Proof Positive

When David Auburn's Proof first premiered in 2000, it took the theater world by storm. Quickly transferring to Broadway from the Manhattan Theater Club, it garnered five Tony Awards, including Best Play, and won the Pulitzer for drama. Auburn's compelling work about trust, sacrifice, and the wonder and madness of mathematics captured the popular imagination and critical attention. It was an intensely captivating play that deserved all of its accolades. Ground Up Productions is now reviving Proof at the Manhattan Theater Source. Its production, which is much more modest in scale than the original, further proves that this play has all the makings of a modern classic. Its early success cannot be attributed to the size of the house (Manhattan Theater Source has a few hundred fewer seats than the Walter Kerr Theater) or whether household names are in the show (the Broadway production starred Mary-Louise Parker; this production stars four relative unknowns). Proof works first and foremost because of Auburn's brilliant writing. Still as engaging as ever, the play, directed by Adam Gerdts in this revival, does not disappoint.

The story begins when Robert (Stuart Marshall), an acclaimed mathematician, startles his mathematician daughter, Catherine (Kate Middleton), who is asleep on the porch in the middle of the night. He wakes her so they can celebrate her 25th birthday with a bottle of cheap champagne. But when his former student Hal (Guy Olivieri) appears, Robert vanishes.

Actually, it is the night before Robert's funeral, and Catherine has only dreamed that she saw her father. She wakes from her slumber when Hal emerges from the attic after poring over notebooks filled with Robert's nonsensical writings scrawled during his years of mental breakdown. The young mathematician is determined to find any shred of brilliance left among these scribblings.

Eventually, Catherine does show him a work of unquestionable genius, but its authorship is called into question by Hal and her sister, Claire (Amy Heidt), who is in town for the funeral and to convince Catherine to live with her in New York. Claire, a mildly successful, even-keeled urbanite, thinks her sister inherited both her father's intelligence and his susceptibility to insanity. With no concrete proof as to whose work it actually is, Hal, a man of science, is forced to realize the unpredictability of true brilliance.

Catherine sacrificed college to care for her ailing father, and Middleton's performance captures the social awkwardness and gruffness that comes with such isolation. But Middleton fails to display the quality of madness that Auburn equates with genius—an insanity, it's implied, that Catherine may also succumb to, like her father. Rather, Middleton is depressed, mopey, and withdrawn. It makes her all the more human, but forces one to wonder whether someone without a hint of madness could in fact be truly brilliant. Middleton's performance begs the question without convincingly answering it.

Olivieri, Marshall, and Heidt are all strong in their supporting roles. Olivieri's Hal is passionate—about math and Catherine—but he is ultimately limited by his work and mediocre career. Even in his distrust of Catherine, he is kind and motivated by his feelings for her, yet he remains aloof, as one would imagine someone obsessed with numbers would be.

Marshall embodies Robert's manic brilliance, which is illustrated in Catherine's flashbacks when he switches from lovable and caring to frenzied and possessed. Heidt's stability and assuredness as Claire balances out Middleton's Catherine. Claire has spent years working endlessly to pay the bills for her father and sister once her father could no longer work. She is smart and successful, but in a bland way when compared with her sister and father, Still, Heidt conveys this without giving a one-note performance.

The production is guided by Gerdt's deft directing, which keeps the pace from flagging. Travis R. McHale's lighting design helps maintain a sense of timing and rhythm, as all the action takes place on a quaint and intimate back porch at varying points over a long weekend.

Overall, Ground Up's Proof shows what makes this play a classic in the first place: it is intense, intelligent, and thoughtful. If you've seen it before, it deserves a second viewing. If you haven't, definitely go to the Manhattan Theater Source for this worthwhile production.

Solo Turns

Four Women masquerades as a play. Playwright Cheever Tyler has assembled four unrelated monologues and ineffectually linked them together under the broad themes of love, loss, and destiny. But the monologues' only true connection is that they are told from the perspective of women. Under Christopher Carter Sanderson's pedestrian direction, the monologues meander and grow tiresome, failing to reach a point and often getting lost within Tyler's unpolished writing. The evening begins with "Dixie Glitter," a convoluted, mildly amusing piece about an uneducated trailer-trash yokel (a favorite type of woman in Tyler's monologues) who finds herself playing host to the spirit of Carry Nation.

Who? Exactly. Carry Nation was a quasi-famous prohibitionist during the early part of the 20th century. Her claim to fame was that she would take a hatchet and smash bars to pieces. The monologue spends a lot of time explaining this, as do the program notes. One day Dixie, a would-be psychic, has Nation's spirit passed on to her by another crazy local. The trouble is that Dixie is a good-time girl who loves her drinking as much as she loves her men.

Suffice it to say, she and Carry are quite the odd couple, and hilarity ensues…or is meant to ensue. Robin Benson throws herself into the role but can't overcome the flawed writing and lame jokes. After almost half an hour, even she appears to want the piece to end.

In the second monologue, "Albany Drive Thru Pawn Shop," a Southern belle named Celeste finds herself trapped in the past with her fragile sanity teetering on the brink. She is unable to recover from a soured love affair, and her problems are further compounded by the hardships of the Depression, which force her to sell off her family's beloved belongings to make ends meet. The monologue seemingly takes place over decades, but the time line is annoyingly unclear, and the resolution is a train wreck of psychobabble. As Celeste, Ninon Rogers is all demure Southern accent and genteel affectations, but little else.

The most troubling piece of the evening is "Inventory," featuring Charlotte, a physics professor struggling with the deaths of her husband and son. The monologue is an unfocused debate on the roles of science and religion, as Charlotte tries to reconcile her profession with her faith. Speaking to an unseen therapist, she calmly rails at the gods for taking her family while calling upon her scientific background to provide answers. Debbie Stanislaus does very little with the piece, aimlessly circling the stage and occasionally raising her voice beyond a calm whisper to show anger or confusion.

The show concludes with "Trip to New Jersey," an unfunny and borderline racist monologue about another trailer-trash heroine, Trumpet Vine, on the verge of marrying a much older Middle-Eastern man. Trumpet waxes philosophical about love and, more important, money as she explains why she is marrying her rich sugar daddy. Seduced by jewelry and his endless wealth, Trumpet decides life in a burka can't be all that bad.

Playwright Tyler makes sweeping generalizations about the Middle East, conceiving Trumpet's beau as a stereotypical "evil doer" complete with henchmen, oil fields, and a harem of beauties waiting at his beck and call. Kelly Tuohy revels in Trumpet's trashiness, almost making the audience forget how thin her monologue is. Ultimately, though, Tuohy succumbs to bug eyes and "golly gee whiz" deliveries.

Sanderson provides little direction for his actresses, most of whom wander helplessly about the stage wearing out the same 5-by-5 patch of space. Although hindered by Tyler's amateurish writing, the director fails to provide a beginning, middle, and end for each monologue, leaving his actresses stranded and stuck.

Four Women suffers from many problems, but its biggest obstacle is the script itself. Stale situations, underdeveloped characters, and empty dialogue prove too difficult to overcome and too uninteresting to care about.

Paranoid-in-Chief

Presidential pomp and circumstance has always been a surreal spectacle. How bizarre was it when "Dubya" searched under his Oval Office desk looking for lost weapons of mass destruction in a self-satirizing skit for a press gala? Of course, the Clinton years provided their fair share of sideshows in the Oval Office, too. Our current political climate contains enough levels of dramatic irony to plunge even the most casual political observer into the spinning vortex of partisan rancor and the warped rhetoric of media manipulation. Who needs theatrical send-ups of political life when our real-life political theater sends itself up?

In the Brick Theater's revival of Richard Foreman's 1988 play, Symphony of Rats, directed by Ian W. Hill, the president gets sucked down the rabbit—or, in this case, rat—hole of paranoid schizophrenia. The media have swarmed around the president's sex life like a pack of frenzied rodents scavenging in a back alley for a piece of garbage to gnaw on. The president cracks up. He imagines he's communicating with voices from outer space. As his delusions of grandeur grow, he believes he's been beamed to another planet where angels, aliens, dancing rats, and comic-book monsters run amok. Each delusional episode blurs together into a jumbled pastiche of sci-fi freaks and screwball comedy that portrays the president's increasingly manic imagination.

Alyssa Simon, playing the First Lady with the "reptilian smile," however, deserves special mention among a crowded supporting cast for the subtlety with which she makes a "straight" character appear more strange and sinister than the fantasy creatures that too often appeared like benign waxwork figures around her.

Many of the vignettes are visually arresting. The president—played by a hyperactive and often cross-eyed Hill—hears voices that tell him he's "lost his swing." As golf balls pop out from between his beret-wearing mistress's wide-open legs, he crushes them underfoot as if they were eggs. In another vignette, he watches in terror as his symbolic mistress, the Statute of Liberty, gets spread on the dinner table and raped.

The most powerful man in the world suddenly has his mojo go awry and his god-like abilities desert him. A paraplegic asks to be miraculously healed, only to rise up and turn into a towering demon with claw-like arms.

The president gets replaced by a cardboard cutout with a happy-face balloon for its head. He whisks scissors from his pocket and becomes a barber as the inner self seeks vengeance on the outer "suit." The suspense created by simply flashing a sharp object in the same visual space as a balloon is palpable.

Like a bad acid trip, events accelerate as they become more detached from reality. A character spoofing a film noir detective comes to investigate the president, the president boogies at a disco crowded with mindless ingénues, and he plays a life-size game of whack-a-mole.

Eventually, though, the incoherence and over-stimulation of these lavish spectacles get somewhat tiresome. Endless sight gags can hold our attention only so long, and one gets the sense that each outlandish scenario, funky costume, or entrancing prop exists merely to one-up the zaniness of the last. The production shares the aesthetic of the music video, the metaphysic of the short attention span, and the psychology of media saturation. Its first principle is "I think, therefore I—oh, heck, what's on the next channel?" Any sense of narrative or momentum liquefies into a sensual kaleidoscope of ever-changing sexual cartoons.

Because the president in this production is portrayed generically, any satire in the original production has been blunted, with no attempt to update the jokes to fit our current commander in chief. The play, therefore, is not so much about politics as it is about the thin line between sanity and schizophrenia.

In fact, the production embodies many of the dramaturgical ideals of that true paranoid schizophrenic, Antonin Artaud. At one point, an exasperated president, slouching behind his desk far upstage, asks the audience if anyone wants a glass of water, then realizes he can't give somebody one because he's supposedly on TV and not in a theater. Conversely, a few minutes later the president strides right up to the audience during an intense monologue where some of Hill's sweat dripped onto my notepad. Like Artaud's proposed "theater of cruelty," we experience an orchestration of pure theatricality that unfetters itself from narrative conventions and textual supremacy in favor of a savage attack upon our senses.

My own tastes, however, incline toward spectacles where the visual slapstick and visceral stunts hang on—or at least by—a thread of narrative. Films such as Fight Club and Schizopolis, for example, do a better job at conveying the schizophrenic nature of reality because they are able to represent the funhouse of a character's mental life without the story itself getting lost in it.

Then and Now

Norman & Beatrice: A Marriage in Two Acts makes an extraordinary demand on its two actors: they play an elderly man with dementia and his loving wife in 2001 and return after the intermission to play the same characters as newlyweds in 1947. Directed by David Travis, this traditional new play by Barbara Hammond, featuring veteran actors Graeme Malcolm and Jane Nichols, soars in the first act but stumbles badly when it leaps back in time in Act II. The opening act captures the texture and rhythm of lived experience shaped into a satisfying dramatic arc. According to the program notes, Hammond wrote it after a visit to her parents' home in the months before her father died. Set in the kitchen of the couple's modest, small-town Wisconsin home (the splendid set design is by Luke Hegel-Cantarella), the 40-minute act is a closely observed, poignant rendition of the havoc that Alzheimer's disease inflicts on the victim's sense of self and history, and the vigilance and patience required of the caregiver.

Norman, the former mayor of his small town, inhabits a confused, anxious mental state in which fantasy and reality blur, the familiar often turns strange and disconcerting, and the past devours the present. Malcolm astutely conveys Norman's fractured reality while never losing touch with the old man's humanity. Beatrice, meanwhile, spryly maintains the thread of a "normal" conversation, patiently filling in the pieces of himself that Norman has forgotten. Nichols's matter-of-fact Beatrice takes her new circumstances in stride without self-pity.

The scene is not maudlin or depressing. The enduring bond between Norman and Beatrice leavens the sadness of this final chapter. "We should get married," remarks Norman at one point. "We are married," Beatrice reminds him. "We are?” replies Norman. "Holy Toledo! I'm a lucky guy."

This first act stood alone as a one-act play for five years, until, Hammond says in the program notes, she was inspired to write a prelude after she unearthed a short film of her parents' wedding. Set in the same kitchen, stripped of the accretions of a half-century of living, this second act finds Beatrice pregnant with her first child and Norman setting out on his political career.

The second act, a pale derivative of the first, has the feel of a writing exercise. In it, Hammond shoehorns in one snippet of dialogue after another that we heard previously in the first act, but the echoes rarely achieve resonance. Instead, we discover that the non sequiturs that Norman utters in the throes of dementia are the remnants of surprisingly banal conversation.

Perhaps trying not to present too idyllic a view of the young couple, Hammond veers too far in the opposite direction. The misunderstandings and personality differences that come to light make it hard to believe that this man and woman got married in the first place, let alone stayed together for more than 50 years. It doesn't help matters that Malcolm and Nichols are mature actors. Nichols has the toughest time. In a drama that strives for realism, it seems unfair to ask an actress probably closing in on age 60 to play a 21-year-old woman.

Ultimately, it's a shame that the intricate story of a marriage that we glimpse in the first act must remain buried there.

Hard Times

The American Clock, Arthur Miller's paean to those who lived through the Great Depression, is an ambitious but ultimately flawed portrait of Americans' plight during the turbulent early 1930's. Although the Brooklyn-based Sackett Group, in only its third production, tries to weave together the play's multiple strands, we get mostly shreds of stories that too easily unravel, and the overall effect leaves the audience chilled. Most of the play, an early Miller work, concerns the Baums, a Jewish family living well in Manhattan during the 1920's. But when the stock market crashes in 1929, Moe Baum (Steven W. Bergquist), the father, loses his finance job, and the family begins its long spiral into poverty. Bergquist is appropriately understated as the proud patriarch, genuinely concerned for his family but unable to accept his reversal of fortune.

The Baums are forced to move back to a dilapidated section of Brooklyn, their former home. A whole generation, it is noted, returns to live with its parents—now Bubbys and meshuggah grandfathers—only to be ensnarled in petty domestic disputes while facing dwindling prospects.

Rose Baum (Susan Faye Groberg), Moe's troubled wife, notes with chagrin that sometimes you can go a whole year in Brooklyn and "never go back to Manhattan." Groberg, with humility and sincerity, brings to the production a personal touch that is sorely missed in the other performances, where many of the actors seem to be simply going through the motions.

A large portion of the narrative focuses on Lee (David B. Sochet), Moe and Rose's young son, whose coming-of-age story takes him through the years from Manhattan to Brooklyn and Alabama. Sochet has the difficult task of playing Lee at 13, 15, 18, and into his early 20's. Though his portrayal of Lee's earlier years is a bit too naïve and earnest, he comes into the part more when he's older and working as a journalist.

Strangely, The American Clock presents, along with the Baums' story, short narratives concerning a Midwestern farmer who loses his property and travels east; a loosely aligned group of newly unemployed financial kingpins; an African-American hobo who travels the country in search of work, singing all the way; and a wealthy, socialist CEO who realizes the error of his ways. There's also a dance competition that seems to have no real connection with the other scenes.

All of this is narrated, stiffly, by a clever financier who realizes, before the crash, that he needs to withdraw all his money from banks and instead buy gold—or, at the very least, carry thousands of dollars around in his shoes.

The play's multiple plot lines leave too little room for the development of the individual characters. As a result, there is little crucial empathy created for the characters and their stories. Ultimately, the only characters the audience cares about are the Baums, whose story is more nuanced.

The Sackett Group's choice of The American Clock was an audacious but dangerous decision, and unfortunately the company has fallen victim to many of the risks inherent in mounting the work. Aside from being too overarching and in need of drastic cutting, the play is not particularly well suited to Off-Off-Broadway. With its large cast of more than 30 characters, musical numbers, and major changes of setting, it would be much more effective as a well-funded Broadway or Off-Broadway production. On the Brooklyn Music School Playhouse's vacuous proscenium stage, with a stark, black backdrop and spartan set, the characters seen dancing and singing onstage appear small and distant.

The director, Robert J. Weinstein, makes the interesting choice of having all the actors, when they are not playing in scenes, seated onstage and watching from the sides, as in Our Town. This somewhat compensates for the massive, empty space that so wants to be filled.

The American Clock is a relatively unknown Miller work that is seldom chosen for production, and the Sackett Group's daring venture reveals some of the reasons why. With a more appropriate lineup for the rest of the season, brighter things should be expected from this new company in the future.

Running Amok

Babies With Rabies has an awesome title. It rhymes, for starters, and it has a delicious, campy, trashy-movie feel to it. Just hearing the title makes you think, "Oh, man! Babies with rabies! Running amok! So totally cool!"

But there are almost no babies with rabies in this production. Instead, there is an extraordinarily convoluted story about a play within a play (within the play), and a lot of shouting. As best as I can figure out, after a detailed examination of my notes and some informal diagramming, the plot of Babies With Rabies is this:

A writer (Erwin Falcon), a producer (Rob Moretti), and a group of actors are working on a play about the residents of an insane asylum who are putting on a play as part of their therapy. Some of the resident crazies plan to use this play to distract the guards and doctors so they can take over the asylum and allow their madness to achieve its fullest flowering. However, some of the residents are against this.

The play the inmates are putting on (the third-level play) is about a kingdom afflicted by a mysterious plague that attacks children and turns them, according to the script, into "crazed homicidal zombies" prone to "fits of cunning and terror." (Here, at last, are the babies with rabies.)

As written out, this story line would seem to promise, like the play's title, all sorts of wacky high jinks and high-camp melodrama. But the script, written by Jonathan Calindas (co-artistic director of Cuchipinoy Productions, which produced the show), begins in the middle of the action, with proclamations that the audience is about to see "a play that will blow your mind," a play that will "question what is real and what is pretend." And while it may be that my mind was blown, I found the show utterly baffling.

For starters, a number of the actors/patients are identified, at different times, by a) their actor names, b) their character's asylum ID number, and c) the names of the characters they are playing within the play. One of the characters (played by Dennis Lemoine) plays identical twins with reversed numbers (45 and 54) and rhyming names (Larry and Gary). Another (Andrew Rothkin) suffers from multiple personality disorder, meaning that he is constantly switching personas, from an unctuous giggler to a lisping Satan to Sigmund Freud.

With everyone in the cast playing so many roles, keeping track of who's who—and whether they are being "themselves" or performing in one of the other plays—is no easy task. Also, to underline the fact that these are bad actors portraying crazy people who are themselves bad actors, all of the lines are given a full-camp, full-volume treatment, punctuated with much dramatic gesturing.

Keeping track of what's going on is exhausting amid all the deafening talk. By the second act, when your ears have adjusted and the structures of the many plays within the plays start to become apparent, it's too late to become engaged. There are a few funny lines that send up absurd, pulp-movie conventions and Off-Off-Broadway. (Kelly Rauch, who portrays Tina, an actress inexplicably in possession of an Equity card, shouts, "I know this is Off-Off-Broadway and you're doing the best you can, and you don't have any money, but I'm not used to working under these conditions!") But these lines get buried in the wall of sound.

Babies With Rabies seems to have had ambitious goals. But with the weight of its plot machinations and the heavy-handedness of its subject matter, it never takes off. And there wasn't even a baby with rabies in sight. Now that's disappointing.

Going Somewhere

"Apathy, baby!" proclaims Fabian, one of 10 New Yorkers portrayed in the Narcissists's production of C. Commute. "Frozen apathy." At once aware of the pitfalls of his generation's malaise and eager to "gloss it" into artwork that can get him the big break he believes is "just around the corner," this twenty-something captures the paradoxical sentiments of his peers. The 10 urbanites in this new play by Alexander Renison Holt are at once apathetic and hopeful, jaded yet still idealistic, setting the tone for a generation just as Fabian believes his art will. Theatergoers in their 20's and early 30's will no doubt recognize themselves in these characters, identify with their struggles, and laugh in the process.

The play is structured as a series of 10 monologues, the first of which is presented as a voice-over. Besides sharing the city and the zeitgeist, the nine characters who appear onstage also share the same subway car, suggested in Brett Dicus's elegantly minimalist set design by two benches and poles set on a diagonal upstage. The car functions as a holding pen as the actors take turns presenting their monologues downstage.

Director Ryan Colwell deftly choreographs their entries, subway-riding time, and exits to resemble the randomness of being in a true public space, ensuring that what could have been merely a convenient theatrical device actually contributes to the play's urban ennui. The audience sees the characters literally "in the same boat" (or subway car), but remaining in isolation from one another, which is expertly conveyed by the actors' body language and introverted stage business.

Colwell also performs, his delivery highlighting Holt's rhythmic wordplay. He creates a sense of frenetic boredom in the voice-over monologue of Damon, an office worker who time-kills his workdays Web surfing. Dalane Mason is convincingly erratic and creepy as Haberdasher, a nattily dressed pickpocket who spews advice and prophecy, invades commuters' personal space, and causes all to avert their eyes to avoid conversation. Matthew Simon is deliciously jaded as Christopher, an actor and gigolo who just wants his own show on HBO. It is to Simon's credit that Christopher's declaration—"We all sell ourselves for something"—seems organic rather than pedantic.

Jessica Jolly is feisty and fun as Jennifer, a woman written to be somewhat past her prime, though the actress herself is not. Bemoaning the recent trend in straight men becoming effeminate, the character is lively and timely, though she does veer toward the stereotypical as she ponders her physical appearance and the options of breast enhancement and blond hair dye. Holt creates a more multidimensional character in Jude, a gay man pondering the step of leaving the comfort of his neighborhood to move in with his partner. In David Michael Holmes's performance, Jude's ambivalence is heartbreakingly palpable, even as the audience laughs with recognition at his deadpan musing ("Of course, I know he wants me, but how do I know I'm done with all the others?").

Chugging Colt 45 in his cut-off jeans, black T, and red bandana, Fabian surprises with his shrewd theories about the commercialization of art. Patrick Craft conveys the character's no-nonsense attitude and astuteness with equal conviction. Holt indulges in the bittersweet with Greta, a young woman awash in the "unspoken misery that is bliss." Becky Lake easily captures Greta's fragility and resignation, though she occasionally allows the rhythms of the playwright's words to direct her performance rather than wielding them as gracefully as she handles the piece's emotional content.

Salvatore, written as the melodramatic one of the lot, is "a show man, a vampire." Brad Danler's performance vacillates between understated and emphatic, though it's unclear whether this is the result of directorial choice. A more consistently seething delivery would have been more meaningful. Danler, with his hypnotic voice and lithe build, could surely have handled the demands of depicting someone so darkly fascinating, and the realism would have been heightened, not hampered—there are very calculating people who think of themselves in such dramatic terms and comport themselves accordingly.

Tom Picasso portrays Edward, a man financially supported by his wife and suffering feelings of emasculation, with touching vulnerability, while Janine Barris is idealism incarnate as a transplanted farm girl, Donna.

The urban motif is notably enhanced by the sound design of Daemon Hatfield, who has turned the recognizable sounds and rhythms of the subway into eerily evocative electronica that accompanies the intercalary scenes. Kate Haugan's urban-savvy costume design subtly underscores each monologist's persona.

In C. Commute, the Narcissists have delivered on their mission statement to provide "theater as a form of therapy," reflecting the struggles, vices, and vulnerabilities of a generation. The audience will delight in what they see onstage, but will they like what they see in the mirror? Whatever the answer, C. Commute makes for entertaining and thought-provoking theater.

Shock Value

Lenny & Lou, a new play by Ian Cohen receiving its New York premiere at 29th Street Rep, bills itself as a "brutal" comedy that takes a raunchy look at family dysfunction. Cohen and 29th Street Rep are quite taken with being "in your face." And while words like "demented," "debauched," "disturbing," and "shocking" are bandied about in the production's advertising to promote this supposedly edgy work, Lenny & Lou amounts to little more than a third-rate situation comedy at best, and an unfunny exercise in forced acting and weak direction at worst. Polar-opposite brothers Lenny (David Mogentale) and Lou (Todd Wall) can't get a break. They tend to their Alzheimer's-afflicted mother Fran (Suzanne Toren), bound together by obligation as they while away the days of their empty, meaningless lives. Irresponsible Lenny dreams of being a rock star. Stuck in a loveless, emotionally destructive marriage with mafia princess Julie (Heidi James), Lenny is nothing more than a pathetic, middle-aged wannabe rock 'n' roller.

The tightly wound Lou hasn't fared much better. Haunted by a love that got away, he hasn't had a date in 15 years. He works as an accountant, obsessing over his job to the point where he works through his vacations. When the inappropriate Fran goes too far, Lou finally snaps, sending the family smashing into a million little crazy pieces.

The problems start with Cohen's astonishingly unfunny script. Plagued by ill-conceived caricatures and a contrived plot, Lenny & Lou never has chance. Each of the five characters fits neatly into a stereotypical, and disturbingly ethnocentric, compartment. Lenny, Lou, and Fran are typical stock Jewish characters out of Neil Simon by way of Woody Allen. Lenny is the slacker. Lou is the neurotic. Fran is the crazy mother. Julie is the loudmouthed, pushy, domineering Italian princess. Fran's nurse Sabrina (Carolyn Michelle Smith), a Haitian immigrant, is the deeply religious, sane one caught in the crossfire. Not one of the characters ever amounts to anything beyond being a superficial type.

As for the plot, it is tedious. The first three scenes, where the characters are slowly introduced, establishes very little. The play only becomes engaging, albeit briefly, in the fourth scene with Sabrina's arrival. As Lou plays a cat-and-mouse game with her, the play and the actors momentarily spring to life with crackling dialogue and a fast-paced urgency.

The second act is overcome by too many subplots. What happened to Sabrina? Will Lenny and Julie work it out? Will Julie kill Lenny? Will Lou be found out? Will Julie and Lou find true happiness? The disturbing incest subplot is best forgotten. All this leads to the "surprise" ending that is anything but a surprise.

Much of Cohen's would-be humor comes not from the limp dialogue but from broad, stale situations. Unfortunately for him and the audience, this leaves the ball firmly in director Sturgis Warner's court. Under his anemic direction, Lenny & Lou flounders. The staging is pedestrian, and attempts at sight gags fall flat. Of particular note is a blatantly unfunny sex scene between Julie and Lenny, complete with gratuitous nudity that comes off as offensive and uncomfortable. Warner allows his actors to run amok, offering little if any guidance.

Mogentale and James suffer most from Warner's lax direction. As a sexually explosive, bickering couple who hate as much as they love, their chemistry fizzles. Mogentale struggles to find his footing as the immature Lenny, but ultimately succumbs to the script's many failings by relying on bugged eyes and cross-dressing to score laughs. James's Julie screams a lot and squints her eyes in anger, but manages a great accent and a well-executed tough-girl façade.

Wall finds a few moments of honesty in the loud script. He imbues Lou with an appropriately lost stare and an unwavering conviction that almost makes the character likable, despite his actions. As Fran, Toren makes the best of her largely underwritten role. Her character is decidedly unlikable, yet Toren commits to every moment, however salacious they may be. In one of the play's few bright spots, Carolyn Michelle Smith turns in a funny and engaging performance in the all too brief role of Sabrina.

Lenny & Lou wants so much to be shocking. From every trite vulgarity to each hackneyed scenario, it begs its audience to applaud its daring indecency. But in its efforts to provoke, the only thing brutal about this play is having to sit through it.

Dirty Work

Sleeping Booty. Throbin Wood. Snow White and the Seven Sailors. These were the characters and stories that captivated 11-year-old Andrew Goffman, and, as you may suspect, this was not the stuff of innocent fairy tales—instead, Snow White and her Seven Sailors were engaged in full-blown, hard-core pornography. In his one-man show, The Accidental Pervert, Goffman blends standup comedy with drama to tell his personal story of coming to terms with an (accidental) addiction to pornography. Although he successfully displays his extensive knowledge of the genre while managing to land a number of well-timed jokes, the show fails to deliver on its promise and potential. Instead of delving more deeply into more substantive questions about his addiction and its consequences, Goffman contentedly skims over the surface, reducing the show to a rather sophomoric exercise in easy jokes and bathroom humor.

"None of us start out to be a pervert," Goffman asserts. "It's life that does it to you." Life, in this case, turns out to be dirty videos and a VCR. When his father moves out, Goffman's idyllic family life is shattered. Longing to feel close to his father, he scours his closet, discovering a hidden cardboard box filled with porn. The videos become addiction and escape for Goffman, warping his mind and skewing his expectations of what both women and sex should be.

That pornography has the power to manipulate one's thoughts is hardly new information, and Goffman's retelling of his sexual awakening as influenced by pornography lacks shock value. Instead, his stories are often conventional, predictable, and tiresome. Yes, his mother forbade him to masturbate ("Don't touch yourself down there or your hand will stick to it"). Yes, he played doctor with a young female friend so they could see each other naked. Yes, his first real sexual encounter (at 15) was a disappointment. We've heard these stories before, and we'll hear them again.

Unfortunately, the fresh and potentially enlightening story Goffman could tell is left largely unexamined. When he meets his future wife, Maria, he tells us, he changes from a womanizing, self-destructive cad into a straight-laced, responsible man. And when they have a daughter, Goffman throws away his porn collection for good. Regrettably, he does little to explore exactly why and how these transformations take place. He does tell us that he suddenly realizes the women in the porn videos could be his wife or daughter, but it seems unbelievable that the revelation could be so instantaneous and complete. And why, for example, didn't he have this revelation when he fell in love with his wife (a "good girl," as he describes her)?

While Goffman hits the mark on a few of the more humorous aspects of adolescence and childbearing (his take on conceiving a child is particularly witty), director Charles Messina would do well to excise or shorten many of the silly, protracted porn fantasies and dance sequences in favor of a more detailed exploration of Goffman's choices and character. Surrounded by an old recliner, a large TV screen, and a hefty jar of Vaseline, Goffman makes an amiable confidant. His self-portrayal, however, most often feels paper-thin. Adding dimension and depth to his characterization would make us sympathize with him more (as well as explain why his wife—presumably so intelligent and accomplished—would fall in love with him).

The Accidental Pervert is, as intended, a story about pornography and the dangers of projecting fantasy onto reality. Its noticeable gaps, however, are the most intriguing parts of Goffman's story, and many powerful questions go unanswered. How did his wife react to his obsession with porn? How did his "kinda-sorta" twisted view of women begin to change? How did pornography influence his ideas about manhood and masculinity? And if pornography was a "legacy" or "rite of manhood" unwittingly passed down from his father, what does this say about societal expectations for men?

Raised on Woodcock Lane in Blue Ball, Pa., near the town of Intercourse, Goffman seems almost absurdly well suited to telling a story of unintentional perversion. While at times endearing, The Accidental Pervert is too often cutesy and contrived, and the image Goffman projects is less of a grown man who has dealt with an addiction and more of a mischievous boy who still revels in discussing its depravity. Although he claims to have thrown out the porn for good, you get the feeling he might still have one copy of Sleeping Booty stashed away somewhere, just waiting to be discovered. Accidentally, of course.

Mother Dearest

"The world is getting more brutish," trophy wife Gloria Temple tells her estranged daughter, Marcie. "And that makes art even more important." Temple's reasons for saying this are selfish: she wants her daughter to abandon her happy bohemian life in New Mexico to take over the family's New York business, a foundation for the performing arts. But her quote feels resonant outside its context, especially in regards to this production of December Fools, playing at the Abingdon Theater Company. Perhaps playwright Sherman Yellen has expressed his own feelings in this dialogue, for this funny, touching and inspiring story of a mother and daughter coming to terms with their past is a perfect illustration of why art is important.

Temple, played by the distinguished stage veteran Elizabeth Shepherd, is the vivacious, driving force in this story. Though she is a sick, elderly woman dependent on her trusted housekeeper, Mrs. Hogan (Celia Howard), to help her get around, she carries herself with a stunning grace that can come only from one who has lived an upper-crust lifestyle. There is a spark in her eyes and a fire to her personality that give us a glimpse of the kind of lady she must have been many years ago when she married a philandering Broadway composer.

Her wayward daughter Marcie (Arleigh Richards) has inherited her inner fire, if nothing else. The rift between them is visually obvious. Gloria is a graceful, refined woman often clad in furs and silk shawls. Marcie stumbles around in jeans and a sweater, hardly what one would expect from the privileged daughter of a celebrated Broadway composer and his elegant wife.

But despite their image as a prosperous Broadway legend's picture-perfect family, neither Gloria nor Marcie has led a happy life. Both women were wronged by the men they loved, betrayed by those they trusted, and hurt by the tragic, senseless loss of a family member. Marcie has no hesitations in vocalizing her disgust with the world around her, but Gloria can express her feelings only by writing letters she never plans to send.

Her nonconfrontational approach comes back to haunt her the day Marcie accidentally stumbles upon her collection of indictments against family, friends, and acquaintances. One letter hits particularly close to home, as it involves a hurtful secret her mother has lied about for years. Determined to right this injustice, Marcie mails the letters.

When December Fools opens, it appears the main conflict will be Gloria's efforts to keep her daughter in New York to run the family business, but as the play unfolds, it is clear there is much more at stake. Gloria and Marcie are two divided souls trying to find a common ground, not only because they are family but also because they need each other. When they face off, they are evenly matched, as only a mother and daughter can be. Their verbal battles are laced with telling one-liners and weighty revelations, but in the end there can be no winner. Both women carry a heavy amount of baggage and will never be fully relieved of the burden.

Their history feels deeply rooted and real. Shepherd and Richards are thoroughly convincing in their roles, especially in the climactic final fight where stifled emotions bubbling beneath the play's surface explode in a flurry of hurtful accusations. The conclusion spares us a neat resolution. The characters continue on, shouldering their burdens and harboring their resentment, yet acknowledging that in the end none of this matters when all they have is each other.

In a beautiful and touching line of dialogue, Gloria says, "Memories make such bad company. They come uninvited, overstay their welcome, and leave a mess when they go." Indeed, these memories have left quite a mess. Fortunately, Marcie and Gloria reach a place where they find it in themselves to clean things up together.

Child is Father to the Man

Sam Shepard Rodgers Jr.'s father arrived home from World War II with shrapnel lodged in his neck. Junior was an Army brat; his father, a nomad who moved his family from Illinois corn country to the Badlands to rainy Guam to the balmy weather of Southern California. Sunshine and happiness didn't suit the old man. Instead, he just wandered off one day to live alone in the arid desert of New Mexico, where he eventually burned to death and became the land. Still a teenager, Junior decided to leave town and hitched up with a troupe of traveling actors performing in churches, then hit the road to New York City. There, he dropped his family name and took to jazz and rock 'n' roll, bussing tables, playing cowboy, and writing crazy plays.

Buried Child, for which he received the 1979 Pulitzer Prize, is not one of Shepard's crazier dramas; it is, rather, a drama about the impulses of craziness that well up when family skeletons are repressed. In the words of director and longtime Shepard interpreter Cyndy Marion, it is "structurally his finest play." The mythic bronco bucking of Shepard's early works—with their jagged and jazzy improvisations—is here harnessed with a mature guile and a mastery of form.

In Buried Child, Shepard lays a slow fuse of narrative to ignite the spontaneous, combustible images of his early plays. The psychological and symbolic impact is more profound than a random fireworks display. The bitterness and betrayals exchanged between fathers and sons are given an eloquent and excoriatingly rigorous expression.

As the play begins, an old man named Dodge is harassed by his wife yammering from the next room. Dodge's aging son, Tilden, brings in corn and husks it. Something is amiss: there hasn't been corn outside for years.

Vince, Tilden's son, arrives at the house with his big-city girlfriend, Shelly. No one in the family claims to recognize him. Vince drives off to fetch Dodge a bottle of whiskey, leaving Shelly behind to fend for herself amid his messed-up, madcap relatives. Bradley, Tilden's brother with a wooden leg, nearly rapes her.

The next morning, Dodge's wife viciously attacks everyone in sight. Only Shelly has the nerve to stand up to her. But the family members refuse to acknowledge Shelly—as if she were the surrogate for the audience members, who are powerless interlopers in this violent family romance. Dodge, perhaps impelled by Shelly's boldness and recognizing his own impending death, unleashes the family's secret—the buried child.

Vince comes staggering back, smashing beer bottles on the porch as if they were hand grenades. Now it's Vince who can barely recognize his family; Shelly who's not sure who he is. It's as if Vince, climbing through the porch screen ripped open with a knife, is the buried child, exhumed and birthed from a new womb.

Dodge, before dying, cedes Vince the house. In doing so, Vince's epiphany during his nightlong drive—that his "face became his father's face, and his father's face changed to his grandfather's face"—is given dramatic truth. Vince begins to resume the same posture Dodge had on the couch in the play's beginning, curling up like a crumpled fetus.

The sudden transformations at the play's finale do not feel forced, which is a triumph both of Shepard's writing and the control with which the cast members portray their characters. They do so with a stark realistic edge and generous amounts of dark humor in the midst of madness.

Paralyzed, impotent, emasculated, and put upon, the males in this drama are all losers and loners, formless half-wits and former halfbacks, invisible and dead to the world in one way or another. Yet while each reflects the others in a sort of shattered hologram, each has a peculiar isolation all his own.

Rod Sweitzer as Tilden mesmerizes with his eerie, autistic stare. Bill Rowley as Dodge manages to give complex shadings to his character, who can go from a mean ol' cuss to a surprisingly sympathetic man beaten down by life in his second childhood. Likewise, Ginger Kroll as Shelly gains our affection despite her first impression as a stuck-up big-city girl. Chris Stetson as Vince displays both the swagger and vulnerability necessary for the role.

Like the painting of a whitewashed farmhouse half buried under rows of overgrown corn, which hangs from the set's wall, this profoundly moving production of Buried Child reveals uncanny levels of significance underlying a seemingly innocuous portrait of an American family.

Her Tormented Selves

The Classical Theater of Harlem has faithfully mounted Adrienne Kennedy's 1964 Obie Award winner, Funnyhouse of a Negro. Directed by Billie Allen, who starred in the original Off-Broadway version, the current production unearths the stark racial torment characteristic of the 60's civil rights era. There is immense value in this kind of artistic faithfulness; by witnessing Negro Sarah's descent into madness, we are jolted by the depiction of her barefaced self-hatred and mental torment. She is a light-skinned black woman who feels betrayed by her complexion, tainted because she is almost light enough to be considered a member of the majority race. Almost, but not quite.

One could argue that if Sarah had been wholly and unmistakably black, she would have at least been afforded membership in a community that gathered strength and pride in the civil rights struggle. Sarah goes mad because she exists in the non-space between mutually antagonist races at a historical moment when that antagonism comes to a head.

In the one-hour play, which is like a tension-filled snapshot of madness, Negro Sarah is tormented by "herselves," whiteface black ghosts of a crucified Christ (Lincoln Brown), the Duchess of Hapsburg (Monica Stith), Queen Victoria Regina (Trish McCall), and the martyred African nationalist Patrice Lumumba (Willie E. Teacher).

That we cannot completely trust the stories Sarah tells—she is mad, after all—only intensifies the play's sense of distress. Sarah raves that she was violently conceived when her father raped her mother in a moment of rage. Her confusing and confounding narrative speaks to the inheritance of madness: after the rape her mother went mad and her hair began to fall out, while Sarah's father was troubled because he could not live up to his own mother's expectation that he would save the black race.

At several points during the play, Sarah refers to a complexion-based value system that has her struggling between opposite poles. "My mother," she coos, "looked like a white woman, hair as straight as any white woman's. I am yellow, but he is black, the darkest one of us all." The Duchess of Hapsburg and Queen Victoria Regina are the two herselves who represent Sarah's self-loathing the most. They are porcelain images of royalty and femininity who play out the young woman's visions of sexual desire.

Suzette Azariah Gunn is an exceptional Negro Sarah because she believably and admirably maintains what must be an exhausting level of anxiety throughout the play. She allows that anxiety to color the other emotions Sarah displays, including a kind of fraught anger at Patrice Lumumba and a worshipful deference toward Queen Victoria Regina. The actors playing herselves complement Gunn's performance with an automaton otherworldliness, especially Monica Stith as the Duchess of Hapsburg.

In keeping well within the visual and narrative boundaries established by Kennedy's script, the current production does not deconstruct or comment upon the original play but re-presents it like a thing unearthed from a time capsule. The fight for civil rights feels a bit different compared with 40 years ago; we've survived identity politics and are experiencing a shift from race- to class-based struggles for equality. I wonder if there is room for this play to recreate itself and, in so doing, speak to the nuanced versions of himselves and herselves that lurk about in the minds of the distressed today.

Inner Life of an Outer Borough

While Manhattan might be the proverbial melting pot, Brooklyn is more like a smorgasbord of borscht and oxtail stew, spicy red curries, and dim sum dumplings. The rich diversity of the borough has a long history, too. Brooklyn—or Breuckelen, in the original Dutch, meaning "broken land"—has always been a city of down-on-their-heels eccentrics, from the Mohawks who lived in Gowanus and helped build the first skyscrapers to the more recent immigrants from Russia in Brighton Beach, Poland in Greenpoint, the Caribbean in Flatbush, or Puerto Rico in South Williamsburg. Chris Van Strander's new play, Breuckelen, puts Brooklyn's newest wave of immigrants—glib, disaffected hipsters—into the perspective of the borough's storied past. As one of the play's most poignant moments reveals, Brooklyn is a metropolis where the living literally walk upon the dead, since potter's fields abound underneath many major landmarks. Grand Army Plaza, we learn, used to be the site of public hangings. But while the play does attempt some somber realizations, its brightest moments occur when it simply revels in the exuberance of its wacky characters.

The play begins as if it were an open mike night at a typical Williamsburg bar. The performers for this framing device change every week—I saw a slam poet, a standup comedian, and a folk singer. Overall, their quality was much higher than one would expect from a typical open mike, and entertaining enough for their five- to ten-minute spots.

The last open mike performer who takes the stage, Melissa Schneider, segues into the plot of the play proper. She gives a monologue in the guise of a longtime Bushwick resident who is asking people to sign a petition to stop the rezoning laws that would allow a cherished local museum to be torn down. After she takes her seat back in the audience, a twenty-something from Park Slope (Jack Ferry) with the requisite thick black frames and laptop approaches her with such pickup lines as "Are you from Tennessee? 'Cause you're the only ten I see" and "I'm new around here, do you think you could give me directions to your apartment?"

Their exchange of quick-witted quips reveals that he's a lonely blogger lacking any historical sensibility, while she is a witch (not Wiccan) who conjures exotic spirits from the past. Ferry and Schneider have a fun chemistry that easily elicits laughs, and the script for this scene provides ample jokes. Their tête-à-tête can be difficult to hear, however, depending on where one sits in the audience.

The rest of the play is devoted to monologues from the ghosts of Brooklyn's past, which range from a lesbian owner of a speakeasy to a Russian squatter who was booted to make way for Prospect Park. Director Matthew Didner has chosen to stage simultaneous monologues to different sections of the audience, which are later repeated to the other side. While intriguing at first, this technique quickly becomes a distraction, then irritating, and finally boring, since one may have already tuned in to the monologue across the room when the one closer seemed less interesting.

Karie Christina Hunt upstages all the other ghosts as she whisks in on roller skates while rocking out to the Beastie Boys. She plays the naïf teen "guidette" stereotype from Sunset Beach in punk-rock 80's garb: a pink and black miniskirt; a tight, cleavage-bearing rainbow sequins top; and florescent-green knee-high socks. She tells the story of how a slimy older guy in a speedo picked her up by promising to get her on his cable-access TV show, and then took her to an abandoned building where the roof collapsed on them as they made love. Funnier and flashier than the more dour monologues by the other ghosts, hers may be worth listening to twice.

The problem with the other monologues is that they attempt to be the tragic equivalent of a punch line. Such short-form drama has a hard time pulling the heartstrings, however, when the late-night beer-drinking crowd is focused on "rollergirl" gyrating in the background.

One aspect I found disconcerting was that in a play that purported to be about the marginalized histories of a city boasting enormous diversity (in fact, all the ghosts were women), no people of color were in the cast. Now, I'm not the P.C. police, but a fair representation of Brooklyn's richness would demand at least a token Muslim, Dominican, or African-American.

Like an open mike night itself, the whole show was hit or miss: some monologues and scenes evoked spot-on laughs about our shared frames of reference and Brooklyn's encroaching gentrification. Other acts or monologues languished under the weight of their dreary earnestness.

But, like Brooklyn the city, Breuckelen the play is worth the trek: while you might not like all the characters, you're sure to find a few amusing.

Good Neighbors

Nowadays, actors are not content simply to be told what to do and say. Their discontent frequently leads them into the more powerful roles of writer and director. Sometimes they are looking for different means of self-expression. Sometimes they want to explore careers that don't end at age 50. And sometimes they just feel they could do the jobs better than the current crop. Jeff Daniels, known mostly for his film work, has been writing shows for his Michigan-based Purple Rose Theater Company for the past 15 years, a fact that the average moviegoer (and even theatergoer) may not know. But what's most surprising about his theatrical work is not that he's doing it but that, if Apartment 3A is any indication, he's doing it so well.

Producers Lisa Dozier and Traci Klainer are presenting Apartment 3A at the ArcLight Theater, a classic proscenium stage within a church and a fitting location for this spiritually minded piece. When the play opens, public television employee Annie Wilson moves into the titular apartment after catching her boyfriend "in bed" (or, really, on a table) with another woman. Her self-sought isolation in the new building is shattered by Donald, her nosy but well-intentioned neighbor across the hall. He pushes Annie to engage with the world and the people around her, including Elliot, a co-worker who's desperately in love with her. What Annie needs most is to discover her faith in the world so she can find her faith in love.

Amy Landecker's Annie is private, sarcastic, and introverted, but also very passionate, funny, and smart. Landecker makes sense of the open and hidden areas of the character's personality while at the same time hinting at further complexity. And her interactions with the other actors crackle with life and intensity.

As the quirky and faithfully married Donald, Joseph Collins finds a way to keep "nonthreatening" from being boring. And Arian Moayed invests Elliot with a boyish energy that becomes sexy once Annie, and the audience, catches on to his deeper passions and eccentricities.

Set designer Lauren Helpern has created an apartment set that most young audience members would find nicer than their own dwellings, with dark-wood floors and a lovely, powder-blue paint job. A projected TV logo on the wall and the conversion of the kitchen into an editing room transforms 3A into Annie's office, a very effective solution for streamlining the scene changes.

Daniels's script pops with witty exchanges that are neither too smart nor dumb for the room; every joke worked, even in a crowd that ranged in age from 20's to 70's. When the tone shifted from comic to serious, the author's words and the actors' delivery made for seamless transitions.

Valentina Fratti's assured direction kept the action moving along while allowing for the kind of pauses that occur naturally in awkward situations. The most refreshing aspect of this production was its polish—a rare and beautiful thing in Off-Off-Broadway theater.

Daniels has earned much praise recently for his acting in the indie film The Squid and the Whale. While no one would want to keep a gifted actor from doing good performances, one hopes that as a playwright he'll continue to turn out moving, character-driven plays like this one. Who knows? Perhaps one of these days he'll be better known for his side career than for his day job.

Trash to Treasure

Welcome to Objeté, the trash heap of the imagination, where bits of wood, tools, toys, and antique furniture litter the landscape, left to rot in a forgotten wasteland. Produced by the Cosmic Bicycle Theater and the creative genius of the multitalented Jonathan Edward Cross, the show is a visually stunning feast for the eyes that springs to magnificent life in an explosion of childlike abandon and brilliant imagination. Equal parts puppet show and Dada cabaret, it offers pure magic that will enchant children and stir to life the sleeping child within those older. Discarded objects populate the world of Objeté, telling the tender story of Johnny Clock Works (aka Jonathan Edward Cross) and his assistant, Emmy Bean. Johnny longs to experience the world, to fly away, but he remains confined to his little corner of the world with his faithful friend by his side. As the delightful twosome bring the forgotten denizens to life with a mixture of humor, hope, and music, the audience witnesses a wonderful transformation as waste becomes raw materials and decaying debris turns into living beauty. An old grandfather clock lays eggs. An enamel coffeepot becomes a belligerent man. The blades of a fan form wings to fly. An eggbeater and copper mold take the shape of a dancing chorus girl. An antique trunk becomes a boat.

Imagination gives way to Johnny Clock Works's story amidst the backdrop of a silly cabaret. Emceed by a gruff-talking, cigar-chomping baby marionette, the cabaret features a pair of Abbott-and-Costello-style prosthetic legs. Surmounted by fake teeth, the legs tell bad jokes while a sexy dancer, made up of shapely legs, an antique clock, and a red boa, cancans the night away. The cabaret comes to a conclusion with a heavenly chanteuse, in the form of an angelic baby-doll marionette, who sweetly sings herself to sleep. With the help of Emmy, Johnny finds his way through the trash heap into his imagination and beyond, fulfilling his dream to fly off and see the world.

Cross's imagination is nothing short of breathtaking. As writer, director, designer, puppeteer, and star, he displays a talent matched only by his boundless dedication to his craft. His inspiring vision culminates in a hypnotic 50-minute production that is often intriguing, always amusing, and genuinely wonderful.

The radiant Emmy Bean lights up the stage. Never saying more than a half-dozen words, she uses her body and facial expressions to create a fully realized character of affecting depth and humor. With her incandescent smile and sad eyes, Bean is a delightful foil to Cross's fumbling hero.

With this show, Cross has created a vivid reality out of a capricious fantasy. Talking babies, dancing clocks, and a dreamscape of poetic magic await the audience at every turn. Objeté will captivate both children and adults with its whimsical journey into the heart of dreams.

Funniest Mother Around

I am not Jewish, and I am not a mother. Fortunately, neither condition is a prerequisite for attending—or enjoying—25 Questions for a Jewish Mother, Judy Gold's entertaining one-woman show at Ars Nova. What first drew me to this production was not Gold's reputation, which I recognized, but the reputation of the credited writer, Kate Moira Ryan. I'd never seen one of her plays, but I had seen her name mentioned again and again in relation to downtown theater, and I wanted to become familiar with her work.

After watching this show, I still don't believe I've seen a Kate Moira Ryan play. That is, this production didn't look like a play. Instead, I felt as though I were in a small cabaret, set up with only a chair and a microphone, watching Gold perform her life's story, along with the stories of the Jewish mothers interviewed for this project.

The influence of Ryan, director Karen Kohlhaas, and the show's designers was undetectable throughout the hour-plus production. Gold's performance seemed well practiced, but never scripted or staged. The others clearly supported her, and the result appears effortless and polished.

Part standup routine, part autobiography, and part investigative performance, 25 Questions has Gold introducing us to the larger-than-life character of her mother and wondering why exactly she is the way she is, leading her to ask whether she's likely to turn out the same way. In order to better understand her own mother, Gold and Ryan pose 25 questions to Jewish women—all mothers—from a variety of backgrounds.

For the performance, the stage is divided into thirds. All interview questions are asked and answered stage left. Stage right is reserved for excerpts of standup comedy routines, while the narrative is told from center stage. We hear the question asked, followed by a recorded voice indicating to us the number of children, occupation, and level of religious observance (Orthodox, Reform, etc.) of the mother we are about to meet. Taking a seat, Gold then re-enacts that mother answering her question.

The questions ranged from the expected (what typifies a Jewish mother?) to the universal (what is your biggest regret?) to the very specific (how do you feel about the way women are treated in your religion?). Each question illustrates Gold's story, a tale that begins with childhood and charts her adolescence, her early career, her identity as a gay woman, and, finally, her introduction to motherhood. The questions worked well as transitions and advanced the narrative without losing touch with its premise.

Gold is probably best known to audiences as a comic, and her ease in front of a crowd is instantly apparent. Her deadpan delivery is perfect for the wry tone of the material she performs. She morphs well into each interviewee; she was able to inhabit them physically instead of relying too much on the standard comedy technique of impersonation. There was not a particularly wide range of characterization, since all the interview subjects were female, and I would have preferred knowing the age of each woman Gold portrayed, as these details were only occasionally referenced in their answers. When they were not obvious, I had some trouble differentiating between a 45-year-old and someone older.

I also struggled to differentiate new mothers, mothers of young children, and mothers of grown children. While these details weren't needed to understand the responses, I often got distracted trying to figure out which category each mother belonged in.

Just past the halfway point, the show seemed to lose its quick pace when Gold's story shifted to 9/11 and her run-in with the U.S. Homeland Security Department. However, the connection to her mother remained constant, and when, at the end, Gold herself answers one of the interview questions, we realize that she too is a Jewish mother. This is never a fact that she hides; she makes a point of mentioning it at the beginning of the show. But until the audience sees her sitting in the interview chair—no longer affecting another's posture or voice—she still seems slightly distanced from this world.

Many of the questions in this project could be asked of any woman, because they deal with basic gender-identity issues and the relationship of motherhood to modern society. Gold's goal is to explore these areas in her own life. She poses serious questions and receives serious answers, but balances them beautifully with humor and a winking self-deprecation. One interviewee, when asked for the best advice she had received from her mother, declared it was optimism. Through Gold's energetic performance, this optimistic spirit pervades the show, and I left feeling happy, hopeful, and with an overwhelming urge to call my mother.

Psycho/Sexual

Nelson Avidon's new play, Girl in Heat, now at the Michael Weller Theater, isn't so much a fresh skirmish in the war of the sexes as it is a recap of the conflict's main themes. She's crazy; he's horny. Mind games and clumsy flirtation—the former by her and the latter by him—unsurprisingly ensue. It's tempting to dismiss the piece reflexively, the same way you would wave a hand at a friend telling you something you already know. And if Girl had been cast any differently, this might indeed have been the best way to salute both its coming and its passing. But someone, either Avidon or director Robert Walden, had the good sense to cast Avidon himself and the wonderful Cheryl Leibert. What might otherwise have been as erotically charged as a student essay on Freud becomes, in their hands, less a two-dimensional map than a light sketch of familiar territory. In their best moments—the ones where they are man and woman, instead of "man" and "woman"—you can practically smell the pheromones in Avidon's script.

Given the general lawlessness of the gender war, it's a welcome comedic touch to stage this particular tussle in a lawyer's office. (The richly convincing set is by Maya Kaplun.) Joseph (Avidon) is a litigator coming up for partner in his firm and a married man. Marilyn (Leibert) is a young temp in the last hours of her summer employment. After everyone else in the firm has left for the night, she invites herself into his office for her particular brand of face time with the boss. The erotic tête-à-tête that follows alternates between playful Eskimo kisses and brutal, emotional head butting.

The imbalance is clichéd. He has everything to lose—wife, job, future—while she has nothing, not even (surprise, surprise) her sanity. But underneath its conventions, Girl is entertaining for spotlighting the irrationality at the heart of the human mating dance, particularly on the male end: just how much abuse and manipulation will a man put up with when the carrot of sex hangs, he thinks, just within his reach? The question is practically a part of testosterone's chemical composition.

And if Joseph is any indication, the answer is: quite a lot. Marilyn begins to break him down almost before she's opened his door, mostly through an aggressive insincerity that Joseph is too libidinous to take offense at. As she asks after an exceptionally nasty mood swing, "We're playing games, aren't we?" "Sure," he responds, perhaps a touch too lightly. "Well," she presses, "where's your competitive spirit?"

Elsewhere, after one of her more disconcerting maneuvers, Joseph is left to gawk. "Where did you come from?" he asks, to which Marilyn will only offer, "From reception." Leibert is a torrent of inappropriate emotion; it's a pleasure to watch her sweep the buffoonish Joseph away.

For his part, Avidon uses his wonderfully expressive face to chart Joseph's slow slide backward—as he submits himself ever more fully to Marilyn's wiles—until he has landed squarely in his long-past teenage years. "This is what I thought sex would be like before I had sex for the first time," he giddily confesses while Leibert looks on at him with inscrutable, cold eyes. She is his captor. He is the willing captive. Avidon is cheekily walking us through the Stockholm syndrome of the dating man.

It's a shame, then, that Avidon the writer doesn't walk us as far as we could go. Girl is only two-thirds of a decent play. Questions about what effect the various secrets and bodily fluids swapped by the pair will have on both their lives—in his case, professionally as well as personally—are brought to a fever pitch, only to be abruptly tied off in a nice, writerly bow. A little messiness can be a virtue, however. If Girl in Heat needs to be tied off at all, I would have preferred a tourniquet.

On the Front Lines

The International Federation of Journalists recently issued a report documenting that 150 journalists and media staff died in 2005, the most ever recorded in a one-year time period. This statistic should debunk the old notion of the glamorous life led by war correspondents, if it has not been proved archaic already. But what this document does not touch on—and what the evening news neglects to report—is the price paid by the thousands who do survive. Safety, a new play by award-winning British playwright Chris Thorpe, aims to shed light on this disturbing situation. Safety is the second part in a trilogy of plays that examine various aspects of the human experience in response to violent political conflict. It is the dark and complex tale of Michael (David Wilson Barnes), a British war photographer renowned for his iconic global images in the late 20th century. He is an absentee husband and father who has trained himself to see the world through a lens—an occupational hazard of sorts. This allows him to remain at a safe distance, not only from the violent images he documents but also from his own family. But when a stranger named Sean saves Michael's young daughter from drowning while Michael was standing only feet away, he is forced to re-evaluate his roles as a journalist, husband, and father.

Thorpe's play, under the superb direction of Daisy Walker, maintains a heightened level of intensity throughout. This intensity is echoed in designer Kevin Judge's stark, white minimalist set, which doubles as a hotel room and Michael's living room. The set is startling in its emptiness, and in essence represents the dichotomy between the disturbing acts Michael has witnessed and the void it has left in him. The fact that the living room is without any family photographs—and he is a photographer—and that it also serves as the place where Michael carries on an affair with a journalist further illustrates this point.

On this blank canvas, the talented ensemble cast, led by Barnes, delivers compelling performances all around. They clearly relish playing the complex characters Thorpe has created. None are very likable, but none are despicable either. They are human and real.

Michael's wife, Susan, has given up on him and on their marriage. She used to be dazzled by his job and loved hearing about his adventures, but now she is disillusioned by the toll it has taken on her family. Katie Firth plays her with a dejected reserve that enables her to maintain a sense of strength and dignity.

Sean, played by Jeffrey Clarke, at first appears awkward and weak when he comes to the couple's house for dinner. He brings a jar of peanuts as a present, arrives soaking wet, and feels completely out of place in the upscale surroundings. This causes Michael to underestimate Sean's inner fire, a result of serving time in jail. He scorns Michael for his inablity to save his daughter and for his photographs that chronicle death without making an attempt to preserve life. Clarke's performance makes believable the young man's transition, in the course of one evening, from being feeble to being in control.

Susan Molloy plays the other woman in Michael's life. She is a features writer and celebrity interviewer who meets him on assignment and becomes infatuated more with his lifestyle than with their relationship. Susan is Michael 20 years ago, eager to take on the world and naïve about the cost.

But the show belongs to Barnes and his controlled performance as the conflicted photographer. Michael unapologetically embodies the contradictions of those in the profession and the difficulties they face. Barnes's performance--part blowhard, part masochist, part weakling—is equally unapologetic, and honest and raw. Perhaps for the first time is his life, Michael is exposed. After his daughter's near tragedy, he is forced in front of the camera without his weapon of choice—the lens—to rely on. Barnes skillfully captures the unfamiliar sense of vulnerability that Michael experiences.

Thorpe writes in his program notes that Michael "and those who do the job in the real world are unquestionably brave, committed, and necessary." Safety allows us to begin to understand the psychological and emotional price that these men and women pay. A finely crafted play that is of the moment, it is one of those important works that will change the way you look at the world.

Big Chill

"I come in the cold, wintry night, chilling everything in sight," croons a menacing Mr. Cool to a freezing child named Irene Bobbin, who's on a mission to deliver a dress in a blizzard. Brave Irene is the latest play to come out of the innovative Manhattan Children's Theater, a company that consistently meets its goal of providing quality entertainment for children and adults alike. Written and adapted to play format by William Steig, Brave Irene is a beautifully realized production that chills your spine and melts your heart. Designer Cully Long provides instant shivers with his frosty set. A giant white snowflake is painted across the pale blue floor of a dim living room, framed by snowy white trees and dangling icicles. In the room's center hangs an elegant pink dress fit for a princess, clearly out of place in its meager surroundings.

The play opens with Irene (Heather Weneck) eagerly watching her mother, Mrs. Bobbin (Maura Kirzon Malone), put the finishing touches on the dress, which we learn is intended for the Duchess's ball. Mrs. Bobbin is a rosy-cheeked mother, pleasantly resigned to her lot in life designing clothes for balls she can only watch through a window. Irene takes her mother's role in the Duchess's ball preparations very seriously, and when Mrs. Bobbin falls ill, Irene instantly volunteers to deliver the dress in her place.

The first courageous step of her journey is tiptoeing out of her cozy, candlelit home and into the bitter night. Once outside, Irene stands alone, hugging a pale green dress box to her chest while the wind whistles around her. It is not long before the wintry elements emerge to slow her progress. Three mischievous Snowflakes (Christopher Kloko, Perryn Pomatto, and Britni Orcutt) circle her in black and white dress suits while she gleefully attempts to catch them.

The fun ends when the wind picks up and the Snowflakes' aggression increases. They bellow, "Go home, Irene," shoving her back and forth between them, wrestling the box from her arms, and finally waving the dress before her horrified eyes. "We're taking all your dreams away," they say, before disappearing into the darkness.

Irene sinks to her knees crying, as all her mother's long hours stitching and hemming the gown have amounted to nothing. Weighted by her failure, she trudges on, hoping to plead her case to the Duchess so she will know the Bobbin family tried to make good on their responsibility to her.

Weneck's portrayal of Irene is sweet and touching, especially in the understated way she conveys her fear with worried, darting eyes as if registering for the first time the dangers that lurk outside her mother's home. We feel for her helplessness in the face of the elements, especially Mr. Cool (Pomatto), who circles her like a schoolyard bully with rolled-up sleeves and a confident swagger. Irene's desperate attempts to fight him off involve countering all his icy whisperings with thoughts of warm things. When Mr. Cool hisses, "Turning blue," she defiantly responds, "Barbecue!"

But her true inspiration comes from the Trees (Orcutt, Pomatto, and Kloko), stunningly costumed with shimmering white branches tied to their arms and crowning their heads. When Irene is lost, frostbitten, and swallowed by the night, the Trees tell her in a tender song that "love will carry you through the darkness." Thinking of her mother, Irene plows on.

Joan Cushing's upbeat musical lyrics give the play the colorful touch it needs to comfort children as Irene's situation worsens. At the same time, adults in the audience are likely to appreciate the complexity of her obstacles, along with the strong but simple moral she learns when overcoming them. Children will certainly see a heroine and kindred spirit in young Irene. She is a small girl who, when confronted by a large, cold world, fights against the odds to prove to all her doubters that one does not need to be big in order to be brave.

Quixotic Reveries

If you crave minimalist, character-driven drama where playwrights construct complex yet coherent plots, actors invest themselves in the psychology of their characters, and directors have a totalizing style and vision, then the sublimely subversive group with the officious-sounding name the National Theater of The United States of America is not for you. On the other hand, this troupe of merry pranksters offers "maximalist" experimental spectacle driven by myths and metaphors, arresting images, and restless slapstick and vaudeville. While their plays don't always add up, that's often beside the point—or, perhaps, that is the point: theater is not supposed to be an equation. The sum of their disparate parts—which includes influences as diverse as Dada cabaret, big Broadway extravaganzas, and the twilight zones of Sam Shepherd and David Lynch—always seems happily greater than the whole.

Their newest creation, ABSN: RJAB (Abacus Black Strikes NOW!: The Rampant Justice of Abacus Black), is their first to be performed in a "legitimate" theater space, P.S. 122, though some of their members have been working together since 1997.

Abacus is a parable about the stubborn quixotism that is necessary to pursue one's artistic calling in the face of technocratic philistines and corporate zombies who devour brains. At least, that was my reading of it.

To say that this theatrical event is "about" anything besides its own exuberant theatricality (and the sharing of experience that is its prerequisite) raises the very notion of theater that this group challenges. What makes theater unique as an art form is not plot or characters or a unifying vision but those momentary and too-often elusive experiences of participation in an event that is potentially transformative because it has the immediacy and liveliness of human interaction in a community.

After a purposefully alienating welcome by the show's impresario, the actors construct not one but two stages in the process of a dance sequence set to deafening glam rock. The first is a Coney Island-like sideshow proscenium arch, while the second is a small, slightly elevated "black-box" stage, which lurks behind it. Most of the action, however, takes place between these two frames. Narrators on the proscenium describe the 600-year journey of Abacus Black, an aging knight in search of the lost City of Gold, then reveal vignettes of this story behind the curtain while they strike poses as caryatids.

An impromptu third stage even appears at one point for a mock puppet show, which ends with the largest puppet flipping to become a costume for a character that is part sun god, part scarecrow, and part Texas chainsaw massacre. Later, near the end of his journey, Abacus himself transforms into a human marionette.

One of the most striking scenes occurs when Abacus wraps his legs like a knapsack over the shoulders of a disbelieving yet loyal shaman figure who plays Sancho Panza to Abacus's Don Quixote. The shaman carries Abacus on his back so they may continue their mythic quest. Distant wolf howls pierce the static noise of surf in the background, while a smoke arabesque forms a golden, apparitional aura around a plywood cutout of a saguaro.

The story, however, is quick to break down for poignant philosophical fillips, such as "this was in olden times when knowledge brought people together." The story is equally ready to serve up pointlessly surreal songs—one memorable number might be described as a zombie picnic with Mephistopheles meets The Sound of Music.

Although the dance numbers have more panache than precision and one can hear less than half of what Abacus says in his inaudible, synthesized wheeze, the faults of the production do not prevent it from being an odd sort of triumph. It succeeds as conceptual theater—where the concept is to have fun, and to take the risks that fun entails.

The troupe's frenetic energy is catching. Backstage, I imagine the sound and light crews were equally busy multitasking to provide all the smoke-and-mirror effects.

The last—and most lasting—image of the play depicts the decrepit Abacus sitting on his throne (which has turned into a cage), as if his mythic quest ended with him being a sideshow freak, his sallow face illuminated by a small florescent light. The cage is wheeled backward, and his face recedes slowly into the void of history even as he lives on as the Ancient of Days.

The National Theater's method is truly collaborative: each of its members writes, acts, directs, and lends whatever other skills he or she has to the production. This difficult, though not untenable, democratic ideal permeates their performances, too. In their depiction of the continual metamorphosis of the self, from private hallucinatory revelation to public spectacle within the shared space of theater, they may be doing something truly experimental—appealing beyond traditional downtown theater audiences.