stage as Antonida Tsareyevitch Vassilyevna, referred to as "Granny." Add the convincing, conniving and climbing Morgan Rosse as Blanche de Cominges and the ensemble is accomplished, deep and tight. The director provides them with ample opportunities to bring their best; the carriage ride, the soup scene, and of course, the roulette table! It’s hard to take your eyes off Granny, Alexi and the General at the table as all the characters have a stake in the outcome. They each bring the scene into existence in their own delightful style.

The details are where the script becomes uneven, lacking deference to Russia and St. Petersburg in the 1860s, which is most evident with Granny’s pronouncement, “You’re not getting a f*#@*ing ruble!” And then her use of the word, "Frenchie," at the roulette table, or when she refers to her mode of travel as a "choo-choo train." For a wealthy Russian aristocrat who is richly colorful, her dialogue comes off childlike or common at times. Even referring to her character as "Granny" rings odd. Polina is spoken of as “a Russian
 spiritual young soup-stirring lady.” While her character may be spirited, she exhibits little in the way of spirituality.

Ellen Mandel deftly handles the sound design along with original music for the opening and closing. The gentle clacking of the carriage ride, the crystal and china effects at the dinner table, and the spinning wheel of the roulette table added to the experience and never overplayed the actors. Homage to Dostoevsky and the rich music of Russia, though, would have only added to the experience.

Costume designer Jennifer Stimple-Kamei delivers clothing and jewelry befitting of the characters and is well done for the most part. Alexi is attired in brown tones and a vest very much in keeping with his position, while the General, Blanche, de Grieux, Astley and Granny wear their wealth and class smartly. Polina’s costume and hair, however, occurs as an afterthought sporting a very lightweight long blue skirt and cream-colored camisole. The youthful Liu embodies a present-day feel rather than a Russian heiress in the 1860s. More options, in keeping with the period, seem readily available with Liu’s beautiful long hair than a simple ponytail.

While you might think Dostoevsky was writing about his own predilection with a title like The Gambler, you’ll find that with the exception of the Grandmother in this production, everyone delivers his or her own version of a gambling problem. No one better, though, than Alexi holding a coin high at the roulette table eagerly placing one more bet.

The world premiere of The Gambler is presented by Phoenix Theatre Ensemble, and runs through Feb.14 with a mix of evening and matinee performances at The Wild Project (195 E 3rd St. between Avenue A and B) in Manhattan. Tickets are $25 and can be purchased by calling 212-352-3101 or visiting  phoenixtheatreensemble.org/the-gambler.

Not So Quiet on the Home Front

Dutch Kills Theater's In Quietness, written by Anna Moench and directed by Danya Taymor, examines the intersection between present-day feminism and traditional ideas about gender roles. Small in some ways and large in others, it tackles the issue, and its aftermath of what happens when a marriage isn't fulfilling and results in one spouse having an affair. In this case, the story revolves around Max, played with efficiency and grace by Kate MacCluggage, and Paul, played with an effective lethargy by Blake DeLong. They seem like the classic mismatched couple: him in his hipster jeans, bits of facial scruff and glasses, and her in her jeggings, or black tailored pants and power suit jackets. Max has a corporate job, which requires her to travel often. She comes and goes, and on one stopping, Paul drops a bomb on her while she’s ordering Thai food. “I’m having an affair,” he confesses. She pauses, but then continues with the order on the phone. After this bomb is dropped, playwright Moench uses repetition effectively. Max wheels in her suitcase several times, but only to the door and turns around, until finally, they are catapulted to Texas, and the Southern Baptist school where Paul is to study to become a minister. He has found God in a Bible studies class during Max’s business trips which was also the place where he found the woman he had an affair with. Max follows him there, but must live in the Homemaking House, a place overseen by Terri, the housemother of the Southern Baptist School. Alley Scott is sparkling as Terri, and does a superb job of playing up the cheerful, yet judgmental nature of Southern hospitality. As a character, Terri is precise, demanding and in charge. Every surface needs to be polished, scrubbed and shined; all with a smile.

Max is a fish out of water here. Once upon a time, she was in charge. She tells Beth, her roommate, that wearing high heels, which clack loudly as you walk, are necessary to let underlings know you’re coming. She has no idea how to wield a bottle of Windex or set a table. She’s been living in a world where women have as much power as men. Yet, she is compassionate, like an older sister, towards Beth when Beth confesses she doesn’t want to get pregnant before she’s married.

Beth, played by the lovely Lucy DeVito, has a complex problem: fiercely devoted to God, she is a gifted orator and potential luminary. Max, who sees the world through a different lens, tells her she should become a minister. Beth rejects the idea vehemently and proclaims that that’s a man’s job, and women are meant to serve. She is also in deep denial about the reality of her marriage prospects and is overcome at one point in which she declares that men need to “man up!” and wonders what’s wrong with them, with their “facial hair and jewelry,” and their lack of commitment to marriage when all they want to do is “take their girlfriends backpacking in Thailand” instead of settling down, getting a job and caring for a wife. Beth, the most willingly submissive to traditional ideas wants men to be strong and certain in their roles, yet she is clearly the stronger sex.

Max and Paul seem at odds throughout the play, and the dark and moody lighting by Masha Tsimring and Caitlin Smith Rapoport juxtaposed with startling brightness, plays up the tension. The fact that Max follows Paul to Texas to a Southern Baptist School where she learns homemaking is a little unbelievable. Their love seems wan, and barely worth it. Feminists would be furious with the message too: it is Max who changes and learns to cook and clean, and look after her husband. When he says, “I like this new you,” it’s almost insulting. What about a new him? He’s mopey, and spineless; confused by his calling to God and his role in the relationship. He did something wrong by having an affair, yet he punishes Max and pushes her away. It’s unclear why Max takes it. In fact, it is the new Max, the ex-corporate saleswoman, who seems even more empowered by her additional skills of learning to cook and take care of the house. In a way, she has become more self-sufficient and it seems highly plausible she could set out on her own now, and take better care of herself. Maybe even find a better man.

In Quietness examines traditional ideas about gender roles, but also highlights the confusions that have come about as ideas have changed. Today, women are more equal to men in the work world, and men are stepping up to the plate with childcare and housework. That said, it would be nice if Paul could “man up,” as Beth proclaims, instead of wallowing in his confusions about his role as a partner to Max. She deserves it.

Presented by Dutch Kills Theater, In Quietness by Anna Moench, is playing at Walkerspace (46 Walker St. between Church St. and Broadway) in Manhattan through Jan. 30. Performances are at 8 p.m on Wednesday-Saturday. Tickets are $18 and can be purchased by visiting www.dutchkillstheater.com.

Sex, Death and Insanity

Two L-shaped, soot-blackened walls serve as the ominous backdrop of The Changeling, the first in a series of "scandalous" productions by Red Bull Theater this spring. One wall holds three glass cages, inhabited by the eerie denizens of an insane asylum, while the other is used for several lurid, thrilling acts (scenic design is by Marion Williams); cold-blooded murder and illicit sex come to mind. Director Jesse Berger's adaptation of the Jacobean tragicomedy has a great deal to work with, unsurprisingly. Aside from a few stiff moments, Berger's production steps up and delivers on the drama and suspense that is inherent in this scandalous work.

The story is a classical Spanish tragicomedy, written by 16th century playwrights Thomas Middleton and William Rowley (the former contributed to Shakespeare's Measure for Measure), and is rife with dark, morbid themes. Spanish noblewoman Beatrice-Joanna (Sara Topham) is being forced to marry Alonzo de Piracquo (John Skelley) by her deep-voiced, distinguished father Vermandero (Sam Tsoutsouvas), but she is in love with Alsemero (Christian Coulson). She is also the object of her servant, De Flores' (a fantastic Manoel Felciano) unyielding obsession. Joanna's calculative machinations to get rid of Alonzo come at the cost of her maidenhood—at the hands of De Flores himself, who yearns desperately for his mistress. Cover-ups, ploys and games of control ensue, while a subplot of similar yearnings and madness goes on in a nearby insane asylum.

The story is an admittedly noble, gory affair, characteristic of its Renaissance-Jacobean roots. The language is heightened and bombastic, as it should be. Red Bull Theater is one of the cherished few companies that has consistently produced acclaimed classical theater since its inception. In its opening scenes, The Changeling flags a little in its engagement—we briefly wonder at Alsemero's stiffness and Joanna's uncomfortable command of the stage. But such trifling missteps disappear, as the plot takes over and the actors fall into that cathartic rhythm of performance. Felciano, who plays De Flores, gives an especially intelligent performance, casting over his supposedly ugly character with a seductive poise and strange beauty. Tsoutsouvas' reverberating organ fills the stage, as does Topham's quick, shrewd movements.

Felciano and Topham, De Flores and Joanna respectively, have a terrifyingly potent chemistry. Even at the outset of their relationship, when Joanna despises De Flores for his malformed face and pathetic longing for her, each character stands on the brink of each other's sexual domains. Their interactions are fraught with an unhappy eroticism—she in the knowledge of her "taint" before marriage, and he in an impure passion of possessing his mistress, who does not requite his love. Their relationship is in quite beautiful contrast to that of Joanna and Alsemero; their love is an exercise in the age-old traditions of meeting, falling in love, and getting married. Coulson pours pure, handsome love into his character, while Felciano infects De Flores with a forbidden lust. They pivot around Topham possessively while she falls deeper and deeper into her Macbethian whirlpool of schemes. 

In a somewhat unrelated caper, the inmates of an insane asylum and their captors clash over the object of their affections: Isabella (Michelle Beck). This subplot seems a comedic aside at the beginning of the play, and tries to evolve into much the same problem that the main plot is beset with—three men who love and desperately wish to possess one woman. But for all its hilarity (and occasional bursts of choreography), the plot and its accompanying characters tie in loosely with the overall story, and does little besides. Beck dignifies her character with what little respect she is given by her lovers: her husband and man-in-charge at the asylum Alibius (a hilarious Christopher McCann), an airy, clown-like madman called Antonio (Bill Army) and an equally mad, love-struck poet named Franciscus (Philippe Bowgen). Army and Bowgen flit naturally between their mad selves and their in-love selves (the latter is an extraordinary madness). 

The play does not deflate after its initial catharsis; rather, actors, sound, stage and light blaze in bursts of activity. Berger casts every aspect of his production in the same explosive mold—that of creeping scandal and abrupt action. The sounds that we hear are either soft and haunting or brief and very loud (sound and music design is by Ryan Rumery). The relaxed stupor that some audience members might fall into, especially after an abstracted soliloquy or post-intermission, is kept at bay. If the ears are not engaged (perhaps during a soliloquy), then one can't help but admire the flowing dresses, leather jackets and colorful doublets that move about the stage (costume design is by Beth Goldenberg). Besides its occasional lags and head-scratching moments, The Changeling is a a rare chance to see a sumptuously produced piece of classical theater.

Produced by Red Bull Theater, The Changeling runs until Jan. 24 at the Lucille Lortel Theatre (121 Christopher St. between Hudson and Bleecker Sts.) in Manhattan. Tickets range from $60-$80. To purchase tickets, call 212-352-3101 or visit www.redbulltheater.com.

Love is a Dangerous Game

The small stage where Almost Mata Hari: Lovers, Letters and Killers by Eva Dorrepaal which explores the life of Mata Hari, the infamous courtesan-cum-spy, as well as parallels to the dangerous loves in her own life, is tucked away in the basement of Theater for the New City. This venue has many theaters; two are in the basement on opposite sides of the building. But the spectator is rewarded with the discovery of finding the right door. And descending the dark staircase is the perfect entrée to Dorrepaal’s world. Set as a living room, it looks as if it will explode with one false move: clothing and bric-a-brac are strewn everywhere. Short directives such as “Breathe” are pasted everywhere, as are Dorrepaal’s notes about Mata Hari: a timeline of her life and lists of men. The feeling is potentially claustrophobic and one wonders if Dorrepaal has been reading up on the avant-garde theater provocateur, Antonin Artaud’s concept of a “Theatre of Cruelty” which called for the "communion between actor and audience in a magic exorcism (…) to shock the spectator into seeing the baseness of his world.” Artaud was known to stage plays or scenes in isolated places where, one person who attended an Artaud play in the '60s, claims, “there could have been a murder and no one would have known.”

Dorrepaal appears debased at first—her clothing is disheveled, and she is harried and seemingly uncomfortable. She recalls an early abusive relationship: a broken jaw leads her to a dentist whom she eventually takes up a relationship with. Dorrepaal’s play begins in an emotionally Artaudian vein: two hours of listening to stories about violent relationships would have definitely felt entrapping and scary. She briskly changes pace and shifts the focus.

As an actress, Dorrepaal is fidgety, breathless and wide-eyed, which gives the impression of a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown. However, there are interesting angles being worked which reveal three distinct layers: how an actress prepares (Dorrepaal refers to the method acting approach of using sense memory), her personal stories about past lovers, and her response as both an actress and woman to the story of Mata Hari’s life. The premise of Dorrepaal’s show is that she is an actress writing a play about Mata Hari. However, Dorrepaal inserts herself into the performance, and comments on the difficulty of acting, as well as the role of Mata Hari. Under the guide of a less gifted actress, this triadic approach could have been confusing, but Dorrepaal is a masterful performer. And funny too. In one scene, Dorrepaal is playing Mata Hari as a dancer and courtesan. She changes in front of us and puts on an Indian dance costume, with a spangly bra and a full skirt. As Mata Hari she’s dancing, but after awhile Dorrepaal, the woman, gets fed up and screams: “She’s so crazy” (about Mata Hari) and “Fuck, I’m going to have to hire a choreographer” (about herself as a performer). There are many more moments like this that lift the show from a purgatory exploration of women’s abusive relationships to a true exploration of the complexity of being a woman, of love and of being an actress.

Dorrepaal brings to light the dangerous nature of love. Mata Hari had many lovers—particularly military men in high commanding positions—and was rewarded richly with money and goods. She was known to be a spy but no one knew whether she did it for the money or because she could. In the end, she was convicted to death by a firing squad for being a spy; supposedly betrayed by one of her lovers. Dorrepaal informs us that “she died like a man” because she refused a blindfold. Dorrepaal also experienced dangerous love, first with the man in her early years who broke her jaw, and then with Dragan Zabek, an “irresistible mystic who worked as a street performer.” Dorrepaal leaves Holland, her native land, when she wins a green card only to learn that Dragan killed his former girlfriend—viciously strangling her and dragging her from one place to another—and then hung himself in prison.

Dorrepaal is an intriguing actress. She is tall and thin and looks like she has lived life. Her natural hair, which is a wiry reddish brown, often behaves like the wig she dons when she portrays Mata Hari. When she flips it over to one side, it stays there. Other times, it flairs around her face, making her look angry or seductive depending on the angle. Dorrepaal is a shape-shifter as a performer.

In another actor, this could prove frustrating or make her seem uncommitted to her role, but in Dorrepaal, we see a range of emotion pass across her face in a small time span. Sometimes she looks beautiful, other times tormented. This shape-shifting of emotion seems more true to life in the face of dangerous love, which heightens the senses so that desire, fear and uncertainty exist simultaneously.

Almost Mata Hari: Lovers, Letters and Killers, written and performed by Eva Dorrepaal, runs until Jan. 24 at Theater for the New City (155 First Ave. between East 9th and 10^th Sts.). Performances are Thursday-Saturday at 8 p.m. and Sunday at 3 p.m. Tickets are $10 and can be purchased by calling the box office at 212-254-1109 or visiting www.theaterforthenewcity.net.

High-Risk Tech Support

Jordan Harrison’s fine yet unsettling play, Marjorie Prime, is set in the future, but follows its own path. It has neither the dystopian darkness of Minority Report and dozens of other sci-fi films, nor the impulse to satire seen in Woody Allen’s classic Sleeper, and more recently, in Stephen Kaliski’s play Gluten! Rather, it takes a low-key, subtler approach to a coming world in which mankind uses artificial intelligence. It is ambitious and canny about the problems that might pose, and its 80 minutes pack a wallop.

The title character, Marjorie (Lois Smith), is 85 as the play begins. She is talking to her husband, Walter, who appears to be decades younger. But, in fact, he is Walter Prime, a designation for a computer image that is programmed with the memories and intelligence of her late husband. She has chosen the age of Walter, and the resultant computer not only absorbs information about him from her but also from others. It is, in fact, the future: the first tip-off is that Marjorie remembers visiting New York at Christmastime in her youth and seeing The Gates.

Marjorie’s daughter, Tess (Lisa Emery), and son-in-law Jon (Stephen Root), have acquired the computer to keep Marjorie company in her old age. Tess, a deeply unhappy person, is uncomfortable with the thing, and with technology in general. “Science fiction is here, Jon. Every day is science fiction,” she complains. “We buy these things that already know our moods and what we want for lunch even though we don’t know ourselves... We treat them like our loved ones.”

But Jon has persuaded her to try out the Prime. Even so, the truths that are communicated to Walter Prime may not be whole. Tess resists telling the Prime about Damian, her brother who committed suicide after bullying at school—it is left unclear for the audience whether Damian was gay or mildly autistic, but he was noticeably different, according to Tess. Marjorie has put away her memories of Damian, hiding photographs in an attic where they were discovered by Tess and Jon when Marjorie had to leave her home of 50 years.

Tess, meanwhile, struggled in the shadow of Damian, always feeling second-string, and hating her brother for taking her mother’s attention with his suicide. The family history comes out gradually, as characters die and their Primes are programmed by the survivors.

Laura Jellinek’s set suggests a future with more questionable taste in décor: she employs strongly patterned wallpaper and furnishings in pastels of turquoise, celadon, lime and teal that imbue the rooms with an antiseptic claustrophobia. (In a glaring misstep, however, she has a kitchen cupboard open outward from the bottom—impractical in any century!) Ben Stanton employs side lighting and shadows effectively. They seem to stifle as much as illuminate.

Harrison’s script relies heavily on dialogue. He carefully sows crucial tidbits early on that have a payoff for those listening closely to what the Primes eventually present as the truth. (However, the notion that Jon would feed Walter Prime data about a Christmas visit to New York City in which she saw saffron “flags” in Central Park without checking on Marjorie’s memory is not credible, since he’s so careful about gathering the facts at other times. The Gates were up for only two weeks in February 2005, not at Christmastime.)

In a particularly touching passage, Harrison comments on the quality of life in old age, as Tess complains, “There’s the half where you live and the half where you live through other people... Any new experience you have, someone is experiencing for you, to be kind. ‘Look, Mom, it’s nice outside.’”

The direction by Anne Kauffman is equally skillful, as Smith, Emery, and Noah Bean’s Walter morph into Primes who are different in degree from their human models. The final scene, as three of the characters talk about the past, is both mundane and eerie. It’s clear that an approximation of humanity may be possible with the Primes, but such crucial elements of experience as truth and memory may become casualties of their technology.

Jordan Harrison's Marjorie Prime is running at Playwrights Horizons (416 West 42nd St. between 9th and 10th Aves.) in Manhattan through Jan. 24. Evening performances are at 7 p.m. on Tuesday and Wednesday, 8 p.m. on Thursday-Saturday, and 7:30 p.m. on Sunday. Matinees are at 2:30 p.m. on Saturday and Sunday. Tickets are $75-$90 and can be purchased by calling 212-279-4200 or visiting TicketCentral.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.

Eternity Knocking

Holiday gatherings have provided the setting for many American dramas, from William Inge’s classic Picnic (Labor Day) to Anna Ziegler’s A Delicate Ship earlier this season, set on Christmas Eve. Ironically, Christmas was also the holiday observed by the Jewish families in Alfred Uhry’s The Last Night of Ballyhoo and Richard Greenberg’s The Assembled Parties. Now, in Stephen Karam’s richly textured new play, The Humans, Thanksgiving gets its due. First, though, this reviewer must declare that Stephen is no relation, although our paths have crossed and he is a charming fellow. [It will also be less awkward for me if I refer to him by his first name from here on.]

The Humans is set in a basement apartment in Chinatown, marvelously realized by David Zinn with sterile white walls and a spiral staircase that joins two floors, both visible. The upper seems to be below the street level, while the lower is a windowless sub-basement. Brigid (Sarah Steele), the female half of the couple occupying it, boasts to her skeptical parents of its uniqueness. When her mother, Deirdre (Jayne Houdyshell), observes that outside the barred upstairs window is “an alley full of cigarette butts,” Brigid defends it as “an interior courtyard.”

It’s not just the details of real estate in New York that Stephen gets right. The Blake clan that has assembled includes father Erik (Reed Birney) and his mother, “Momo” (Lauren Klein), who is in the advanced stages of dementia. From her bottle of Ensure to her unintelligible mutterings to her blossoming at the sound of singing, Stephen has captured the reality of someone in the throes of age and dementia, and the strain on a loving family.

Brigid and her boyfriend, Rich (Arian Moayed), have moved in together to the mild disdain of Deirdre—and it’s one of the charms of Stephen’s play that most of the disapproval of others’ actions voiced by the characters is muted in a way that indicates a fundamental respect for one another.

There are, however, hints of deep troubles in the family, from finances to health. Erik is cutting his own hair, and some comments lead one to believe that he a miserly streak. Brigid’s lesbian sister Aimee (Cassie Beck) has recently broken up with her girlfriend and has been facing serious health problems. She has also been laid off. There are other financial troubles that surface during the day, and only Moayed’s level-headed, easygoing Rich seems unperturbed—but then, he’s due to inherit a trust fund.

The disagreements and problems that arise are deceptively quotidian. The devout Deirdre brings a statue of the Virgin Mary as a gift—“she’s appearing everywhere now, not just in Fatima.” And she hints gently but repeatedly that Brigid and Rich should get married. Deirdre is also aghast at the condition of the apartment: loud thumping that comes from the apartment above and lights (handled by Justin Townsend) that seem to have a mind of their own, flickering on and off, so that an emergency LED light in Deirdre’s care package has to be sought out. Occasionally, too, a trash compactor rumbles nearby in the building’s depths (sound is by Fitz Patton).

Director Joe Mantello utilizes the two levels of the stage well, often with action happening simultaneously (though at one point, when all the characters are gathered on the lower level, a loud thud from the apartment above probably would not be heard).

The excellent performances are all detailed nicely. Mention is made of mom’s knee problems, and Houdyshell gingerly steps down the stairs, planting both feet on one step before lifting a foot to step down on another. Reed Birney invests Erik, who is carrying a burdensome secret, with weariness and anxiety. Cassie Beck’s Aimee is emotionally adrift and yet phlegmatic about her mother’s e-mails communicating gossip about friends getting ovarian cancer and lesbians killing themselves. And Steele’s Brigid is just enough of a pill to earn her a few demerits, but not enough to cause antipathy.

As good as the portrayal of the family is, Stephen has a last-minute twist that sets his bland title in stark relief and yet has been cleverly, carefully prepared. The Roundabout has commissioned all his plays, and although The Humans is only his third, its stagecraft makes one eager to see what’s next.

Stephen Karam’s The Humans is playing at the Laura Pels Theater (11 West 46^th St. between 6th and 7th Avenue) in Manhattan through Jan. 3. Evening performances are at 7:30 p.m. on Tuesday-Saturday; matinees are at 2 p.m. on Wednesday, Saturday and Sunday. The production has been announced for a Broadway transfer early in 2016. For tickets, call 212-719-1300 or visit RoundaboutTheatre.org. 

Down in the Depths

Solo shows tend to be showcases for talented actors, but the shows themselves may be variable. Sometimes they are mere vehicles for a talented star; sometimes they are more than vehicles. And once in a while, as in Empanada Loca, with Rent alumna Daphne Rubin-Vega, the star provides jet fuel for the vehicle. Playing a woman named Dolores in Aaron Mark’s precisely calibrated, terrific script, Rubin-Vega demonstrates that she is, even without singing, an astonishing talent.

As the show opens, Dolores spots the audience and wonders how we managed to find her. She’s in a deep disused subway tunnel in the New York system. She’s hiding out, and around her, in Bradley King’s astonishingly dim but effective lighting, one can barely make out a grate on the upstage wall and a large massage table. She is not used to visitors, although she says, “They still come down, sometimes they come, when they're expanding. They like this tunnel ’cause I got electricity—I set these lights up myself—and I got privacy, ’cause this is as far down as you can go. This is one of those tunnels the city gave up on before they even laid the tracks.”

No longer apprehensive, soon she is unspooling her life story, and Rubin-Vega brings warmth and passion to a tale that involves hard knocks and gruesome twists. “I’m only down here ’cause I'm not goin’ back to prison,” she says. “Thirteen years, they locked my ass up.”

She started out an ordinary college kid, a student at Hunter. “I was gonna be a urban planner,” she recalls. But her Aussie roommate wanted weed one day, and Dolores went along and met Dominic, a drug dealer. At the same time, her mother died and her father, a doorman, went to pieces and couldn’t take care of her. So she moved in with Dominic, whom she protected from prison after the police picked her up. After coming out, she went looking for Dominic and the money they’d stashed, and both were gone. The old neighborhood had one or two familiar faces, but nobody knew where Dominic was. But she spots a favorite haunt, Empanada Loca, which makes the small pies that are central to Latin cuisine. Inside is Luis, son of the proprietor she once knew; she knew Luis, too, but he was a child and is now a young man. He gives Dolores his late father’s room and even helps her drum up business by putting a sign in his window for her massage business. It’s a skill she learned in prison from her lesbian protectress, Tabitha.

Mark, who also directs lovingly, provides ample humor. Describing Dominic, Dolores remarks that she noticed he had “fingers like sausages” and bawdily suggests what one might extrapolate from that. The script is vivid, evocative and specific. There are mentions of a “purple hat,” a “red glass bong,” and at a Planet Fitness gym in the neighborhood, “these white chicks in polo shirts working there, they’re making green smoothies or some shit.” Dolores momentarily forgets what her father choked to death on, then remembers: “shish kabob.”

Eventually complications arise between Dolores and Luis, and the story grows darker. There’s a tip-off in the program about the inspiration for Mark’s show, but it’s better if you haven’t read it. There’ll come a point when the savvy theatergoer will suddenly cotton to the source—it’s been used in a famous musical—but Mark has gone back to original publications of the story and made enough alterations in place and character that it takes a major plot point to turn the audience member in the right direction. Suffice it to say, it’s a dark place that Dolores and Luis end up in.

Clad only in a black hoodie and black slacks, Rubin-Vega is a terrific guide to this hellish underworld, colored simply and darkly by David Meyer in shades of charcoal. When the story turns cringe-worthy, she is still a commanding presence. It’s not just a good performance; it feels like a landmark for a consummately gifted actress.

The solo show Empanada Loca plays through Nov. 8 at the Labyrinth Theater Company (155 Bank St. between Washington St. and the West Side Highway) in Manhattan. Evening performances are at 7 p.m. on Oct. 25 and 26, and Nov. 1, 3 and 8. They are at 8 p.m. on Oct. 28–31 and Nov. 4–7. For tickets, visit labtheater.org.

No Pot of Gold

An 8,000-year-old Irish fairy is not to be mistaken for a leprechaun in James McLindon’s Comes a Faery. The production opens with a grown woman (Meghan St. Thomas) acting like an 8-year-old girl Siobhan as she plays with a doll and toy truck. Though it is noted in the script for “a very youthful-looking adult [to] play Siobhan,” the casting does not work. St. Thomas sounds and behaves like a whiny child and looks more like an adolescent who is at the beginning stages of puberty. The mismatch in casting distracts theatergoers from acknowledging St. Thomas’ solid performance and her ability to carry the production. The director Shaun Peknic could have taken the liberty to cast a younger woman to portray the child Siobhan. On the other hand, Josh Marcantel is well cast as the Irish fairy Seaneen. Comes a Faery attempts to capture the emotional and mental impacts that a child experiences when their mother is away overseas serving in the armed forces.

The play takes place in an apartment in Cambridge, Massachusetts and the set design by Kyu Shin is modest and homely with a loveseat, lamp and nightstand. In the background appears to be a wooden stage with three boxes wrapped in beige paper that have light cursive writing. The brown coloring used for the wording is not dark enough to clearly understand what is written. The two large walls on the backstage appear to be a large book and they also have the beige paper with brown wording on them. The light and dark blue and white zebra print floor is distracting and it does not exactly match the blue and white blankets on the couch. The audience members were further distracted from the actors’ performances when a cockroach ran across the stage and St. Thomas killed it by dropping a book on the cockroach. Marcantel tried to sweep the dead cockroach under the stage with his foot, and the experience left a lasting impression with the audience.

Siobhan is fixated on seeing her mother again and is easily manipulated by Seaneen, who has convinced Siobhan that everyone in her life will leave her. Seaneen is never clearly defined as actually being a real, live fairy or Siobhan’s imaginary playmate. This is one example of how McLindon leaves it up to audiences to decide for themselves if Seaneen is real or not. The lack of clarity does not add much to the plot or Seaneen’s character development and actually creates confusion. Siobhan’s pediatrician Dr. Neery (Lori Kee) cannot clearly diagnose Siobhan’s condition or Siobhan’s relationship with Seaneen. When Seaneen convinces Siobhan to catch Dr. Neery on fire with a burning newspaper, Dr. Neery writes off Siobhan’s failed attempt and says, “That which doesn’t kill you makes for a great story later.”  Dr. Neery believes that Siobhan could be experiencing conduct disorder or possibly psychosis. Siobhan’s guardian and Aunt Katie (Michaela Reggio) thinks that it is normal for 8-year-old girls like Siobhan to have an imaginary Irish fairy as a best friend. Katie’s artist boyfriend Raphael (Benjamin Miller) is Siobhan’s only healthy, male role model and he appears to be the only person who can actually relate to her.

The value of the production rests in its opportunity to have a greater conversation about children who are raised by others while their biological parents serve in a war.  However, the lack of clarity and confusing casting has McLindon fall short in clearly delivering a message.  Simply leaving it up to theatergoers to decide what is happening or what the point is, suggests that the material is underdeveloped. The show runs for 120 minutes with an intermission and feels like it lags. A matured production will have theatergoers wanting more and not just waiting for the show to end so that they can go home.

Comes a Faery misses it mark and does not deliver to its full potential. The production would be much more powerful if St. Thomas were cast as Aunt Katie and a teenager played Siobhan. As strong performers, St. Thomas and Miller could compliment each other’s performances if they were paired together as boyfriend and girlfriend. Reggio portrays Katie as a victim of her own circumstances and instead of having theatergoers feel empathy for Katie, she occurs as annoying and tiresome to watch. Miller stands out in comparison to Reggio when they are partnered together. Miller’s energy feels like a sitcom actor. Comes a Faery is not recommended unless theatergoers are willing to overlook its shortcomings and focus on the dynamic performances by St. Thomas, Miller and Marcantel.

Comes a Faery runs until Oct. 24 at the New Ohio Theatre (154 Christopher St. between Greenwich and Washington Sts.) in Manhattan. Evening performances are Friday and Saturday at 8 p.m. Tickets are $18 and can be purchased by calling 347-524-0514 or visiting www.nylonfusion.org.

Finding True Joy

Sex, drugs, alcohol and money does not bring contentment to New York City lawyers, but it is still entertaining to watch the lawyers search for inner peace. Ethan McSweeny directs an accomplished ensemble in Thomas Bradshaw’s Fulfillment. Set in present-day Manhattan, the play covers ridiculous housing challenges and various pathways to self-satisfaction that resonate with New Yorkers.

The play's protagonist is a 40-year-old black lawyer named Michael (Gbenga Akinnagbe), who has worked 80 hours a week for the past nine years at a law firm with the same title of senior associate. Although Michael's colleague Steven started at the law firm the same time as Michael, Steven has been promoted to partner and makes $800,000 a year. Michael’s white, office hookup-turned girlfriend Sarah (Susannah Flood) claims that Michael has not been promoted to partner because of racism. She says, “Just think about it. No women partners, no black partners. I’m telling you this because we’re two of the only people from under-represented groups working here. We need to stick together.”

Whenever Michael’s white boss Mark (Peter McCabe) has a new, black client, Mark “trot[s] [Michael] out like a show horse!” Mark claims that Michael has not been made partner because Michael has a drinking problem.  Mark offers to have the firm pay for Michael to go to rehab, but Michael does not want to be away from work for that long. Michael also just bought a “shoebox in Soho” to live in for $1.5 million and had to borrow $80,000 from his mother’s retirement to help cover the down payment. Sarah says that Michael should instead “be living in a five million dollar apartment.”

This play’s message about happiness not being found in external things is communicated well. The value of this production is demonstrated in how this message is shown through the breakdown of Michael’s life. Audiences witness how Michael’s alcohol dependency feeds his insecurities and ultimately sabotages everything Michael has been trying to create for himself. New York City theatergoers will also easily relate with the intolerable amount of noise from Michael’s upstairs neighbor Ted (Jeff Biehl). The situation only escalates when Michael complains to the president of his condo association Bob (Denny Dillon).

As a grown man, Michael appears naive and boyish and easily manipulated by others. His own identity and sense of self-worth are questionable. Akinnagbe conveys Michael’s innocence eloquently and this allows for audiences to eventually develop compassion for Michael’s struggle. It also softens the cold, robotic, conniving exterior behavior of the other characters. Audiences begin to understand the roots of Michael’s alcoholism when Sarah says, “It’s only natural that you have no idea how to deal with people. You stopped maturing emotionally the second you started to drink [alcohol].” Michael started drinking when he was 16 years old.

As the characters seek fulfillment in their own lives, theatergoers may start to wonder if this production achieves what it set out to accomplish. Even with stellar performances like McCabe perfectly nailing his portrayal of Michael’s boss, the production seems like it is still in its adolescent stages. The material is fresh, quick and current but feels underdeveloped. The scenes tend to be short and end too prematurely for audience members to get the full emotional impact. The creative transitions between the scenes are flawless due to the lighting by Brian Sidney Bembridge and sound by Mikhail Fiksel and Miles Polaski. However, the multiple transitions become disruptive and lose their originality after a while. At times, the production relies on engaging audiences by using intense sexual scenes with masturbation, S&M and full-frontal nudity. Sex choreographer Yehuda Duenyas creates very realistic sexual scenes and it is like sitting on the set of a pornographic film.

Fulfillment does capture modern life in New York City and creates a greater conversation around what motivates and drives people. At the same time, Bradshaw could have focused more on universal, redeeming qualities.  This would add depth to the production’s message and allow for audiences to empathize with the characters’ vulnerabilities. McSweeny could also achieve this through directing the actors to have more emotional range in their performances.

The overall aim of this production falls short, and the production’s message has so much potential to mature and could even be further developed. Despite these weaknesses, the cast is superb and well worth seeing in this production. The Flea Theater has produced award-winning Off-Off-Broadway productions and is known for showcasing current and original material. For those seeking a captivating glimpse into the life of an alcoholic lawyer in New York City who has not come to terms with his alcoholism, then see Fulfillment.

Thomas Bradshaw's Fulfillment runs until Oct. 19 at The Flea Theater (41 White St. between Church St. and Broadway) in Manhattan. Evening performances are Wednesday–Monday at 7 p.m. and matinee performances are Sunday at 3 p.m. Tickets are $35, $55, $75 and $105 and can be purchased by calling 212-352-3101 or visiting www.theflea.org.

Shakespeare With Tears

You’re not ever likely to see a staging of A Midsummer Night’s Dream similar to that at the Pearl Theatre Company, a co-production with the Hudson Valley Shakespeare Festival. That’s almost certainly a blessing. Directed by Eric Tucker of Bedlam, a company known for its pared-down renderings of classics—including a powerful Saint Joan and Hamlet—A Midsummer Night’s Dream currently on the boards is a misbegotten mess. Somewhere underneath the countless irrelevancies encrusting this version may be a play about lovers, poets and fools, but despair at finding it sets in quickly.

Bedlam uses no props, so there’s a lot of miming of them; some you won’t expect. Early on, Hermia is tied up and her arms winched into the air as if she’s about to be interrogated by black-ops agents rather than Theseus. Anyone who has ever seen a traditional version of A Midsummer Night’s Dream may wonder what is going on—as will anyone who hasn’t. The five actors are not only responsible for imagining their props, but they take on multiple roles and produce their own sound effects. In fact, there is so much accumulated shouting and stage business that the story barely comes through, let alone the poetry.

Tucker has introduced action to accompany virtually every line. When Egeus complains that Lysander “bewitched the bosom of my child,” Lysander air-squeezes Hermia’s imagined breasts. When Jason O’Connell’s Bottom speaks of “a tyrant,” his hands become pistols and he shoots them. O bad tyrant! Looking for his comrades, Bottom says, “Where are these hearts?” That leads O’Connell to pull an imaginary one from his chest and gnaw it like Hannibal Lecter. Everything must be illustrated, no matter how inappropriately, in this Shakespeare for Imbeciles production.

It’s not enough to pile on irrelevancies: Tucker has vulgarized the play as well. When Mark Bedard’s Oberon says, “I do but beg a little changeling boy to be my…henchman,” the pause he inserts suggests latent pedophilia. When the actors cluster together late in the play (as they often do to become scenery, though not in this case), there’s suddenly an orgiastic scene of hip-thrusting intercourse and tongue work. When Puck returns to Oberon with the flower love-in-idleness, he doesn’t have it in hand. Oh, no, it’s down his throat so he can hawk loudly and puke it out!

Amid this goulash, Nance Williamson shows the best command of poetry, both as the brusque Hippolyta and lumbering Helena. Bedard recites the verse clearly enough, but doesn't quite find the music in it. O’Connell is egregiously irritating as Puck, Bottom, and Pyramus. As the last, he yells for Thisbe in the style of Marlon Brando as Stanley Kowalski in A Streetcar Named Desire. (He also does an impression of Al Pacino in Bottom’s “shivering shocks” speech, and they’re amusing, but unnecessary.)

The performers may be excused, given all that Tucker has taxed them with. They contribute constant sound effects and movement: weird noises, rolling around, wrestling, humming the music from Jeopardy and “The Girl from Ipanema,” grunts, clasping one another, shrieks, falling to the ground in an instant, tsk-tsks and putting on silly accents (Sean McNall’s Demetrius seems to be Spanish by way of Scotland; Bedard’s Thisbe has a Southern twang). Scarcely a sentence goes by without some enhancement. Oberon’s speech “The next thing then she waking looks upon/Be it on lion, bear, or wolf, or bull/On meddling monkey, or on busy ape/She shall pursue it with the soul of love” cues an aural zoo as the actors contribute the sounds of each animal mentioned. But nothing is so impressive as the rare moments when the words are left to be heard on their own—Bedard’s Oberon, speaking of a “boar with bristled hair,” or Helena’s late soliloquy. It’s then one realizes what quality the actors might be capable of.

Heaped with praise by critics at the The New York Times and The Wall Street Journal, this production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream was clearly not to the taste of a scowling woman speaking to a friend at intermission. Passing by, I overheard only the word “indefensible.” Whether it applied to those reviews or to the production itself, she was on the money.

A Midsummer Night's Dream plays through Oct. 31 at the Pearl Theatre (555 West 42nd St. between 10th and 11th Aves.) in Manhattan. Evening performances are at 7 p.m. on Oct. 7, 11, 12, 15, 20, 28 and 29 and at 8 p.m. on Oct. 9, 16, 17, 23 and 30. Matinees are at 2 p.m. on Oct. 8, 10, 14, 17, 18, 21 and 31. For tickets, call 212- 563-9261 or visit PearlTheatre.org.

Fairy Tales with Scary Endings

German brothers Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm are best known for writing Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, Snow White and many other famous fairy tales. There was also a darker side to the Grimms’ earlier works that included child abuse, incest and anti-Semitism. The short stories in Martin McDonagh’s The Pillowman echo the Grimms’ twisted side. The Pillowman takes place in a totalitarian state and deals with childhood abuse. The characters rarely experience a "Disney" fairy tale ending. Audiences are sure to be amused and horrified as this story unfolds.

The production opens with a proclamation from writer Katurian (Kirk Gostkowski) trying to weasel his way out of being tortured: “The only duty of a storyteller is to tell a story.” Detectives Tupolski (Deven Anderson) and Ariel (Paul Terkel) do not buy Katurian’s noble stand as a writer. Katurian recites one of his gruesome short stories The Tale of the Town on the River about a poor, little boy with no shoes who is bullied by the local children. One day the little boy offers a hooded driver a piece of the boy’s sandwich. The driver repays the boy by using a meat cleaver to cut off all of the boy’s toes on his right foot. The driver is supposed to be the Pied Piper and he is riding into the German town of Hamelin to lure away all of the children with his magical flute. Due to the boy’s missing toes, he is unable to walk as fast as the other children. The little boy is not taken away by the Pied Piper and becomes a Hamelin survivor.

Detectives Tupolski and Ariel claim they found the toes of a dead, Jewish boy in Katurian’s home.  The detectives assert there is a connection between the crippled boy in Katurian’s short story "The Tale of the Town on the River" and the Jewish boy’s death. A string of other child deaths could be tied to Katurian’s violent short stories. Out of the four hundred stories Katurian wrote, he says “maybe ten or twenty have children in [them].”  Audiences soon discover Katurian’s inspiration for these morbid stories in a film directed by David Rey. The film discloses the horrific abuse and neglect Katurian’s brother Michal (Kyle Kirkpatrick) experienced by their parents—which permanently left Michal “slow to get things.”

The value of this production is its ability to creatively show the effects of childhood abuse through the eyes of Katurian. As the main character and a family member, Katurian’s perspective is unique because he was never abused. His parents loved him and encouraged him to be a great writer. Audiences are able to connect with Michal’s suffering through Katurian’s love for his brother. Likewise, it is Gostkowski’s stellar performance as Katurian that carries this show.  Katurian appears clever and likable, and at the same time, he feels so slippery. Audiences are left wondering if Katurian is telling the truth or lying about the murdered children in his stories.

Anderson is not fully self-expressed and authentic in his portrayal of Detective Tupolski. Director Greg Cicchino could have Anderson face the audience more often and project his voice so that audience members can get related to Anderson’s character during his opening lines. Instead of gauging the audience’s approval of his performance, Anderson could be more powerful by fully stepping into his role as the lead detective. As Detective Tupolski’s partner, Terkel maneuvers through the action scenes seamlessly in his performance of Detective Ariel. When Terkel slams Gostkowski’s head against the wall, the audience gains a real sense of what it is like to live in a totalitarian state. However, Terkel’s frequent use of herbal cigarettes starts to become a distraction and eventually does not add to his character. Kirkpatrick’s performance as Katurian’s mentally challenged brother Michal adds comic relief when Michal goes on about having an itchy butt.

Production designer Aaron Gonzalez created a simple, gray set that feels like a cross between a makeshift jail cell and an abandoned office during the height of the Cold War. The Chain Theatre is a fresh, friendly, intimate space with a gallery exhibition in the lobby by Tyler Hughes. The seating is connected, and if someone in your row is fidgeting throughout the show, their movements can be felt by others sitting in the same row. There is also simulated gunfire during the production for those who are sensitive to noise.

If you have not had a chance to see a performance of McDonagh’s award-winning play The Pillowman, then this is an opportunity to do so. Since its first public reading at London's Finborough Theatre in 1995, the play has traveled around the world. The use of universal, childhood fairy tales allows for generations to easily connect with the material. It is McDonagh’s take on childhood abuse that is most startling and thought-provoking for audiences to discover.

The Pillowman runs until Oct. 3 at the Chain Theatre (21-28 45th Rd. between 21 and 23 Sts.) in Long Island City, Queens. Evening performances are Wednesday-Saturday at 8 p.m. and matinee performances are Saturday and Sunday at 2 p.m. Tickets are $18 in advance and $20 at the door and can be purchased by calling 866-811-4111 or visiting www.variationstheatregroup.com.

Meet the Bergers

The lives of the Berger family in Awake and Sing!, The Public Theater's production of Clifford Odets’ rousing Depression-era drama, sway to the swinging beat of old Hollywood’s silver screen. There is the drama of a young, forbidden love affair, the scandal of a child out of wedlock, the emotional carnage of lost hope and disillusionment. Rudolph Valentino receives a passing mention, and Fred Astaire croons about dancing cheek-to-cheek during intermission. Odets’ seminal play packs quite a sentimental wallop, but the National Asian American Theater Company's (NAATCO) touching revival featuring Asian-American actors in the largely Jewish-American roles, counters any mawkishness with strong, complex performances and director Stephen Brown-Fried’s confident steering.

Odets’ play centers around a Jewish family living in 1930s Bronx, and the ensuing turbulence that follows the growing restiveness of Ralph Berger (an appropriately energetic Jon Norman Schneider) and the breaking and building of Hennie Berger’s spirit (an evolution played to utter ferocity by Teresa Avia Lim). The siblings’ mother is Bessie Berger (Mia Katigbak, reprising a 2013 award-winning performance), stalwart matriarch of the family and brusque caretaker of her children’s lives. Mr. Berger (an endearingly soft-spoken Henry Yuk), on the other hand, trots about the apartment harmlessly. Rounding out the family is disillusioned academe and occasional grandfather-figure (a sage Alok Tewari) and the ever-present vitriol and violent passions of one-legged war veteran Moe Axelrod (a fantastically complex, utterly resplendent Sanjit De Silva), who has a "yen" for Hennie. 

Much of the production’s conflict is courtesy of De Silva and Lim’s fiery chemistry, and Brown-Fried makes us anticipate their acerbic confrontations with glee. But aside from Ralph Berger’s erratic bursts of youthful, reckless energy (egged on by a philosophizing Jacob), the Berger kids don’t provide half as much vigor to Awake and Sing! as Katigbak’s Bessie does. Shamelessly guilt-tripping her way to what she thinks is a secure future for her children, Bessie is an unsympathetic antihero, and she dominates the power plays that rattle the household. Only Lim seriously challenges Katigbak’s governance, with Hennie’s caustic sarcasm and world-weary cynicism rivaling that of her mother’s.

Dusty browns, maroons and beiges color the set, as well as the costuming. Alexae Visel gives Bessie Berger matronly, no-nonsense dresses, while fitting Hennie with form-flattering skirts and black-buckled heels. The men get high-waist pants, oxfords and suspenders. Their fashion is reminiscent of silver screen lotharios and starlets, but Visel has imbued the clothes with hints of wear and tear. It’s occasionally difficult to catch a front view of the actors; the Public has staged the production in such a way that the performance space is sandwiched between two opposing rows of audiences. Sometimes, the effect can be quite stirring; Brown-Fried and scenic designer Anshuman Bhatia have cleverly made the space between the sofa and the dinner table into a battleground. Hennie and Moe’s emotional altercations take place in that no-man’s land, as does Ralph’s rebellious profession of love and Bessie Berger’s strict admonishments of her children.

NAATCO’s hope to carry out theater’s function in “taking people who were viewed as marginalized, and place them at the center of culture” is perhaps done so well, that we altogether forget that there is a Berger family. The characters seem to take on roles that are familiar and universal to everyone in the audience: an overbearing mother, a reckless teenage brother or a vicious old flame. Love songs from Hollywood’s Golden Age have audiences tapping their feet and humming, and the familiar twang of Bronx accents have us settling in comfortably, although hearing "goil" instead of "girl" soon trespasses on the ear. Subsequently, the supposed novelty of casting Odets’ typically Jewish-American drama with an Asian-American cast quickly dissolves; we are quite contentedly left with a fresh new realization of the Berger family. And it’s quite a sight to see.

NAATCO’s production of Awake and Sing! ran till August 8. For more information, visit www.publictheater.org.

Strained Geometry

It’s an axiom of theater that a writer shouldn’t direct his own work. Whether, if Richard Maxwell had heeded that advice, Isolde would seem more than a taxing exercise in bewilderment is an open question.

The play’s titular heroine is a woman struggling with neurosis. Her wealthy protector, Patrick (Jim Fletcher)—“she’s kind of a daughter and a wife a little bit to me”—is footing the bill for her to have a dream house built, and not just a dream house, but a perfect house. The architect she has chosen is named Massimo, but it’s unclear that Massimo (Gary Wilmes) has a talent for anything but gooey, pretentious psychobabble, although he has supposedly won awards. As it happens, Patrick has a construction company and knows the business. He challenges Massimo to put his ideas on paper, show him some schematics, but Massimo resists. Instead, Massimo begins an affair with the troubled Isolde (Tory Vazquez, who is married to Maxwell).

This mundane set-up turns out to strain credibility, and it gets scant help from the writing or the direction. Massimo expounds on “beauty that can be found in harmony” but sounds like a charlatan. He notes that “each of my projects is the start of a movement which will only be completed when it relates to the environment. The landscape is beauty. I read it like a book, I experience it and I protect it.” Patrick and Isolde come off as equally implausible. Describing Massimo, Patrick says he’s “jejune,” and notes “he left his glove on to shake my hand.” Isolde responds, “I know you hate that.” Really? How often does one shake hands with someone who’s gloved? It would have to be pretty often to build up antipathy toward the practice. And it doesn’t help that Maxwell directs his actors to deliver their lines woodenly, often just standing to face the audience. The result is that the dialogue, with emotion tamped down, frequently seems to be mere recitation.

Whether this is a way of indicating the action is from Isolde’s memory is unclear. She is a renowned actress, lately struggling to remember her lines, yet is stricken with ennui. “How long have I been doing the same thing?” she asks. “Every new project is the old project, then do it again…how many times? Get on a plane, go through a tunnel, go over a bridge.” Her name, of course, evokes the legendary Cornish love triangle of Tristan, Isolde, and King Mark, and that seems to be the role she's struggling with.

“I noticed myself and my predicament echoing through the epochs,” says Isolde’s character in the play being rehearsed, hinting at a universality in this love triangle. In any case, the legend is sidelined until late in the show, when it is explicitly invoked in a dumb show, for which Isolde appears in a gown of burgundy velvet and the men wear medieval garb and wield large swords. (Costumes are by Romy Springsguth.) Here Sascha van Riel’s bland lighting suddenly becomes saturated in garish color, but the sequence and what follows generate even more confusion.

Maxwell’s staging is also baffling. On Sascha van Riel’s set of a raised platform, some modernist chairs, and a couple walls broken by a dado rail that suggest rooms wallpapered in butcher paper, characters seem to appear from nowhere. “Here he comes,” says Isolde, and Massimo arrives. Any sense of real life, in which someone rings or knocks, someone goes to answer it, someone escorts a guest out rather than lets him wander alone through the home, is absent. The front door is apparently wide open. The scenes play as snapshots, but what’s in those snapshots doesn’t ring true. 

There are some interesting passages, notably one about the refrigeration techniques of ancient Sumerians, but they are tangential, though Maxwell does prove adept at finding comedy in odd moments, thanks mostly to a fourth character, Uncle Jerry (Brian Mendes), who is also in construction and a friend of Patrick’s.

Ultimately, any message the play has is undermined by the determined obscurity and the affectless deliveries. Whether isolated images and passages will stick in one’s memory is too soon to know. But the likelihood is slim.

Richard Maxwell's Isolde plays through Sept. 27 at the Polonsky Shakespeare Center (262 Ashland Place between Lafayette Ave. and Fulton St.) in Brooklyn. Evening performances are at 7:30 p.m. on Tuesday through Sunday; matinees are at 2 p.m. on Saturday and Sunday. Tickets may be purchased by calling 866-811-4111 or visiting www.tfana.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.