In the Mix

After seeing The Mammy Project, it will be hard to look at an Aunt Jemima pancake mix without thinking about its true ingredients: racism, stereotypes, and oppression. Writer and performer Michelle Matlock blows the lid off this century-old pancake box in her must-see one-woman show about a former slave named Nancy Green, who found everlasting fame as the smiling face of Aunt Jemima. In 1889, a man named Chris Rutt was looking for a catchy name for his company's newest product: ready-made just add water pancake mix. He found it while attending a minstrel show, where a black-faced performer sang a catchy song called "Aunt Jemima," which also plays on the soundtrack to Matlock's show. While the tune is indeed catchy, its implications make it hard to tap your toes to.

Minstrel shows were created by white entertainers to humorously depict the lives of slaves through imitation and caricature. In a scene so loaded with truth that its every syllable stings, Matlock performs her own minstrel show with lyrics that blatantly reveal the genre's true intentions. Afterward, she questions whether these shows are truly gone or are merely lying low, waiting for a comeback.

There are scenes and images in The Mammy Project that will stick to your heart, especially since the legacy of Aunt Jemima continues today. Even Matlock was asked to read for the part of Aunt Jemima in a pancake commercial as recently as 2001. It wasn't until she arrived at the casting room and saw the script that the reality of what she was auditioning for sunk in. She couldn't stop thinking about the origins of this role and the woman who made it famous over a century ago.

Although Matlock is upbeat and humorous in every scene, it is the pain that we do not see or hear that is most present onstage. Her ability to stay humorous on the surface while boiling with indignity and repressed rage underneath reveals the kind of person Nancy Green must have been. When she served pancakes at the Chicago's World Fair in 1893, she was instructed to inform customers that she had left her plantation home to bring her pancake mix to the white folks up north, when in truth she had come in search of the two children who were taken from her long ago. But with the nation still recovering from the Civil War, guilty consciences needed to hear that this former slave hadn't left her master for any other reason than to share a pancake recipe.

Unfortunately, the public does not know much about the real woman behind the smiling face on the pancake box. When Green died in 1923, she was eulogized for being a woman whose pancakes would live forever, although nothing about the recipe was actually her own. The tragic reality of Green's life is that she was born a slave and died a trademark.

But the play is about more than just her. Matlock holds the image of the mammy up to our faces, asking us to look at the way it has been popularized in American culture. In one scene, Matlock shows clips from Gone With the Wind on a small projector. We watch as Scarlett O'Hara reads off a list of demands for her mammy, the most ridiculous being that she should tailor a new dress out of window curtains. It is here that Matlock stops the clip. "Frankly, my dear," she says in her own version of a mammy, "you can kiss my ass."

Though Matlock's revelations are upsetting, they are also uplifting. By the end of the play, we see in her the kind of spirit that we wish Green had had: a resilient, determined woman who, when faced with similar odds, would never allow herself to get trapped in a box.

Endless Ride

Cherry Lane Theater has taken a big chance with its new production of Amiri Baraka's Dutchman, but it's not the first time. And this time, like the last, the effort appears to have paid off. Baraka's play premiered at Cherry Lane in 1964. A short, contentious piece, it brought up controversial questions about race, ranging from such issues as interracial dating to the pressures many blacks feel from their communities and from a society that tells them they must "act white" in order to succeed.

Today the play still brings up many of the same questions, but the major controversy surrounding this new production may be not so much the story within the play as the one outside it. A few years ago, in his poem "Somebody Blew Up America," Baraka (formerly LeRoi Jones) notoriously suggested that Israel had previous knowledge of the 9/11 bombings and had warned its citizens to stay away from work that day. And indeed, the fact that there are several references to Jews and Judaism in Dutchman complicates the work in light of Baraka's statements.

That said, the work is still important in how it focuses on matters of integration and assimilation. The play's main character, Clay (Dulé Hill), is a young black intellectual who, by all appearances, is happily acclimated to an integrated America. He is educated, well dressed, soft-spoken, and articulate. What people don't know, however, is the rage that boils underneath, which comes out only when provoked. Such provocation presents itself during a chance subway encounter with the seductive and unpredictable Lula (Jennifer Mudge), who challenges Clay to defend his bourgeois lifestyle.

In interviews about Dutchman, Baraka has suggested that the play is an allegory about race in this country, where Clay represents the aspirations of black Americans and Lula represents America, in all that this nation promises and can take away. In a talk-back session after a recent performance, Baraka told the audience that the play's title comes from the Flying Dutchman, a ship that must sail forever until its captain finds love, which is like the subway in this piece. Clay and Lula express many emotions toward each another: lust, hate, and fear, but love is not among them. Baraka suggests that the subway, like the Flying Dutchman, must be the setting for love in order to end a vicious cycle as it travels the rails endlessly.

Kudos to Troy Hourie, whose set is fantastic: theatergoers are greeted by a 1960's subway operator standing in front of a white-tiled wall inlaid with an emblematic tile "D," like the familiar station signs adorning the walls of many subway stops. One must pass through a period turnstile to enter the theater.

While waiting for the performance to start, videos of New York City subways arriving and leaving a station play on a loop along the walls. Occasionally, the lights flicker on and off, imitating a stopped subway car. When the performance begins, the conductor arrives and pulls down the flats in front of the stage, revealing a very lifelike replica of a 60's subway car. The cumulative effect is a kind of total environment, where the audience feels it is inside a subway car from that era.

Hill is formidable as Clay. He is always unassuming and seemingly innocent throughout the beginning of the play. But he can also be menacing and in charge, as the play's later part demands.

As Lula, Mudge is best when she is attempting to seduce Clay; she is not as convincing when analyzing him. Though wild, her character has an amazing perceptivity: She recognizes and sees significant things about Clay, even though she has never met him. Because of this, Lula should be savvy and sophisticated, but a bit off her rocker, like a J.D. Salinger character grown up. Yet too often Lula is depicted as a ditzy valley girl. In these moments she seems more of a lightweight figure than the formidable adversary she should be.

The conductor (Paul Benjamin) has a relatively small but important part. Twice during the production, this character, a black man, comes out and performs a minstrel routine. This performance connects Clay's individual struggle to the historic struggle of African-Americans to manage white society's expectations and stereotypes—which were performed through minstrelsy—and their own need for self-expression and cultural preservation.

Though for many what Baraka has accomplished in the play might be blemished by the incendiary remarks he has written since its premiere, this does not diminish the work's importance. Dutchman still proves its value in its ability to rouse discussion about race in America.

Canterbury Tales

If you've been pining for a really well-written contemporary script and you've yet to encounter Moira Buffini's Silence, do yourself a favor and catch the Roundtable Ensemble's production—performed in rep with The Mammy Project and The Taming of the Shrew—at the American Theater of Actors's Chernuchin Theater. In this case, "contemporary script" means there's a medieval England setting, replete with the threat of Viking raids, a clash of pagan and Catholic ideals, a journey by cart, and a character based on a strong royal woman who lived in England prior to Queen Elizabeth. (That's right, there were royal women of note in Europe before Elizabeth.)

But don't be scared off by the remote setting. First of all, without a modern context—which this production punctuates in transitions featuring rock music by composer Jonathan Sanborn—for comparison, the dialogue wouldn't make much sense. "One day, maybe not for a hundred years, maybe not for two, all women will be driving loaded carts up hills. That's my dream," says one of the play's protagonists, Ymma of Normandy.

Ymma (Kelly Hutchinson), the daughter of a saint and a woman of fiery, if righteous, rage, is sent by her brother to England to be punished for an unnamed crime, at the discretion of King Ethelrod (Joe Plummer). To her fury, Ethelrod marries her off to a 14-year-old Viking king, Lord Silence of Cumbria (Makela Spielman). But the marriage has, in more than one way, surprising results. The two become fast friends, and Ymma embraces her future in Cumbria, bound to Silence.

Meanwhile, the once wavering and effete Ethelrod becomes convinced by a dream that he should have married Ymma himself. He then pursues the traveling party—Ymma; her long-suffering lady in waiting, Agnes (Helen Coxe); Silence; Roger, a priest (Greg Hildreth); and Ethelrod's warrior servant, Eadrik (Chris Kipiniak)—to Cumbria.

It's surely no accident on Buffini's part that for much of the play the characters embark on a journey away from Canterbury toward a pagan land, a reversal of the pilgrims' travels in The Canterbury Tales. Along the way, love triangles abound, and the play covers a broad spectrum of topics, some of which are emblematic of a world on the brink of change: ruthless ambition, rape, violence, and gender definitions. The players move through the story in the aptly gymnasium-like Chernuchin Theater, which is marked by several precise scrims lit with green light and patterned with forest branches, and also makes use of a broad balcony.

The text is bookmarked by narrative soliloquies that let the audience easily navigate the plot. If you normally have trouble following the sensibilities of modern epic writers, this production may be a way of enjoying a text with such sprawling subject matter. While taking on rather serious topics, Buffini ably rolls out the one-liners, and director Suzanne Agins gets comedic timing from the cast in even the most unexpected places. As the priest, Hildreth earns a laugh just from introducing himself.

Agins also gets a well-executed and energetic performance out of her players. Chris Kipiniak as the reticent giant Eadrik gives the impression that he is either a dumb brute or the very definition of "still waters run deep." But Hutchinson, although regal enough as Ymma, dashes through her lines; Agins would have done well to slow her down. Perhaps because of the text, the production is not nearly as satisfying once the journey winds down and the travelers reach Cumbria. There's not too much to be learned about these characters after the play's halfway point.

As the travelers come upon a wide and open meadow, the priest cowers at the uncharted territory—and, no doubt, at an uncertain future. Agnes urges him to focus on the meadow's details instead of becoming overwhelmed by its vastness. As they cover a wide range of topics, fleshing out the particulars, both the script and this production follow her good advice.

The Good Fight

Amy (Jessica Durdock) and Sean (Nicholas J. Coleman) wage another battle of the sexes in Matt Morillo’s surprisingly sharp comedy All Aboard the Marriage Hearse, now playing the Theater for the New City. Hearse, also directed by Morillo, is a small, intimate play that remains full of substance without any over-arching socio-political agendas. All the action and intensity one could want in a show takes place within the confines of an East Village living room, and this a case where less is certainly more. Amy and Sean arrive home at their apartment after an evening of revelry at a friend’s wedding. Inebriated flirtation leads to a misunderstanding that snowballs into an all-out fight over the merits and faults of marriage. Though the couple have been – and lived – together for several years, marriage does not seem to be an option. Sean, currently a columnist for The New Yorker, is publicly averse to the institution of marriage, although he is not a commitment-phobe. Sean feels that it is a political and social union that forces lovers to stay together rather than choosing to do so for more personal, organic reasons, and that it ultimately destroys love. Amy recognizes that argument but still wants to walk down the aisle.

The conversation starts out innocent and at times, even, puerile, but it becomes a war that escalates at a carefully measured pace. Can two people that love each other and have almost everything in common stay together if they disagree about one fairly major topic? And should they? Morillo blends the highly comic with the more dramatic elements of Amy and Sean’s fighting with aplomb, careful not to strip them of their humanity. One element that could use a little finessing is his staging – there are only so many times both characters can walk back and forth across a stage before the blocking feels redundant.

Morillo upends what could have been a merely conventional play in several respects. First of all, he supplies an inordinate amount of exposition that suggests these characters actually have a rich history before the audience ever meets them, but never simply spoon feeds information when necessary. Secondly, he cares for both Amy’s and Sean’s perspectives equally. One gets the impression that the play’s debate is one he has had in his own life, since he justifies every notion both characters use in stating their seemingly mutually exclusive cases. (The show’s title derives from a William Blake quote cited by Sean in one of his columns.)

Most importantly, Morillo creates an important reversal early in the second act of Hearse that allows Coleman and Durdock to flex different muscles than in the first act and validates just how complex the politics of relationships can be. Both actors are up to the challenge (and the play is more challenging, forcing its stars to display a wide array of emotions in a short period of time). Though her delivery was at times nasal, Durdock makes it clear just how important marriage is and why it has become a deal-breaker for her. Her line readings, particularly as the play progresses, are quite impassioned. Coleman is blessed with a showier role that wears less on the audience, alternately invoking either reason or sympathy at the appropriate times, and nails it. Both actors are forced to exhibit various edges of toughness, stoicism and vulnerability. I do wish, though, that Morillo had cut the line that ends the first act; it is too clunky for a scene that should end with an exclamation point.

Nonetheless, Hearse makes its case not only for the costs and benefits of marriage, but also for an overlooked theatrical subgenre. Title aside, Morillo proves that smart comedy is alive and well.

At War

"Facts are better than truth, and revenge is better than sorrow," declares Mejra, a self-appointed figure of redemption. But are there limits to vengeance? Can we ever fully pay for our crimes? When Saddam Hussein was executed this month, many of his victims' families rejoiced. But for all their glee, it is finally impossible to completely undo war's heinous crimes, and even the death of a killer did nothing to bring back the lives that were lost. Canadian playwright Colleen Wagner tackles the potent themes of redemption, crime, and consequence in The Monument, which is being chillingly presented by Clockwork Theater under the stalwart direction of Beverly Brumm. A soldier waiting for his execution is suddenly granted a second chance when a mysterious woman appears and pronounces herself his savior. The only catch: he must obey her every command for the rest of his life.

Stetko, the young soldier, gratefully accepts Mejra's offer, and she brings him back to her home in a relentlessly devastated land. But instead of inviting him inside, she chains him in her yard like a dog and beats him mercilessly.

It seems that Mejra wants Stetko (whom she callously dubs "Stinko") to atone for the horrific deeds to which he confessed, including the rape and murder of at least 23 girls. Rather than paint him as a crazed murderer, however, Wagner reveals a complex man whose insanity has been manufactured by the machinations of war. Stetko—whose relationship with his own girlfriend has yet to be consummated—claims that the other soldiers forced him to participate in their nightmarish death campaign and that his own survival was dependent on his ability to play his part.

He admits, however, that he lost this ability to perform when confronted by the innocent, imprisoned faces of young girls, but although he remained sexually impotent, he assiduously faked his way through his obligations.

Exactly what Mejra requires from Stetko is not immediately obvious, but a powerful secret looms behind her tortured, hollow eyes and beneath the mounds of earth that cover Efren Delgadillo Jr.'s artfully barren set.

As the unlikely confidants, Jay Rohloff and Ramona Floyd turn in commanding and decisive performances. As Stetko, Rohloff is particularly gripping when immobilized in an electric chair in the opening scene. With his muscular body coiled and inert, he conveys bravado, fear, and remorse in his beefy voice and gasping breath. Floyd is unflappable as the steely Mejra, and she smartly calibrates her performance to gradually reveal shards of her hysterical grief.

In many ways, the plot is as convoluted and confusing as a battlefield; locations and nationalities are deliberately ambiguous and imprecise, ostensibly to emphasize the universality of war and its often sadistic power dynamics. Unfortunately, this is often frustrating from the audience's perspective, and it is difficult to place the events in a satisfying and relevant context.

Yet the script doesn't shy away from a very visceral display of war's gruesome horrors, and Wagner boldly leads her actors to the very edge of their emotions. Floyd and Rohloff—a former student of Brumm's when she taught acting at SUNY New Paltz—approach their roles with confidence and grace. And Benjamin C. Tevelow's exquisite lighting emphasizes the dreamy, trance-like qualities of the play's world, where streaks of sunlight hover above a land in which pain and grief are no longer surprising. On this lonesome terrain, Stetko and Mejra construct an eerie monument that memorializes war's deadly price with the bodies of its often unheard victims.

Romance and Reverence

Musical theater loves a good romance. Tevye and Golde, Curly and Laurey, and Porgy and Bess are just a few of the couples that live on in stage history. But to these immortal unions I would add the names of Jim Brochu and Steve Schalchlin, who in their intoxicatingly fresh and unstoppably delightful musical, The Big Voice: God or Merman?, make a case for themselves as a musical theater couple for a new generation. A case they've certainly won, hands down. (Or, waving with showbiz fervor, as the situation might demand.)

A bravely autobiographical and sincere study of the ups and downs of a relationship (one that careens realistically between ardent love and something short of hate), The Big Voice is the story of two men growing up feeling displaced from who they thought they would be, until they meet each other and things get even more confusing.

In New York, Jim grew up Catholic and was convinced that he would one day become a priest. But his fixation on the Church's ornamentation (costumes), paraphernalia (props), and atmosphere (set and lighting) began to suggest more theatrical leanings, crystallized by his immediate and life-changing obsession with all things Ethel Merman. (He even met her after a performance of Gypsy, which had been condemned by the Catholic Church.)

Like Jim, Steve also longed to hear the "big voice" in his life, but instead of hearing Merman he began to write music. A Baptist from Arkansas, he expected that God's thunderous voice would guide him; instead, he snapped himself on the wrist with rubber bands whenever he began to have impure (i.e., homosexual) thoughts.

The friend who accompanied me to the show—who is at least 25 years younger than Steve—recalled the rubber band technique from his own youth, which suddenly made The Big Voice seem more like a call to arms. With its encouragement to decipher and celebrate the things that (really) speak to us, the show entreats its audience to embrace religious experiences in whatever form they come—instead of "hiding like a superhero has to do," as Steve dourly remembers from his shamed days in the closet.

As the true Merman lover, Brochu is, appropriately, larger than life and more boisterous than his counterpart (both in presence and voice). He is almost ruthlessly gregarious, and many of his bawdy childhood anecdotes are comic gems.

Schalchlin is more reserved, but his crackling, dry line readings and mild-mannered approach intertwine beautifully with his partner's brashness. He also has a sweetly distinctive voice, and his musical delivery hits with a poignant emotional precision. He's particularly moving as he shares the first song he ever wrote as a young boy, in which he aspires to make music his entire life. He's clearly made his dreams come true, and seems honestly bewildered by his good fortune.

Brilliantly and smoothly staged within the walls of the Actors' Temple by director Anthony Barnao, The Big Voice boldly questions the separation of church and theater (and, by extension, the free expression of sexuality). Brochu's lyrics deftly draw parallels between the religious experiences to be found in theaters and those in churches, and yet, when Steve tries to tell a friend that he is gay, he finds it easier to admit to being an atheist.

But for this performance of The Big Voice—which has played in venues across the country and won several awards—Brochu and Schalchlin have, quite literally, taken over a house of worship, and the audience members, seated in their padded seats, were almost reverential at the performance I attended. They rarely applauded after songs, as if they knew that something special was brewing and they needed to absorb every word—a bit like a sermon, but from a pulpit with a built-in keyboard and two men determined to be honest about themselves, their relationship, and the religious experiences that have defined them.

Kids' World

Children's book author Ezra Jack Keats has earned many accolades for his collection of stories and illustrations about the adventures of small children living in low-income areas of the city. As the son of immigrants residing in Brooklyn during the 1940's, Keats had firsthand experience with this setting, which inspired him to focus his tales on the excitement and mischief a child can indulge in when growing up with a diverse group of friends and neighbors in an inner-city tenement. Tada!, an innovative youth theater featuring a talented cast of young performers between the ages of 8 and 18, takes us straight to the heart of a 1971 apartment building in Apt. 3, adapted for the stage by Davidson Lloyd with fast-paced dance numbers directed and choreographed by Joanna Greer.

Staying true to the book's bright watercolor illustrations, Apt. 3 is a light show of mood-defining colors, the most striking being a blue screen on the back wall, where the audience watches the hunched silhouette of a man with a harmonica playing a somber, soulful tune. Brothers Sam (Javier Cardenas) and Ben (Monk Boyewa Washington) have just realized they are locked out of their apartment when they hear the melody for the first time, and they wander down the halls hoping to find its source.

Transparent black doors on wheels are rearranged to create long-winding hallways and doorways to apartments that Sam and Ben put their ears to, fascinated with the different voices, accents, and conversations they can hear behind each one. The angrier tenants scare Ben, who wants to return home, but older brother Sam refuses to turn back until they find the man creating the haunting music.

The story's climactic moment comes at the end of their journey when the mysterious man reveals his identity, opening the children's ears to the music they hear every day, in the halls where they live and in the voices of people they know. This realization nicely concludes the piece with an uplifting message about the beauty that can be found in the shadows of a dreary tenement building.

After a short blackout and set change, we are introduced to the next Keats tale, Maggie and the Pirate, written and composed by Winnie Holzman and directed by Janine Nina Trevens. For Maggie the setting moves outdoors to a sunny backyard with a big yellow bus and a paint-smudged tire swing. The Narrator (Nicholas Stewart) introduces the audience to a spunky young girl named Maggie (Mary Claire Miskell), who lives with her family on the bus. One fateful afternoon, when Maggie and her friends are at the supermarket, a mysterious pirate sneaks into her backyard and steals her beloved pet cricket, Niki.

Though the surface of this tale is humorous and lighthearted, the young actors tackle their dialogue with a gravity you wouldn't expect to find in a children's show. Maggie's reaction to the stolen cricket is not dismissed as a silly, childish problem but as a serious wrongdoing that has brought tears and anguish to the life of a genuinely nice young girl. Fortunately, she has loyal friends, who divide into groups and search for Niki in a fun series of musical vignettes.

If the children enjoy these two Keats productions, their involvement with the show does not have to end with the curtain call. Those enthused about Apt. 3 can purchase harmonicas in the lobby, while those preferring Maggie and the Pirate can opt for black eye patches. In return for this evening of entertainment, the Narrator kindly requests that the audience "sit there, listen, and try not to set the place on fire," a small concession for the privilege of experiencing two productions as inventive and heartwarming as these.

Stranded

One of the hardest things for an Off-Off Broadway production to do is establish mood in a quiet piece. Pocket-sized theaters sitting uncomfortably close to each other, or adjacent to bars, do not allow for the silences of natural conversation—they are either punctured by their neighbor's music or screams, or sound artificial and magnify the staginess of the affair. Moreover, most shows limit their sound design to intro/intermission/end music culled from the director's CD collection. In Michael Puzzo's The Dirty Talk, which has gone from 2005 Fringe Festival entry to published piece to Off-Off-Broadway run, the action takes place in an isolated cabin during a torrential downpour. Sound designer Elizabeth Rhodes has created an aural backdrop of rain and thunder, modulated in tone to go from barely audible to loud and intrusive, which puts the audience in the same room as the characters. It's a simple touch but a nice one, and it helps the actors along in this intense and involving one-act play.

Two men are stuck in a remote hunting shack in New Jersey: Mitch, a beer-and-babes type who's dripping wet from trying to fix his rain-flooded car, and Lino, a strange, withdrawn guy who is clearly not in his element. At first it's unclear what they are both doing at this place, and why Mitch is so hostile. It comes out that they "met" the night before in an Internet chat room and engaged in "the dirty talk," but they lied about themselves and their appearances, especially Lino, who was masquerading as a voluptuous blond babe. Faced with an awkward situation and lacking an escape, the two are forced to come to terms with the real truth about themselves.

If all this sounds too serious, it's not. There is humor in the mix as well, although often the laughs are at the bluntness of Mitch's speech. As played by Sidney Williams, the character is deceptively complex; he's a wounded puppy one minute and a bear the next. Mitch's emotional journey over the course of the play is interesting without being gimmicky or untruthful. As the yang to his yin, Kevin Cristaldi's Lino is believable as a creepy Internet addict. A disaffected, scummy modern man, he allows a glimmer of humanity and loneliness to shine through his armor.

Director Padraic Lillis is careful to keep these men at a certain physical distance apart, and as their emotional distance narrows, so does the spatial gap between them. Lillis has also given his actors room to inhabit their roles while keeping a tight leash on their monologues, lest they become sprawling. Puzzo's script seems a bit cliché-ridden at first, but later his characters drop this "everyspeech" for words of their own. The author does a nice job with parceling out information about the characters' prior meeting so that their dialogue, which is mostly about killing time, does not make the audience feel as if it's killing time as well.

From Robert Monaco's masculine log cabin set to Sarah Sidman's natural lighting, every detail in the production contributes to a unique feeling of reality. At one point I tuned out for a second to consider how I'd get home with my bags without an umbrella, yet outside the theater it was a clear night. The world onstage had blended into the world offstage, and to this fine show's credit, one could not tell which was which.

Bringing It All Back Home

The murder of Kitty Genovese, the Queens woman whose stabbing in 1964 was witnessed by 38 neighbors, introduced the term "bystander effect" into the national lexicon. Obvious tragedy aside, what made the killing so noteworthy was that all of the witnesses not only saw the crime but watched each other's reactions and followed suit, by doing nothing. Such sobering reality is absent in Ethan Youngerman's clever comedy The Sublet Experiment, save for the premise that distinguishes it from most other theatrical works. Each week the play is performed in a different private apartment. The performance being reviewed, for example, took place in a one-bedroom apartment in an Upper East Side high-rise, and future performances will occur in such places as Chelsea, TriBeCa, Brooklyn's Carroll Gardens, and Hoboken, N.J.

The audience members themselves play a role in each performance. With careful blocking (and, I assume, weekly modification) by director Michelle Tattenbaum, the play's characters and events are right in the audience members' faces, creating a real sense of intimacy. In this way, Youngerman completely shatters the fourth wall and forges a unique blend of television-style closeness (all reactions are up close and clearly visible) while still honoring a time-honored theatrical style of storytelling.

But this also means there is nowhere to hide. Every reaction—each yawn, each glance at a watch, each smirk—can be seen not just by all the actors in the room but also by the other audience members, who take subtle cues from each other's reactions.

Eric (Adam Hyland) has met Melanie (Erin Maya Darke) through a craigslist online posting and has made an interesting arrangement. Melanie will room with Eric as a "subletter," meaning that she will live with him rent-free—not to occupy a vacant room but to share Eric's, paying for room and board with her companionship.

Eric, a bathtub designer, is a rather bumbling ladies' man, but Melanie seems taken in by his lack of savoir faire. Both actors have some cute grace notes: Darke is beguiling from the start, and Hyland has some priceless hesitations and awkward double takes that reveal his character's lack of confidence.

There's more to these new roommates than meets the eye, however. Melanie and her partner, Harry (Marshall Sharer), have planned a less than foolproof plot to rob Eric of all his belongings before he returns home, but their scheme turns out to be more difficult than they first assumed. Eric, we learn, has as many secrets as Melanie does.

Secrets and lies are a key motif for Youngerman, and Sublet reminds us how defining one of the key elements of New York life—location, location, location—can be. Simply by taking up residence in a new apartment, Eric and Melanie are able to establish new identities and new personalities for themselves when meeting new people. Youngerman keeps the play fresh with a revolving door of new character revelations, peeling back the layers until we finally get to the truth about who Eric and Melanie really are.

Sublet also thrives on its voyeuristic aspect. The audience members remain on their toes because they are on display as much as the actors are. (And, I must admit, with both the playwright and the critic having been identified and sitting less than 10 feet from each other, the heat was really on.) And given such little rehearsal time, it is a testament to Tattenbaum and all the members of the ensemble, which also includes the hysterical Christian Maurice as a man with secrets of his own, that everyone appears totally at home in each apartment. (According to publicity information, the apartments used belong to friends or relatives of Tattenbaum and Youngerman.)

Of course Sublet is indeed an experiment itself, and at times its theatrical roots betray its more intimate premise. Some laugh lines needed a faster reaction from the actors, since the room's intimacy differs from the dynamic of sitting in a theater, where reactions tend to take a few more seconds to build. If the audience does not laugh immediately in this small space, the actors should proceed right on to the next line rather than waiting a beat or two.

Still, those occasional pacing problems will likely work themselves out. Audiences and critics alike bemoan the fact that new plays are often either too old-fashioned or not fresh enough. With his Sublet experiment, however, Youngerman has devised a clever fusion of cleanly developed narrative and invigorating new technique, merging style with substance while remaining attentive to both. In the process, he has proved himself to be a true original, a singular visionary standing out among the many young writers out there. Youngerman is truly one playwright to watch.

Friends

RiddleLikeLove (With a Side of Ketchup) is the ungainly title of a slender, affecting tale about the childhood friendship between an aspiring actress and a hearing-disabled girl named Elizabeth who dies young. It's a one-woman autobiographical show that lasts a fleeting 50 minutes, and Julie Fitzpatrick, who wrote the play with director Douglas Anderson, captures Elizabeth with uncanny clarity. The ketchup in question is the girls' favorite snack, and many of their exchanges take place at a neighborhood Friendly's, with a plate of it between them. The play contains within it the story of its own creation. In the first scene, Julie, on her way home from an ego-deflating audition, opens a letter containing an invitation from Elizabeth's aunt to do a show at her small-town Vermont theater (where, in fact, this play premiered). Later that night, as a reluctant Julie stares at a photo of Elizabeth, her friend first comes to life with her singular, ear-grating address, "Do it, Jooollleee!" After Elizabeth suggests that the play be about her, Julie slowly finds a foothold in the story, with Elizabeth as her muse and cheerleader.

Julie is as tentative and self-deprecating as the lip-reading Elizabeth is plucky and confident. Each character's personality is vividly embodied in idiosyncratic habits and gestures. For instance, Julie finds opening her mail so unnerving that she carries piles of it around, unopened in her bag. Or Elizabeth's kiss: "She'd grab my cheeks, purse her lips out, clamp her eyes shut, and wait for my lips to meet hers." Fitzpatrick segues seamlessly between the two characters through deft shifts in voice and carriage.

Interwoven in the play are six classic ballads, sung by Fitzpatrick in a sweet, clear voice with Anderson beautifully accompanying her on the piano. The songs might seem saccharine in another context, but they assume resonance from the stories Julie tells, which frame them. Thus when Julie sings Bette Midler's "The Wind Beneath My Wings," the audience can't help but visualize Elizabeth with her ear pressed against a tape cassette playing the song and later realizing a dream when she dances to the song at the prom with a popular boy from her class.

The snug stage is divided into small quadrants: a diner banquette with ketchup bottle in one, an armchair in Julie's rundown sublet across from that, the piano and microphone at back, and an open space at front. Under Anderson's expert direction, Fitzpatrick moves easily among the four sets and the different psychic spaces they occupy, with help from Evan Purcell's subtle lighting. (A deaf interpreter sits at front off to one side, signing for deaf audience members.)

As Julie tells Elizabeth's story, regrets surface. But in memory, it is as if Elizabeth forgives her friend's inattention: "You should wear a watch and you should look at it when it's on your wrist … because lateness is rude, Jjjooolleee—OK—don't get defensive. I love you, Jooollleee—here, have some ketchup."

Such is this play's generous spirit—and its pull.

Teacher, Student, Despot

In an unnamed South American country, apparently modeled on Pinochet's Chile, the new military dictator, Colonel Medina, promises the new American ambassador that there will be a presidential election. An election Medina hopes to win, but, still, a free and fair election. An election that will be "as fair as is necessary." The American, of course, agrees. This is the kind of dreadful non sequitur that permeates modern geopolitics as well as Joel Shatzky's thoughtful yet heartfelt new work, Amahlia, at Brooklyn's Impact Theater. In this three-character morality play, Ambassador John Whitman (Joe Lampe) finds that his actions may determine the fate of the title character, the Anna Politskaya-style dissident journalist Amahlia Marti (Andrea Suarez), whose dangerously truthful research into Medina's crimes threaten his reign, even if the election is only "as fair as is necessary."

Some years earlier, at an unnamed American university, Whitman was a young lecturer and Amahlia was his student, and lover. He was a passionate parlor radical, bristling with rage against the hypocritical, conservative International Relations department. He taught her political consciousness.

When Amahlia takes her lover's radicalism home from the parlor, are the consequences his responsibility? As well as a morality drama, this is a tragedy. It is a redolently Faustian one: to gain power for himself and the United States, whose interests he represents, Whitman risks losing Amahlia—the soul of the ethical rhetorician he once was.

As Amahlia, Suarez is skittish or combative, depending on the moment. She is a great rhetorician with an oratorical flair that makes her a convincing adversary of Medina's. Lampe's Whitman is opportunistic but tortured—a great creature of opposites. Philippe Blanchard's Medina is imposing, cruel, suave, and decidedly theatrical.

Samantha Jane Polay's costume design is simple but very evocative of character. Medina's ivory-handled walking stick betrays the aristocratic pretensions of the populist leader, and Amahlia's costume changes from red to white to gray as she moves from inamorata to crusader to prisoner. At the American university, Whitman festoons his white Oxford shirt with leftist political buttons, then covers them up with his ambassador's jacket; finally, when he seals his destiny, he removes the buttons. The acting is uniformly strong.

The story of Amahlia is ambitious, with two linked worlds—Whitman's and Amahlia's—clearly delineated in the dialogue of the three characters. It is told in nonlinear order, a strong decision that heightens the suspense of what is really a very simple plot. Director Esther Neff keeps the transitions clear by spatially isolating Whitman's university digs from his ambassadorial office within the ground plan.

Medina is a horrible man, a criminal against humanity, but he is also disarmingly charming. His doctrinal Nietzschean self-justification is not very different from the rhetoric of Nietzsche's postmodern inheritors and the Enlightenment authors of America's policy, and myth, of manifest destiny. Whitman, meanwhile, is also a horrible man, but he is tortured by his guilt, even if he does begin and end the play by loudly protesting his innocence.

I understood why Whitman is attracted to Amahlia. She is beautiful, brilliant, and, ultimately daring. Besides, he is a closet megalomaniac, and what sexual relationship better fulfills that fantasy than a teacher-student one? But I had trouble seeing what Amahlia, and especially the post-enlightenment Amahlia, saw in a man who pressures her for sex when she's trying to write an important term paper and calls her "my Patagonian petunia."

The script also could have been strengthened by some merciless editing. At two and a half hours, including the 15-minute intermission, the play felt at least half an hour too long. Characters sometimes repeat exposition or describe their feelings, even feelings they have already evocatively shown. "Somehow, this was always just a game for me," Whitman confesses, superfluously, about his youthful radicalism.

Amahlia is a good play, but if streamlined, it could be a great one. It's an enjoyable and thought-provoking inquest into the American political conscience, and I hope to see it developed further.

The Playwright's New Clothes

For the critic in search of a catchy opening paragraph, a title like Israel Horovitz's New Shorts is a terrible temptation. The inevitable parallel, of course, is to "The Emperor's New Clothes," in which the titular head of state is allowed to walk naked before a baffled and tittering public that is too afraid to tell him his new "clothes" exist only in his mind. Horovitz is not an emperor, but he is a significant and well-established playwright who has generously agreed to collaborate with a scrappy, young Off-Off Broadway company for a season of new work. My suspicion upon entering the theater—particularly given confusion over who was supposed to tear tickets, a late start, and similar telltale symptoms of a disorganized opening night—was that the production was not going to live up to the script's potential. I fully expected to give a supportive review, forgiving the foibles of a company in over its head while praising the new work of a sometimes neglected figure in American drama.

Instead, Barefoot Theater Company surprised me with an evening of consistently strong performances that tended to outshine a series of disappointing plays. If the emperor has no clothes, as the hook-seeking critic wants to write, then the playwright has no shorts.

Typically, though, the truth is a little more subtle than that. The nine short plays that make up this new evening of theater are not bad by any stretch of the imagination. They are sometimes funny, sometimes infuriating, sometimes touching, and sometimes challenging.

"The Bridal Play" explores the inner secrets of a roomful of wedding-goers by juxtaposing their words to one another with a series of interior monologues. "Affection in Time" is meta-theater cum science fiction, a message from a playwright in a distant time. "The Fat Guy Gets the Girl" is pretty much what it sounds like, only sweeter. "Beirut Rocks" traps several students in a hotel during the recent Israel-Lebanon conflict, their diversity accommodating an uncomfortable allegory about regional and world politics.

In "Audition Play," an Off-Off Broadway director gives a single mother a second chance to tap-dance her way through an Actors' Equity showcase. "The Hotel Play" finds a jilted "other woman" falling for a charming male prostitute. "Inconsolable" is a poetic meditation on loss and desperation. "Cat Lady" is a character study of an aging woman with a fragmented past. "The Race Play," like "The Bridal Dance," brings all nine actors onstage, this time as celebrity runners at a charity race.

Most of these short plays are well done, but none of them lives up to the promise of Horovitz's Line or Park Your Car in Harvard Yard, or The Indian Wants the Bronx, or any of the other plays (and screenplays) that have emerged from his career and made him, as his biography in the program trumpets, "the most-produced American playwright in French theater history." "Not bad" isn't what one expects from a playwright with such a pedigree.

What Israel Horovitz's New Shorts seems to be is a series of classroom exercises by someone much further along in his craft and his career than the typical playwriting student. Indeed, one can imagine Mr. Horovitz, who has frequently taught both playwriting and screenwriting at such prestigious venues as Columbia University, giving a series of "what if" scenarios to his students, mixing and matching formal restrictions and requiring a finished, 10-minute result by the end of the week. Wouldn't it be tempting, sometimes, for the professor/playwright to take part in such exercises himself?

While the pace sometimes lagged, resulting in a somewhat longer run time than the advertised 90 minutes, the production itself was mostly charming. Nine actors, arranging themselves in various configurations to play the multitude of roles demanded by nine very different plays, met the demands of the evening with energy, grace, and charm.

Both Michael LoPorto and Horovitz himself directed their portions of the production with efficiency and intelligence, allowing their actors to shine but wisely steering them clear of self-indulgent histrionics. The nature of the show meant that design elements had to be kept to a minimum, but the creative team all worked within its considerable constraints to create a fluid production design that felt minimal by design rather than because of financial limitations.

Still, despite the considerable charms of "The Hotel Play" and "The Race Play" and the intentionally controversial and agitating politics of "Beirut Rocks," Israel Horovitz's New Shorts doesn't add up to much more than a series of thematic and formal experiments by a playwright treading water between projects of more substance.

Rakish Wits

"Good Off-Off Broadway theater is like a gourmet meal, and bad Off-Off Broadway theater is like a fast-food meal; the first doesn't stay with you long enough, and the second doesn't leave you soon enough." The above epigram is not featured in William Wycherley's witticism-filled Restoration sex farce, The Country Wife, now being presented by HoNkBarK! and Vital Theatre Company, but it certainly does apply. This feast of manners and innuendo presents two tasty acts over the course of three hours. It may not provide much food for thought, but it does sate one's appetite for bawdy humor and heaving bosoms.

While in France, an English scoundrel named Harry Horner hits upon an idea: if rumors are spread that he has suffered an impotence-causing accident, husbands will trust him around their virtuous (and unsatisfied) wives, leading to plenty of opportunities for no-strings-attached assignations. Upon his return to England, Horner entrusts the "secret" to the elderly doctor Quack to spread to the local gossips so that all of London is aware of his supposed condition.

Horner's friends—the amiable Harcourt, the lewd Dorilant, and the über-fop Sparkish—are appalled at Horner's loss of manhood and newfound revulsion toward women. Sparkish is improbably engaged to Alithea, whose wealth is the rake's only reason to wed her. This union is challenged by Harcourt, who falls in love with the affianced lady and sets about to woo her right under Sparkish's oblivious, powdered nose.

Trouble is also brewing for the jealous and extremely middle-class Mr. Pinchwife, who fears his marriage to the lovely country bumpkin Margery may be compromised by the pleasures of London society and flirtations from Horner and his compatriots. Having been out of town courting his wife, Pinchwife hasn't heard of Horner's affliction, and, in his efforts to keep Margery away from city vices, he leads her right to them—and to Horner.

Wycherley's tale, written in 1675, is full of the usual period messages: the middle classes are too moralistic and judgmental, and the upper classes care only about fun and appearances. While the author never met a clever quip or double entendre he didn't like, he smartly balances that with entertaining characters and a satisfyingly knotty mass of stories. His words work well in the mouths of the cast members—more than half are Actors' Equity members, and their region-free pronunciations and classical intonations sell the material. (Congratulations, vocal coach Linda Jones, on a job well done!)

Richard Haratine is delightful as the rascal Horner; the actor wisely avoids making his character sympathetic, yet at the same time he seduces us to his side. (Speaking of seduction, Haratine's verbal conquest of Laura LeBleu's Lady Fidget is sexier than anything with Fabio on the cover.)

LeBleu and Kristin Price (Margery Pinchwife) are two of the show's producers, which normally makes one skeptical of the casting process as well as the actor or actress in question's performance. Happily, both ladies are well cast and are clearly relishing the comedy in their roles. LeBleu makes a haughty and naughty Lady Fidget, and Price is adorable as the socially clumsy and high-spirited Margery. Special kudos must also go to Brian Linden, who plays Sparkish as an over-enunciating, ingratiating idiot, but with enough self-awareness and a morsel of realism to keep him from being too cartoonish.

Karl A. Ruckdeschel's splendid costumes are detailed and effective—particularly the towers of pink ruffles and silver embroidery for Sparkish's and Alithea's respective wedding ensembles. Set designer Brian Garber swathes the stage in burgundy fabric and open gilt frames, which act as windows and, with a tug of a painted shade, portraits. (The opulently dressed set's only drawback was that sometimes it is difficult to tell the difference between locations.) Clearly, director John Ficarra should also have been credited as the show's choreographer; there is a lot of stylized movement (elaborate bowing, "fan language") that, when effective, is both entertaining and an extra bit of characterization.

If new plays are the children of the theater, then classical plays are the elders. We must continue to nurture the young in order to propagate the art form, while respecting and listening to the wisdom of the old so we understand why we want theater to flourish. The Country Wife is less like a stern grandfather and more like that unmarried great-uncle who sneaks you a drink at holidays and teaches you how to play poker for money. He's not exactly a good influence, but he's a whole lot of fun.

Lights Out

Director John Hughes perfected the practice of mixing up archetypes and challenging social politics in his 1985 film The Breakfast Club. Yet he gave his story a fairy-tale ending: Judd Nelson jabs a fist into the air, the frame freezes and—hey, hey, hey!—the characters' newly open-minded universe is preserved forever. Unfortunately for real people, like the characters depicted in the Cell Theater Company's respectable production of Blackout, one incident isn't always enough to break social boundaries. When the lights went out in the summer of 2003, the streets of New York City, like the Saturday detention hall in Hughes's film, became a fertile place to yield unlikely bedfellows. Twenty-four hours without electricity put a businesswoman, a saxophonist, a globetrotter, a starving artist, and a newly transplanted Southerner on equal footing. In the aftermath, Collin (the disgruntled globetrotter) and Lena (the headstrong businesswoman) shack up, while Maggie (the New York City neophyte) takes up temporary residence with Alex (the penniless Seventeen writer).

Interestingly, Blackout concerns itself more with what happens to the characters after the lights come back on than with the blackout itself. These five people re-examine their lives in the city and try to milk as much magic and inspiration out of the titular event as possible. A sixth character ably represents this compulsion: Levi, a homeless man, finds a purpose in directing traffic in the absence of traffic lights, and he continues to do so long after the power is restored.

But the enchantment soon wears off, as Lena and Collin's affair goes sour and Maggie falls in love with her homosexual (and therefore uninterested) roommate. The original status quo is more or less restored by the end of the play, when two characters leave the city.

Michael I. Walker's script balances the poetry and clamorousness of city life perfectly, like referring to the Brooklyn neighborhood DUMBO as a "hopeless hipster elephant." Levi, the stock "crazy but enlightened hobo" character, is clichéd and overstated, but otherwise the characters are seldom shoehorned into stereotypes.

Walker's script spends time exploring the "blackout within"—or what went off (or on) inside the characters. They moralize about race relations, sexual identity, and the plight of the Prozac Generation in the big city. The foundations for a noble manifesto are in there somewhere, but Walker's good ideas become tiresome when forced into his play. Overall, the script is effectively composed, but, regrettably, it overindulges in the philosophizing. As a result, the play goes on for 30 minutes too long.

Director Kira Simring and production designer Gabriel Hainer Evansohn have built an intricate world for the play's characters to inhabit. Evansohn's multileveled, overlapping set vividly depicts the claustrophobia of urban life. Simring takes advantage of these levels by guiding characters under scaffoldings and behind staircases; these people are dwarfed by their surroundings, like ants scurrying frantically in an ant farm.

The lighting design, by Evansohn and Carl Farber, supports the scenic design nicely. During the blackout, the lighting designers convincingly suggest a candlelit city and otherwise do a fine job representing city streets and apartments. Unfortunately, one lighting cue was noticeably missed during the performance I attended, and the first half of a scene was played in darkness. This shouldn't be a big deal, but since the play hinges on lights being turned on or off at key moments, it cannot be ignored.

All the performers are well suited to the piece, and their characterizations are energetic. Kate Goehring channels Reba McEntire in her punchy portrayal of the pure-hearted Maggie, who is really the heart of the show. As Alex, Teddy Bergman convincingly projects both cynicism and buoyancy as needed. Darnell Williams adds much variety to Levi, which is a formidable task, considering that the character says essentially the same thing in every scene.

Almeria Campbell has much success in grounding her corporate yet impulsive character Lena. Ryan Patrick Bachand's Collin is a delightful, argumentative know-it-all. As Fitz, the club-owning saxophone player, Kevin Mambo is sensibly restrained.

Conceptually, Blackout is a fine idea for an anecdotal play, but the script lacks the polish to become as culturally relevant as it aspires to be. Even so, with this production a talented group of artists surmounts an undistinguished piece of writing.

More Than Sound and Fury

Macbeth is a play with ghosts, as everybody knows. The spirit of the just-murdered Banquo invades his murderer's feast, and Macbeth sees a ghostly dagger and, later, a line of apparitions of Scots both dead and not yet born. One character who isn't seen as a ghost is Macbeth himself. Until now. In Andrew Frank and Doug Silver's new adaptation at Manhattan Theater Source, Macbeth: A Walking Shadow, the title character (Ato Essandoh) faces death almost as soon as the play begins. Then he haunts the scenes that follow—the past events that brought him to his precipice.

The title is perfect for this adaptation. Macbeth walks as a shadow, or ghost, through his own history, as he is a dead man from its out-of-order beginning. This begs a question: Does fate make everyone a walking shadow if history is divorced from chronology? The production has a few flaws, but its many risky victories make it an interpretation you will not want to miss.

Essandoh gave an acclaimed lead performance in Seattle's Intiman Theater's adaptation of Richard Wright's Native Son. Here, Essandoh creates a reckless yet vulnerable, indignant yet timid, haunted and haunting Macbeth. The man is a mass of contradictions, fighting as much with his many schizophrenic personae as with the escalating series of enemies he creates. Essandoh's often quiet yet clear voice strips the rusty bombast off the most famous speeches and lets us actually hear what Macbeth has been trying for centuries to say. When he ends up cursing life and fate, he is miles away in tone from the beginning. Or, given the nonlinear chronology, from the middle.

Other standouts in the cast include Chuck Bunting's Duncan, whose lack of charisma is anemic to the extreme; Lou Carbonneau's physically small yet limber, subtle, and ultimately enraged Macduff; and Michael Baldwin's alternately innocent and canny Malcolm.

The sound design, by Andrew Bellware, is an almost continuous, complex, moody score, with a subtle Celtic influence. It gives the play the feel of an action movie. It is carefully synchronized with the action, and supports rather than overwhelms the most emotionally intense moments.

Making the banquet a stand-up cocktail affair is another inspired decision, lending the scene great physical dynamism. However, some adaptation and staging choices are illogical. Macbeth kills Duncan onstage, which is shockingly effective—but his victim is attacked standing up, which conflicts with the account that Macbeth gives in the dialogue. The role of Donalbain, the younger of the two princes, has been cut, but Duncan still gestures behind him and introduces his "sons," plural.

Some of the witches are double-cast with the Scottish thanes, making them apparently male. This obscures the gender issue that is absolutely key to the plot. In the original, Macbeth's wife believes that she must be "unsexed" to commit regicide, and that if her husband doesn't help her, he is not a real man.

Of course, Shakespeare's company always cast men as women, but they indicated the characters' genders through costumes and acting. Here, an actress played the Thane of Ross without any attempt, in body language or dialogue delivery, to mark the character as male. Consequently, I wondered whether this fantasy Scotland has female warriors, and why, if that is the case, Lady Macbeth must lose her "sex" to kill.

There is some stage combat, with broadswords. The fighters looked very cramped in the narrow alley theater, and when they swung their swords in the audience's direction, a few spectators in the front row lurched backward in their seats.

With nods to Quentin Tarantino's nonlinear, music-heavy dramas of epiphany and revenge, this adaptation deconstructs Shakespeare's story instead of simply telling it. In Essandoh's performance, a vividly complete character rises from the fragments of his tale.