Bewitched

With any show described as a retelling of Romeo and Juliet, the audience is likely to know from the beginning what the end will be: sad. Howard Richardson and William Berney's Dark of the Moon, set in 1920's Appalachia, is no exception. The story is an intense spiral of melancholy, yet there's much to appreciate, and even some musical good cheer, in Phare Play's production at the Lodestar Theater. After all, if you already know the ending, you're free to just experience the play as it occurs—in this case, the experience is defined most by a strongly evocative sense of place. Between the setting, the Appalachian dialect, and the communal sensibility of the large cast, you might forget you're in a theater in Midtown.

At the start of the play, the witch boy John begs Conjur Man and Conjur Woman to make him human so he can court the free-spirited Barbara Allen. A deal is struck under the condition that Barbara Allen must remain faithful for a year—otherwise, John will once again become a witch.

Kevin Sebastian as John and Emily Mostyn-Brown as Barbara Allen do seem to have a magnetic attraction, and Barbara Allen's parents are mostly relieved to marry off their already pregnant daughter. But Barbara Allen's latest steady, Marvin, is not happy to be outdone by the physically smaller, though charismatic, John. (A tableau showing the two men's heights is visually one of the play's best moments.) As a result, Marvin is left wanting revenge. When the townspeople peg John for a witch—and John's former witch companions, jealous of Barbara Allen, make a bargain of their own with Conjur Man—the couple's fortunes begin to unravel.

The setting is carved out of a mountain—a backdrop painted a shimmering brown, with a couple of sparse trees, meant to portray a rural North Carolina town. And though it's not a musical in the traditional sense, there are bluegrass and folk gospel tunes sprinkled throughout the production. Director Blake Bradford smartly uses the musical numbers as a natural part of the villagers' lives, and bluegrass songs that the villagers use to pass the time are often more spiritual than some of the gospel hymns.

The instrumentals—down to the washboard and mandolin—are well played. Several cast members are in fact bluegrass musicians, and most of the vestiges of typical musical-theater voices are stamped out in favor of a folk/mountain music sound. By the end of the play, even some of the dialogue erupts in rhythmic choral chanting, a logical progression for this churchgoing community that tends to walk in step.

The dialogue suggests that it's a sense of freedom that makes the witches different from the humans, in both good and bad qualities—and that being a witch is spiritually easier. But the seemingly stunted movements of the witches, who drag their bodies across the stage, can be almost hard to watch, and they belie any suggestion of freedom. A later scene, where the witches move together fleetly, makes more sense.

The production is in some ways a little rough around the edges, and it's difficult not to wonder about some of the leaps in logic in the text itself. Why can Marvin beat up John, though John was previously able to level him with one hand? And to a modern audience, part of the resolution is actually a bit appalling.

Yet there's certainly a visceral, atmospheric appeal to Dark of the Moon that has a strong pull. I left wondering if John had indeed bewitched Barbara Allen, as the town people wondered. Or if, like the storytelling that wins Desdemona's heart in Othello, such star-crossed love is a spell in itself.

Prisoners and Players

The assault on the audience came almost immediately upon entrance to the theater. As we squeezed our way into the tightly packed seats, large men, several of them naked, glared at us while they finished getting dressed under the baleful gaze of armed guards. There was no way to avoid making eye contact with the prisoners, some of whom furtively poked their fingers through the chain-link structure separating them from the audience, others of whom stared angrily outward. These looks, desperate or threatening, continued throughout the performance, even while "great men" debated how best to serve "the people." The people themselves stared out at the audience, daring us to really see them.

Peter Weiss's dauntingly titled The Persecution and Assassination of Jean-Paul Marat as Performed by the Inmates of the Asylum of Charenton Under the Direction of the Marquis de Sade, published in 1963, is one of the genuine triumphs of 20th-century drama. Peter Brook's seminal 1964 production by the Royal Shakespeare Company, which came to New York and won several Tonys in 1966, is widely considered a triumph as well, and has become so closely associated with the play that the two seem almost inextricable.

Given the large cast, the demanding text, and the shadow of an unforgettable production, it shouldn't be surprising that the play is rarely produced professionally, despite its importance. Still, it is something of a shock to read that Marat/Sade has not received a major production in New York in 40 years. Theatergoers should therefore not miss the opportunity to see Classical Theater of Harlem's audacious new staging, playing now through March 11.

This new production, directed by CTH co-founder Christopher McElroen, isn't perfect, but it is both riveting and challenging. Most impressive, it is relentlessly and gloriously uncomfortable to watch, reminding us that theater is capable of a great deal more than soothingly diverting entertainment.

Inspired by a provocative piece of history, the play's plot is evident in its title. The infamous Marquis de Sade spent the final years of his life in an asylum for the criminally insane. As a part of the progressive treatment offered there, he was sometimes allowed to write and produce plays, with the other inmates as actors. While the plays Sade actually wrote while in captivity were rather apolitical and not particularly transgressive by the period's standards, Weiss imagines that Sade wrote a play about the assassination of prominent French revolutionary Jean-Paul Marat. As the play-within-the-play moves inexorably toward Marat's stabbing by Charlotte Corday, it also allows time for Sade to debate his fictionalized Marat about a variety of philosophical and political issues.

The play's structure and content are complex enough to defy easy summary, and McElroen's production stumbles when he attempts to distract the audience from this complexity. While Sade and Marat toss barbed abstractions across the stage, McElroen creates easy laughs with the spectacle of the inmates struggling to behave themselves. The moments are charming and diverting, but they take away from the seriousness of the debate under way. To be fair, Marat and, especially, Sade are given more and more focus as the play progresses. Layers of irony and absurdity are stripped away until Weiss's severely wounded idealism is rendered in all its cynicism and vitriol.

For the most part, the actors handle themselves well. Certainly T. Rider Smith, as Sade, gives a compelling and layered performance, alternately controlled and raw. Dana Watkins deftly delivers a performance within a performance—as a narcoleptic inmate playing the murderous Corday—with a level of craft that ultimately manages to overshadow his considerable physical beauty. More impressive than the standout performances from some of the leads, however, is the commitment and discipline displayed by most of the ensemble. The images that lingered longest in my memory were not of Sade's self-mutilation or Jacques Roux's (Andrew Guilart) histrionics but of the haunted and haunting stares of the ensemble.

The press notes for Marat/Sade do not mention the play's political underpinnings, but even in a production that shies away from Weiss's more cerebral tendencies, the prisoners' despair shimmers with contemporary resonance. An inmate cries, "We talk about freedom, but who is this freedom for?" before being struck down unceremoniously by abusive guards.

Propagandistic optimism about Napoleon's disastrous final war and the triumphant march of progress is sprinkled throughout the play. Alarmingly, it becomes increasingly indistinguishable from presidential press conferences. As the music swells and the prisoners revolt, 1803, 1966, and 2007 converge, and spectators are left to wonder whether they are to blame and whether there's anything they can do to stop history's cyclical march.

Out of the Past

The attempt to expiate guilt about dark events in our past is a theme as old as Oedipus Rex. In Anna Ziegler's absorbing new play, BFF, the latest production of Women's Expressive Theater, a young woman undermines a budding romance to try to atone for her cruelty toward a childhood friend. "BFF" (Best Friends Forever) is the promise that Eliza (Laura Heisler) and Lauren (Sasha Eden) made to each other. But as Lauren rushes headlong into adolescence—starting her period, going out with a boy, and discovering her sexuality—she grows apart from Eliza, who is grieving over the death of her father and is slower to reach these thresholds. The growing disconnect between the two girls culminates in a harrowing "breakup" scene that is the play's dramatic zenith.

Ziegler shows a keen sense for the language and behavior of preteen girls in her gripping depiction of the rupture of this intense friendship, and these two talented actresses shuck years off their age without resorting to clichés in their performances.

In the second narrative thread, which takes place more than a decade later, Lauren gingerly comes out of her shell when she meets Seth (Jeremy Webb), a droll and self-effacing man who is smitten with her. But in sabotaging the possibility of intimacy or happiness, Lauren says her name is Eliza and keeps her real identity and life a secret from Seth even as they grow more involved. While far less engrossing, this tale has its memorably quirky scenes, including an unorthodox marriage proposal and a funny and heartfelt "final" voice-mail message that Seth leaves for Eliza.

The play ricochets back and forth between the two story lines in bite-size scenes, a structure that enables Ziegler to weave in echoes and counterpoints. This setup also allows the playwright to withhold key details in an organic way, since we don't know what burdens the adult Lauren bears until late in the play, when we are deep into the story of her friendship with Eliza. The play's inspired final scene—which goes back the furthest in time—adds even more shades of meaning.

The simple, all-white set consists of two chairs and two rectangular blocks. Yet set designer Robin Vest, lighting designer Clifton Taylor, and projection designer Kevin R. Frech conjure numerous distinct settings by projecting images onto the framing exterior of the building and inserting panels, showing the walls of various rooms, into the window at back. Sara Jean Tosetti's costumes precisely convey each character's age and personality while never calling attention to themselves.

Director Josh Hecht never allows the play's pacing to slacken and coaxes natural and convincing performances from his cast. Webb's restless body movements and flickering gaze convey Seth's endearing self-consciousness. Eden pulls off the not inconsiderable feat of playing Lauren at two ages. Heisler, though, is the standout as the intense and troubled Eliza.

Ziegler sometimes gets carried away in her zeal to shoehorn in lofty metaphors and a leitmotif about the shifting nature of time in the play's dialogue, endangering the realism that is so crucial to the play's power. She does much better when she lets her characters fumble and stumble their way to maturity. While no eyes are gouged out at the end, as in Oedipus, this is no easy journey.

Nine Lives

It’s become trendy in recent years to take seemingly disparate storylines and explore the volatile ways in which they connect. Paul Haggis’ 2006 Oscar winning Crash followed a diverse array of characters as their segregated worlds collided in Los Angeles; the following year Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu’s film Babel applied the same format to an international scale. How appropriate, then, that the New York version of this story is not a Hollywood blockbuster but a crackling piece of downtown theater. Publicity materials describe Unconditional, by Brett C. Leonard as “nine New York stories [that] converge in a racially and sexually charged tale of rage, love, justice and betrayal.” Indeed, it’s hard to imagine a piece that would better typify the LAByrinth Theater Company’s mission of “producing new plays reflecting the many voices in our New York City community.”

Under the direction of Mark Wing-Davey, Unconditional is staged in the round at The Public Theater, where the issues of perspective so central to each character's trajectory are slickly embodied by Mark Wendland’s scenic design. The set is comprised almost entirely of white peg board, with peg board dividers sliding in and out to frame different areas of the stage. The dividers are highly effective in delineating divisions of the performance space; still more effective is their conspicuous absence as the play reaches its meaty center and the character’s stories become increasingly intertwined.

Though the layout of the space is uniquely theatrical, at times the play runs like a tightly-packed television program, covering a lot of ground in a necessarily short amount of time. Bart Fasbender’s sound design underscores otherwise silent scenes with music that goes a long way toward creating ambiance. That furthers the production’s cinematic sensibility, as does Japhy Weideman’s light design. When the peg board dividers disappear, lighting directs audience focus, often creating brief moments with enough intensity to feel like complete scenes.

But then, nearly every scene of the production is marked by both brevity and intensity. At just over two-hours, the convergent storylines pack in a lot: lynching, battery, drug abuse, spousal abuse, theft, racism, fetishism, loneliness. The actors do well with the material most of the time, especially John Doman, who nails the difficult role of Keith by balancing bitter anger and dry dejection with dark charm. Other standouts include Saidah Arrika Ekulona as Keith’s occasional lover, who exudes ambivalent power shaded with quiet desperation, and Isiah Whitlock, Jr., whose sheer conviction rescues the play’s most didactic monologue.

But it’s Elizabeth Rodriguez’s Jessica, the character with the least drama-filled trajectory, whose final scene best exemplifies the hopeless isolation faced by each of the characters. As a spirited, opinionated friend, Rodriguez takes a role that might otherwise serve simply as welcome comic relief – and the play’s sole voice of optimism – and infuses it with a sense of loss that matches those of the other, more wildly tragic characters.

Yet, the fact that the character with the least substantive storyline has some of the play’s most heart-achingly poignant moments indicates a problem. At best, the problem is structural. Balancing nine characters and numerous storylines is a difficult task, and the team behind Unconditional deserves credit for making a play with such a bleak outlook so consistently entertaining. Audiences need not worry about getting bored over the course of the production, and anyone looking for a dark winter evening at the theatre will probably enjoy it. Still, Unconditional suggests that witnessing a likable character suffer subtle loss can prove both more potent and more sophisticated than violent murders and gritty sex scenes. At least, that’s the case here.

Putting It Together

There are 384 paintings by French Impressionist Pierre Bonnard of his wife in the bath. Why so many? And why did Bonnard enter a Paris museum to continually update a painting, even as it hung from the museum wall? These are the key questions director-writer Israel Horovitz sets out to answer in The Secret of Mme. Bonnard's Bath, the first homegrown production from his own New York Playwrights Lab. Horovitz deserves credit for traversing more than a century in the play and portraying at least a dozen characters with a great degree of economy (only three actors star in the production). Bath opens in the 1940's, as a man (John Shea) defaces one of Bonnard's paintings. The man turns out to be the artist himself, and he is adding fresh paint to the work nearly 20 years after its creation.

The action then shifts to the present day, as Luc and Aurelie (Michael Bakkensen and Stephanie Jannsen), two French art history students, puzzle over the mystery of the altered painting. This device allows Horovitz to explore the details of Bonnard's personal life, which had a direct but cryptic influence on his paintings.

Horovitz has done an exhaustive amount of research to piece together his subject's life, much of which is on display here. As it skips back and forth over various points from the first half of the last century, Bath dwells on two women who had an important impact on Bonnard. Marthe, the woman who appeared in the 384 paintings, is Bonnard's sickly, and betrayed, wife. Chaty is a woman Bonnard met later in life, and the one whom he labels his true love.

Jannsen does a dynamic job portraying both of these characters, and perhaps Horovitz's aim was that the two women should appear the same, as they both struck something in Bonnard. Still, in a play with as many temporal shifts as Bath has, I found it confusing to see the same actress play two such important roles. Bakkensen, on the other hand, portrays a variety of Bonnard's peers (with a peerless French accent, to boot), but these are all minor characters and any inability on the audience's part to keep them straight is not as significant.

Nonetheless, the idea of the muse's importance to the artist is a novel one to explore. The scenes depicting Bonnard and his creative process are the play's richest. He relies on women for sustenance as others rely on food. When his heart is full, his artistic vision is at its most boundless. Bonnard may be immature and feel entitled to treat people—particularly women—however he likes (and Shea bravely toes the line between the sympathetic and the unlikable). But his devotion to Marthe, which amounts to an avalanche of lies, makes sense for an artist as solipsistic as this one.

Unfortunately, the modern story fails to parallel the historical one. As Luc and Aurelie study the differing versions of Bonnard's "Young Woman in the Garden," they grow closer together, both giving in to a mutual attraction that seems to have started before the audience meets them. Yet both belong to others, and despite the fact that these others appear to have been unfaithful, the two resist ending their current relationships. Because of Bath's structure, their time together feels both episodic and protracted, and ultimately anticlimactic. These modern scenes serve to spell out the facts of Bonnard's career, but the scenes with the painter are already clear and don't require more detail.

Other devices seem unnecessary, including the two projection screens above the actors and the bathtub that sits onstage, hardly used. Bath still seems a work in progress, and yet the proficiency of its trio of actors suggests the show has potential. For those who wish to hear more about the creative process behind the play, Horovitz, Bakkensen, Jannsen, and Shea are appearing after the Wednesday and Saturday matinees to discuss the piece. These talk-backs indicate that there is plenty to say. I'm just not sure this play finds the best way to say it.

Fools for Love

"Shakespeare has damned us all!" shouts a passionate actor at the onset of Now That You've Seen Me Naked, a collection of 15 thin vignettes about the joys and travails of romantic relationships. With a manic laugh, the actor (Chris J. Handley) announces that the Bard has doomed us with his tales of melodramatic, tempestuous, and eternal love. In the tradition of such revues as Off-Broadway's I Love You, You're Perfect, Now Change, Now That You've Seen Me Naked strives to make light of our amorous fumblings by showing us how silly our expectations can be. It's neither as witty nor as satisfying as its peers, and, although it has moments of the crude and profane, the tame content is no match for its salacious title. These fluffy scenes make for an entertaining, but often frustrating, evening of theater.

Written by a team of 10 writers (including three members of the small acting ensemble), these scenes can usually be reduced to one hackneyed phrase. For example, "men and women should have their own bathrooms," "men prefer less complicated food choices," and (surprise!) "during the same conversation, a man and a woman might really be thinking about completely different things."

With so many narrative voices, the scenes vary in scope and success. Director Evan Heird keeps things moving at a sprightly pace, but the jokes often fall flat and too many of the wispy songs lack solid melodies. The actors also represent a wide spectrum of acting abilities, and their levels of conviction differ as they execute this uneven material.

Still, there are several creative takes on relationships and a handful of memorable performances. In "I've Been Replaced," a man (the energetic Handley) sings a frenzied song of anxiety when he accidentally discovers an instrument of manual stimulation in his girlfriend's nightstand. Handley winningly whines and gesticulates with the elongated purple prop.

The comedy also succeeds in the short, pithy "Vending Machine." When a woman (Rachel McPhee) inserts coins, she ejects two men (Ryan Hyde and Handley) who reward her with the things women wish men would say. "I see your point, and, what's more, I understand it," the men coo. The woman reacts with orgasmic glee.

And in one of the longest—and best—scenes, two sleazy men compete for the title of "Mr. Lounge Lizard." Brilliant comedienne Amy Albert slurs her words admirably as the furred and sequined host, and the competitors (Hyde and Perryn Pomatto) compete in the categories of pickup line, loungewear, and talent. Selected members of the audience vote for their favorite at each performance, and Hyde took the title the night I was there. The award was well deserved: with studious, gum-snapping appeal, his lecherous stares, smarmy pickup lines, and persuasive ballad created a compelling and precise comic parody.

The performance achieves a snappy ending with "Love as Performance Art," in which the black-clad ensemble writhes about the stage as an esoteric beatnik group. As the performers shout out bizarre phrases that all ostensibly link back to love, the scene makes a witty comment on the absurdity of our attempts to describe romance.

But although the performance seems to end here, it continues with the lackluster "Coffee Break," in which the ensemble extols the virtues of coffee to the tune of Handel's "Hallelujah Chorus." This lengthy interpretation craftily substitutes "cup of java!" for "hallelujah!," but the scene's uncertain motivation brings the production to an unsatisfying conclusion.

So where does any of this leave us? Now That You've Seen Me Naked makes a sweet—if slight—impression, but it would be refreshing to see a revue that explores relationships in more novel ways and with less slavish devotion to tired assumptions about the myopic ways of male/female couplings. If Shakespeare has truly primed us for failure, then perhaps we should write ourselves new stories instead of perpetuating the ones we already know by heart.

Faithfully Faithless

A group fond of exclamation points, the National Theater of the USA (NTUSA) endeavors, at the very least, to give its audience a grand show. In their production of Molière’s Don Juan or the Feast with the Statue , which is perhaps as authentic a revival as Don Juan is honest, they definitely succeed in rousing the audience—to laughter, if nothing else. In previous collaborations, the collective’s fresh and feisty spirit produced highly experimental original works, but here it is used to “reanimate” a “dusty” (or, classical) text. It is a testament to the wide-ranging talents of the group’s members (in particular, their comic sensibilities) that they manage to update Molière’s very funny text in unexpected and innovative ways.

In a playful introduction by Dick Pricey, self-proclaimed “Star of the NTUSA,” James Stanley asks the audience to imagine itself as the royal court of Louis XIV, for whom the play was originally performed in 1665. At that time, Don Juan was not a success. Considered offensive to the church and to France itself, it was pulled after 15 performances, and even after considerable editing, did not receive positive attention. It was only performed in its uncensored form in 1884 (about 200 years after Molière’s death).

Performed today, the play hardly seems the stuff of serious criticism. Indeed, the play’s fantastic conclusion, in which the title character is sucked into hell, abandons the notion of moralistic resolution. Rather, the hypocrite’s comeuppance gives his servant, Sganarelle, the chance to end the play with a ridiculously flippant joke about his lost wages. As with the play’s finale, NTUSA’s adapted version of Don Juan exploits every blasphemous comment and inclination in order to try and shock a modern audience. Since Moliere ruthlessly mocks any aspect of life that one might take seriously (e.g. religion, marriage, gentleman’s honor), the play does not aim to have much of a purpose beyond entertainment. In that sense, it is the perfect show for a group that likes to provide the audience with a “spectacle.”

With great gusto, the group consistently takes Moliere’s comic impulses a step further: Don Juan is a preening diva with a glitter tear frozen on his cheek, trailing ribbons of satin in his wake, and keen on dramatic entrances (complete with sexy Spanish music). In the role, Yehuda Duenyas is arresting, with the audience at his fingertips (sometimes quite literally: an extended rose was tentatively accepted by more than one audience member).

Don Juan’s erotic self-obsession is best displayed in a strip tease, which leaves Duenyas clad in only a tiny pair of purple bikini underwear, shamelessly titillating a gilded mannequin leg. The scene takes place in the private lair of Don Juan, which is bathed in a lurid red glow. It is the sort of place where barely clothed menservants prance about, worshipfully waving palm fronds. The whole scene calls to mind Tim Meadows’ Ladies’ Man character, if that invention had any kind of wit.

The coherence with which this giddy rendition is performed is largely due to the obvious rapport between the actors, as well as to the professionalism and skill each actor brings to the stage. Jesse Hawley steps into the unenviable shoes of Sganarelle, and plays an appropriately foolish foil to Duenyas’s Don Juan. Even though her character exists for the greater glory of his master, Hawley stands out for her ability to pull off Sganarelle’s complicated, nonsensical speeches, and the surprising shock of a man surrounded by the shocking.

In the past, the group has won awards for set design, and there is no shortage of clever effects in this production. The audience is placed at the center of the stage, which forces it to move according to the whims of Don Juan, following his fancies just as the other characters do. The set that surrounds the audience consists of simply painted backdrops. The lack of realistic sets or props contributes to the ridiculous and playful effect of the show. Another humorous device is the use of sound effects. Designed by Jody Elff and Yehuda Duenyas, the sound often reinforces the cartoonish stage play, with arcade game punching sounds and inappropriately timed splashes.

NTUSA has constructed a delightful confection with their “reanimation” of Don Juan , containing the layered sweetness of exaggerated entreaties, frivolous costume, ridiculous sound effects, and delicious bawdy humor. The production never missteps—it is consistently a light and fun entertainment, in which every attempt at moralizing is thoroughly mocked. It’s hard to imagine that anyone would have a bad time at the show; after all, who could resist the charms of Don Juan?

Full Circle

Nonlinear structure is a hallmark of avant-garde theatre, yet there has probably never been a production that celebrates the nonlinear like – at the risk of sounding redundant – In Circles. Obsession with circles is one of few explicitly unifying themes in Al Carmine’s musical adaptation of Gertrude Stein’s A Circular Play. Stein wrote A Circular Play in 1920, early in her professional writing career; still earlier in her career as a playwright. Aiming to accomplish in text what her contemporaries achieved through cubist painting, Stein considered her writing to be an evolving experiment in structural manipulation. A playful early example, A Circular Play reads like a collection of loosely rhymed non-sequiturs.

Al Carmine’s lively musical arrangement of the text is a stunning achievement that earned him a 1968 Obie for Best Musical and helped usher in the experimental style that found a home in early Off-Off-Broadway. Such experimentation is no longer as revolutionary as it was in the 20’s or 60’s, and much of the production feels like something from another era. Interestingly, that’s not a bad thing for the piece. In the dedicated hands of director John Sowle, what might otherwise come across as dated instead enhances the play’s other-worldly ambience.

That ambience is strongly supported by Mike Floyd’s delightful 1920’s-esque costumes, which help audiences to distinguish between characters, and Joe Novak’s arrestingly beautiful light design, which helps to distinguish between scenes. Appropriately, the production is staged in the round, yet given the show’s singular emphasis on circles, it’s odd and frustrating that Sowle rarely has the cast play to all sides.

The ensemble is both playful and polished, a remarkable accomplishment given the apparent lack of specificity written into each role. Stein’s text lists no characters and contains no real dialogue; In Circles assigns lines to an ensemble of ten, with characters loosely influenced by Gertrude Stein and her circle of friends from the years surrounding WWI. It’s an inspired choice. The onstage manifestation of how Stein perceived her world is a pleasure to watch.

Even when the characters take their names from Stein’s real-life acquaintances, they are amalgamations. Mildred, for example, comes from a textual reference to Mildred Aldrich, Stein’s good friend and fellow expatriate, credited by the French government with helping to convince the United States to join WWI. Certainly, her understanding of the inter-related nature of the world makes a fitting lens through which to contemplate circles. Yet the character Mildred, played with grounded flourish by Noelle McGrath, is shaded with layers of Stein; she and Mabel (Robin Manning) play hostess to the rest of the characters just as Stein and Alice B. Toklas did in their Parisian salon.

As a key figure in the burgeoning Paris art scene in the early part of the 20th century, Stein’s circle included prominent international artists, among them Matisse and Picasso. Sense of community pervades In Circles, from the performers’ unified enthusiasm in executing Jack Dyville’s dizzying choreography to the delight they take in one another’s singing. Even at the play’s least comprehensible moments, the warmth of the performers and their dedication to the material should keep audiences not just at ease but enraptured.

Stein wrote A Circular Play just after WWI, with her displaced community struggling to put itself back together, and even as the characters of In Circles declare that they “must remain in a circle,” impermanence sets into their world. A soldier, identified only as Brother (Michael Lazar), is killed in the army. Does his absence leave a hole in the circle or make the circle tighter for those who remain? In Circles inexplicitly raises the question but doesn’t bog itself down in conclusions.

Other life cycle events inform the transience of In Circles as well. “Mrs. de Monzy has adopted a child” sings the cast in an early musical outburst while jovially encircling a baby. Much later family is brought up again in the context of a young couple (Megan Hales and Michael Lazar) whom audiences encounter first surrounded by the rest of the ensemble and then alone onstage together. It’s one of few times the stage holds only two performers, and as a result the intimate romantic moment feels strangely lonely; what will happen to the circle? It’s easy to miss the cohesion of the group even as it’s touching to see the beginnings of young love.

“Circles stretch,” say the characters in the face of change. Yet in the final moments of the play, a character notes in true Steinian fashion: “klim backwards is milk.” It’s not palindromic; not everything continues forever.

In Circles oscillates between the inspired exuberance and the melancholic desperation associated with both the Lost Generation of the 1920’s and the activists of the 1960’s. Anyone nostalgic for such a time – and anyone seeking a powerful theatrical experience – would do well to see In Circles.

Not Your Servant

The indomitable Capathia Jenkins recently dazzled Broadway audiences with a solo in which she commanded, "Let a big black lady stop the show." She went on to do exactly that, and in the context of the tongue-in-cheek Martin Short: Fames Becomes Me, the song was an irreverent comment on typecasting and our stilted theatrical expectations. Now Jenkins has resurfaced as another big black lady—Hattie McDaniel, most renowned for her Academy Award-winning turn as Scarlett O'Hara's feisty Mammy in Gone With the Wind. But instead of simply stealing the show and soaking up the applause, Jenkins portrays a woman who clearly stole the show but then had the show stolen away from her.

In (mis)Understanding Mammy: The Hattie McDaniel Story, McDaniel appears in her hospital room, coping with the breast cancer that would eventually take her life. She still has a bone to pick with her most vicious enemy, however, and she conjures up the ghost of NAACP leader Walter White. It's a revenge fantasy worth indulging, and playwright Joan Ross Sorkin's clever framework gives McDaniel fervent motivation to tell her story. This smart and persuasive drama reveals the complex history behind one of Hollywood's most important actresses.

McDaniel first began performing on the vaudeville circuit in Denver, where in the thriving hustle of a "boomtown" race wasn't a complete limitation. But when she moved on to Hollywood, she found herself cast predominantly in stereotypical "mammy" roles. Still, McDaniel was happy just to be working, and then she landed Gone With the Wind.

McDaniel was the first black actress to attend the Academy Awards ceremony, and even though she also became the first black actress to win one, she was segregated from the other guests and relegated to the back of the venue. Signed by a film studio, she soon became the go-to actress for mammy roles. But when White began to attack "mammyism" and its harmful consequences, he eventually had McDaniel blacklisted.

To our contemporary eyes, the ever-grinning mammy character is obviously derogatory, but McDaniel puts up a robust defense of the roles that defined her career. "I'd rather play a maid than be one," she points out. In fact, she felt that her performances were progressive--not only did she "reinvent" the mammy figure, making her less subordinate and full of strength and personality (in one movie her maid character even had her own day job), but she also campaigned fiercely--and successfully--to remove the "n" word from the script of Gone With the Wind.

None of this mattered to White, however, and he resolved to eradicate an egregious stereotype. But as skittish producers began to fear White's persecution, reliable film work for black actors became severely limited.

Jenkins plays McDaniel with conviction and grace, and her best moments, perhaps unsurprisingly, surface when she embodies McDaniel in song. Naturally bright-eyed and bubbly, with an enormous smile that reflects the spotlight, Jenkins, as McDaniel, unabashedly glows when remembering the exultation of a live audience. Still, in her visceral rendition of "Lady Luck Blues," the depth and devastation begin to trickle out, and Jenkins contorts her sunny face into an ugly, grotesque twist. Her throaty, rangy voice unflinchingly probes the dark, complex corridors that lined McDaniel's life.

Director David Glenn Armstrong's simple and effective staging is buttressed by Jenkins's ardent performance. The narrative loses steam during a few over-expository passages, but it is thrilling to watch McDaniel steadily circle White, gathering together the seminal moments of her life to defend both her career and her humanity. What McDonald most wanted is respect, the play tells us, and here we have the opportunity to watch her fight for it.

Most tragically, White turned black people against McDaniel, who considered herself a pioneer for her race. Although neither Sorkin nor Armstrong makes much effort to connect these events to our contemporary moment, the implication is clear. Already, pundits are questioning presidential hopeful Barack Obama's essential "blackness" and how his race might affect his political career. Our national obsession with casting certain people in certain roles, it seems, is hardly a thing of the past.

Kung Fu Hustle

It's a perfunctory rule that you cannot, despite advances in digital printing, judge a book by its cover. One could therefore safely assume that an Off-Off-Broadway show cannot be judged by its postcard. I can attest that this is mostly true. But every rule must have an exception, and, lucky me, I was the one to find it. The postcard is for Big Time Action Theater and David Solomon Rodriguez's production of The Jaded Assassin at the Ohio Theater, and it instantly tells you everything you need to know about the tone of the show. This image of actress Jo-Anne Lee snarling and ready to strike with a katana sword can only elicit two reactions. The first is "I don't care what it takes, I'm going," and the other is "I don't care how much you want to, I'm definitely not going."

Part play, part martial arts exhibition, The Jaded Assassin was conceived by director Timothy Haskell as "the world's first original action play." Haskell's creation is a karate chop aimed at the excitable little kid in your heart, with a follow-up jab to your sense of irony. It is a kung-fu movie come to life onstage.

The story, scripted by Michael Voyer, is culled from just about every kung fu film cliché imaginable (as when the play humorously simulates dubbed dialogue) and is tailored to include as many martial arts battles as possible. We follow an ardent mercenary, Soon Jal, who is hired by the emperor of an "ancient" (and ambiguous) Asian country wracked by civil war. Seeking vengeance for a murdered lover, Soon Jal takes it upon herself to put an end to the meaningless war—but first she must quell the lust for war within herself. This necessitates killing every nameless soldier, elemental spirit, or zombie that has the misfortune of crossing her path.

I would estimate that 40 minutes of Jaded Assassin's 70-minute run time is, as the show's premise promises, fight choreography. These intricately structured fights were choreographed by Rod Kinter and typically feature Soon Jal fighting everyone else in the cast. The play demands several different fighting styles—hand-to-hand, sword fighting, quarterstaff, and even simulated Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon-inspired aerial combat—and the cast performs them with considerable elegance. To further the kung fu film aesthetic, the melees are underscored either by intense, live taiko drumming or delightfully anachronistic contemporary music.

While critically appraising the production's script, design, and acting by normal theatrical standards would surely miss the point, it should be noted that Kinter, scenic designer Paul Smithyman, and lighting designer Nick Hohn augment the paper-thin narrative by keeping things simple. The focus here is the fighting, and everyone involved is clearly aware of that.

It is difficult not to single out Jo-Anne Lee as Soon Jal, because, much like Uma Thurman in the film Kill Bill, so much of the play rides on our belief that her character is an unhinged killing machine. Lee does not disappoint. Her reactions and her line readings are appropriately hilarious, but most important, her physical stamina is almost mesmerizing. Soon Jal is involved in nearly every fight scene in the show, and you never sense that Lee is even winded.

The rest of the cast matches the intensity of Lee's performance very well. Marius Hanford in particular, as Rektor, the villainous ninja/sorcerer, convincingly conveys the fervor of a punk rocker. Hanford and the rest of the ensemble are qualified and adaptable enough to perform the impressive choreography despite a lot of costumes, props, and even puppets.

I enjoyed the concept and execution of this show a great deal, which is why it pains me to admit that it's not a perfect production. In fact, the play's two largest drawbacks lie in the core concept: in a show that is mostly stage combat, the stage combat must be flawless. The cast members met the demands of the choreography most of the time, but when an audience has been watching 40 minutes of fight choreography, a missed block or even a split-second delay becomes painfully obvious.

The other problem is that watching the unbeatable Soon-Jal pound away at faceless thugs for over an hour gets tedious. As in the boring Matrix sequels, if a martial arts fighter is too invincible for too long it becomes, well, too much. Finally, there is a bizarre, even existential twist at the end of the play that is more likely to confuse than to blow anyone's mind.

So does The Jaded Assassin live up to its enticing postcard? The company executes the choreography with lethal precision, but the production's high style can't compensate for its rough spots.

Noir Song

What defines a Broadway musical? Is it a big, relatable love story set to popular music? Is it full of romantic and character roles perfect for filling with the stars of the day? If you speak to regular theater patrons, they all seem to have a sense of what is and is not suitable for the Broadway stage, even if they cannot elaborate on the criteria used to make the distinction. A successful commercial run depends not only on the show's quality but also on its being produced in the right-sized venue. Adrift in Macao, a film noir parody musical created in an inspired alliance between writer/lyricist Christopher Durang and composer Peter Melnick (grandson of Richard Rodgers), is now enjoying its long-awaited New York premiere Off-Broadway at 59E59 Theaters. While the caliber of the collaborators could have earned the production a spot on the Great White Way, opening at an intimate Off-Broadway house is a great move for this little show. Adrift in Macao has the music and energy (but not quite the script) for a Broadway bow.

Durang's clever though slight story involves a corrupt port town (Macao, China), a nightclub, and its unflappable owner, Rick Shaw. There is also a sultry blond chanteuse (Lureena), a mysterious loner (Mitch), an opium-addled showstopper (Corinna), and an inscrutable Asian manservant/intentional caricature (Tempura). All of them either work for or want something from Rick, and all are being kept from pursuing their own happiness.

There are lots of wordplay-based and "fourth wall"-breaking jokes, such as the response given when one character expresses hope about seeing another character again: "Well, it's a small cast." The thin plot threads fray a bit now and then but are strengthened by the dynamite songs. Melnick's music and Durang's lyrics combine in ditties that recall the jazzy/witty numbers from City of Angels. But while Cy Coleman and David Zippel (also working in noir territory) crafted dark-edged, syncopated songs in minor chords for Angels, Melnick and Durang's songs are bright and "majorly" catchy.

The small cast really sells this material. Rachel De Benedet (Lureena), Michele Ragusa (Corinna), and Orville Mendoza (Tempura) were all Barrymore Award winners for their roles in Philadelphia Theater Company's 2005 production of the show, and, two years later, they are still in fine form. De Benedet is comely and blond enough to look the part of the femme not-so-fatale, and her smoky voice and Mae West way with a double entendre only enhance her appeal.

Ragusa is like a gleefully gone-to-seed Rita Hayworth, with a great comic energy and a glorious belt. Mendoza's Tempura is a wily customer who deals with the racism around him by playing games with people's expectations, defying them or living up to them based on how they benefit him. New York additions Will Swenson (Rick Shaw) and Alan Campbell (Mitch) were a mixed bag; while Swenson and Campbell nailed their low-key characters, they often faded into the background when the ladies or Mendoza came into the picture.

Ninety minutes went by like a pleasant breeze, but the show could benefit from a little more structure. Although critics of musicals often direct their ire at the creaky plot lines in poor examples of the genre, that doesn't mean the shows would be better served without them. There wasn't enough character motivation or action to sustain this show, resulting in a few theatrical bald spots.

However, director Sheryl Kaller and choreographer Christopher Gattelli picked up the slack by keeping the performers and performance in motion. Somehow, Gattelli managed to use retro dance moves in both a tongue-in-cheek and organic way, in some of the handiest choreography I've seen Off-Broadway.

Adrift in Macao isn't as theatrical as Phantom of the Opera, as polished as The Producers, or as full of heart as ... well, no examples come to mind. Perhaps if the script were beefed up, the ensemble expanded, and the budget tripled, it might become one of those big Broadway shows. The question is, Would it be as enjoyable? Macao is a scrappy, off-the-wall tuner that is completely self-aware and succeeds in delighting the socks off its audience. This B-musical brings its A-game.

Closet Case

What do you say when you suspect your co-worker is a serial killer? In Sam Marks's dark comedy Nelson, a talent agent named Joe (Alexander Alioto) tries to make small talk with his suspiciously twitchy co-worker Nelson (Frank Harts), asking him, "So, haven't you ever wanted to take a hammer and bury it deep into someone's brain?" Nelson, however, is offended at the insinuation, and Joe's protests that he is working with a psychopath are ultimately dismissed by his superiors. Nelson has an endearing baby face and large eyes that drip with vulnerability. But unbeknownst to anyone but Joe, he also has a briefcase full of snuff movies that he was commissioned to film while his friend Charlie (Samuel Ray Gates) narrated.

Watching Nelson is similar to seeing three out-of-control cars moments away from a head-on collision. You know there is going to be damage and you know things are going to get messy, but what you don't know is just how messy they are going to get. Nelson is a very tense, edge-of-your-seat story wrapped up in a mystery that you can't wait to be solved.

Every time Nelson opens his closet door, a bright light shines out, and he talks enthusiastically into it. Who or what he is talking to is revealed later, though we know it can't be good if it is locked in a closet. Still, Harts plays Nelson with a deep insecurity and desperate neediness that allow audiences to at least feel sorry for him, even if they can't trust him.

There are no good guys in this story, no protagonists, and no common man. These are not characters you want to find yourself identifying with. Alioto plays Joe with such a cool, snakelike quality that he practically slithers. He laughs at others' misfortunes and delights in making his jittery colleague squirm. But it is Charlie who comes off as the scariest. Gates displays a frightening coldness in Charlie's eyes, putting a wall between himself and humanity, a wall that we sense he is ready to hide behind when something unpleasant has to be done.

The play's most powerful scenes are the ones that take place around the climax, when we can feel the tension onstage building to the point of eruption. Nelson goes too far in his obsession with a beautiful movie star named Laura (Meagan Prahl, who's seen on Nelson's posters and heard through prerecorded scenes). And Charlie realizes that Joe must have found the snuff tapes he and Nelson made, which means Joe knows about their involvement in them and can go to the police.

The play also explores the lure of celebrity and the lengths some people will go just to capture a piece of it. Nelson is eager as a puppy for the privilege of delivering an envelope to Laura's house, and is in ecstasy when she sends him a chocolate basket thanking him for his help with a screen test. These actions lead him to believe that what he sees on the screen is not only real but accessible to him. Charlie, on the other hand, sought celebrity for himself by agreeing to be an onscreen narrator for the snuff films because he wanted people to recognize him.

Nelson's greatest strength is the ability to weave a story that is entirely unpredictable, one that we can't quite wrap our minds around as it's unfolding but that we know is headed somewhere big. The characters are secretive enough to make it entirely plausible that any of them could be on the verge of harming another. The possibility of death is felt in every scene.

Because of the play's subject matter, it is important to note that Nelson contains no disturbingly gory images or actual shots of snuff footage. Marks wisely trusts his audiences to use their own imaginations to fill in the blanks. It's an effective method of storytelling for this particular play, because your own thoughts about what is in Nelson's closet and on Charlie's videos are enough to send chills up your spine.

Young Wife's Tales

Laboratory Theater's Scheherazade, a work in progress now in performance at the Bowery's Dixon Place theater, ambitiously aims to "lay bare the extravagant sex and violence of these bejeweled tales through a hybrid of marathon storytelling, slapstick physicality, and elegantly absurdist ballet." When the project is in a more complete state, it might achieve some of those objectives. At the moment, it is an incomprehensible mess. As a recording of Rimsky-Korsakov's Scheherazade plays, a troupe of four performers (Corey Dargel, Sheila Donovan, Oleg Dubson, and Alexis McNab) take turns reading, at breakneck speed, from Richard Burton's Victorian translation of the 10th-century Middle Eastern folklore compilation Alf Laila wa-Laila, better known as Arabian Nights. In this famous piece, Scheherazade, the wise and witty new bride of the mythical, tyrannical sultan Schahryar, tells him a thousand and one nights' worth of periodically interrupted stories, ultimately convincing him to abandon his policy of serial marriage and daily wife murder.

The speed of the reading made it difficult to follow. The ballet, consisting of rather stagy modern dance and repetitive, choreographically unoriginal, simulated sex, was neither elegant nor absurd. It also seemed constrained by Dixon Place's small performance space.

Director Yvan Greenberg has cast a skinny, topless man (Oleg Dubson) as Scheherazade and a woman in greasepaint facial hair (Sheila Donovan) as Schahryar. The other two performers also play roles in a gender opposite from their own. The intention behind this interpretation is unclear, as the actors make no attempt to embody their characters' genders. The female performers gave themselves "erections" by prancing about with scimitars held between their legs, and the male performers shook their nonexistent breasts. That alone does not constitute convincing mimesis, nor innovative satire.

The show appears glaringly unrehearsed. The actors read much of the text from printed, bound scripts on music stands. At the performance I saw, they made a few reading errors, skipping words and then returning to them. Greenberg assured me after the performance that this was deliberate. Several times during the show, Dubson had to pause to pull his slipping face veil back onto his nose, and once his pants slipped a bit as well, revealing decidedly modern black underwear.

The costumes, designed by Greenberg, are humdrum Orientalist clichés: a kaffiyeh for the Sultan, pink harem pants and face veil for Scheherazade. I did not understand why the sound design, also by Greenberg, included incomprehensible mumblings through what sounded like police or military walkie-talkies.

Throughout the performance, two small televisions, placed at frustrating angles perpendicular to the sight line of the entire center audience section, played a loop of interesting animated cartoons. This video material was created by Dubson, "using images," says the program, "by Yann Arthus-Bertrand, N. Simakoff, and Lotte Reininger." It seemed to have very little to do with the live action unfolding simultaneously. At a moment when two women characters are described giving birth, the screens showed a pair of magical creatures fighting and periodically transforming themselves into different animals.

According to Greenberg, this "work in progress" may change throughout its Dixon Place run. This means that the Scheherazade you see, if you choose to see it, might not be the show reviewed here.

I have no objection to artistic experimentation, but theater companies have a duty to create work that is completed enough to engage the audience. What I saw at Dixon Place was difficult to hear and often not understandable, provoking first frustration, then boredom. Instead of illuminating, clarifying, or deconstructing Burton's Nights, Laboratory Theater's production, in its present state, only obfuscates it.

Art History

Visual art, and modern visual art in particular, inspires the viewer to pull it apart, study it, and find out what makes it tick. Artists' signatures and titles are not enough information for the curious; one is compelled to know what the creator was using as a model, and why this model (a person, a landscape, a bowl of fruit) was considered worth capturing in time. Sometimes people use their imagination to fill in the historical blanks, as was the case with art lover Ron Hirsen. He turned an interest in Pablo Picasso's etching "The Frugal Repast" into a fact-and-fiction-mixing script for a show of the same name, now being produced by Abingdon Theater Company. But this work of art bears little resemblance to its namesake—it is more of a rough outline with scant shading.

In Paris in 1913, in the gallery of dealer Ambroise Vollard, the wealthy and creative sit down to a chicken curry dinner. Among them are the aforementioned host, American writer Gertrude Stein, her companion (and future writer) Alice B. Toklas, and the French poet Guillaume Apollinaire. They discuss the Cubist movement and make other high-minded small talk until Picasso and his muse du jour crash the scene.

Though Picasso has not yet evolved into the genius that he will become, he is clearly the brightest star in this particular constellation. He complains about a woman following him, which is laughed off by those at the party. (His artistic reputation may not yet be well known, but his reputation as a womanizer is already legendary.)

Across the street, that woman joins a sad little man in a bowler hat. They are tightrope walkers ("aerialists" is the preferred term in the play) who are oppressed by their boss, poverty, and the illness that's threatening to take their young son's life. These characters remain nameless, referring to each other and their boy by affectionate gastronomical aliases. Their almost expressionless faces and nondescript clothing cement their existence as archetypes of the poor.

But the only things that belong to them—their faces—have been stolen by Picasso and turned into an etching that sits in Vollard's window. The couple decides to steal the picture and demand a ransom so they can take "the little dumpling" to the doctor. When the fortunate meet the less fortunate, they bond over their art but clash over their differing views on art.

There are questions raised about the commoditization of art and how to establish its value. The use of a realistic tone for Picasso's crowd, in contrast to the circus music and clownish movement for the couple, adds another layer: that of the disparity between the tenor of these people's lives and what happens to them. (The solemn artists wallow in frivolity, and the frivolous circus performers wallow in solemnity.)

The performers themselves all meet the requirements of the roles, but the flashier characters of Picasso (Roberto DeFelice) and his mistresses (all played by Kathleen McElfresh) allow those actors a chance to stand out. DeFelice makes a temperamental, sensual Picasso, and McElfresh exuberantly tries on many accents and identities as the comic relief.

The problem is with Hirsen's script, which is more concerned with wink-wink references to the historical figures' lives and endless nicknames for the man and woman than with having a meaningful conversation. This playfulness would be O.K. if the show didn't have the loftier goal of trying to make a statement about art.

Sometimes a play is just a play, and sometimes, to echo Gertrude Stein, "a play is a play is a play is a play." In this case, a play is not the play it wants to be. Perhaps if The Frugal Repast understood itself better and was less worried about understanding art better, the play would be content to be what it is—a frothy, "what-if" exercise played by a patron in an art gallery.

The War at Home

James McClure's Pvt. Wars was written in another time about another war, but like all good war stories it is just as relevant now as it was in the 1970's. Even though its three main characters are Vietnam veterans, McClure focuses not on the politics of that conflict but on the effect it had on these young soldiers, who have committed themselves to a veterans' hospital hoping to find some peace, away from their private demons. What makes the play compelling is that it is told in the details of their present lives instead of focusing on the horrific past events that changed them, or the bleakness that we suspect will be their future. The setting is a sterile-looking lounge, mostly bare with only a single table in its far-left corner. A goofy-looking young man in a long flannel robe, Gateley (Ethan Baum), is often seated at the table fiddling with a broken radio. There is something simple and nonthreatening about Gateley that ingratiates him with a hyper, unpredictable soldier named Silvio (Chapin Springer). Meanwhile, a third man, a stuffy intellectual from a wealthy background named Natwick (Jeffry Denman), rubs everyone the wrong way.

Baum, Denman, and Springer are three very watchable, amusing, and magnetic performers who display great chemistry with one another. Baum plays Gateley with a sweet, childlike innocence that could believably win over guys like Silvio and Natwick, performed wonderfully by Springer and Denman as tightly wound, chronically depressed characters with some shreds of goodness still left in them.

Their interaction in the lounge feels extremely natural, reminiscent of three bored college students sitting in their dorm, looking for ways to avoid doing work, which is most likely what other young men their age are doing. Unfortunately for these men, their dorm is a hospital lounge, where they delight in causing mischief and trading jokes that seem to come from an authentic place inside themselves, not a survival tactic you would expect them to use to get through the day.

Even when these soldiers have sunk to their lowest mental state, they still engage in silly frat house behavior: chugging beer, playing childish pranks, and competing to see who can do the best Tarzan yell—Silvio, by far—though it is Natwick who is declared the winner for his unexpected effort. They discuss the mystery of women and techniques for getting their attention, and even engage in a role-playing game where Gateley stumps Silvio by pretending to be a lesbian—the only seduction scenario Silvio can envision himself not succeeding in.

We learn that Gateley is fixing the radio for a fallen comrade with missing arms and legs. Everyone expects this man will die, and when he finally does, Natwick bluntly reports the news to Gateley, thinking it will put an end to his project. Surprisingly, it doesn't. Gateley continues toiling with the parts, explaining that it is symbolic of his psyche: if the radio can be repaired, so can America, and if there is hope for America, he can leave the ward. Or so he says.

In some respects, the three men help each other to heal, but in other ways they hold each another back, unwilling to see a comrade make progress that they feel themselves incapable of making. The thinking seems to be that if one man gets out, another will, and then the third will be left to face his demons alone.

For all the humor Gateley, Natick, and Silvio use to hide their pain, the very fact that they are here, in this lounge, is proof that it exists. McClure's writing grants us a ray of light, a silver lining, as Gateley calls it before Natwick reminds him, "Take away that silver lining and all you have is a cloud. A very dark cloud." Fortunately, PVT Wars exists in the silver lining, and thin as it is, its lovably flawed characters and moments of dazzling comedy are ultimately successful in distracting us from the surrounding darkness.

A Current Affair

Maggie (Ellen David) and Axel (Gregory Porter Miller) meet in a nondescript motel room on a regular basis to engage in an affair. They share details of their regular lives and have fashioned a nice little arrangement full of intimacy but with little of the baggage incurred by marriage. Fear not, though: Many Worlds, William Borden's new play, is no salacious melodrama about bed-hopping marrieds. Far from it. In fact, Worlds uses the context of the infidelity as a springboard to analyze far more metaphysical matters in a strikingly entertaining way.

Borden's position is that everyone lives in a universe and that people navigate between these different worlds as a result of the choices they make. Axel is consumed by these ideas from quantum physics and insists that with each choice, a new world begins and co-exists with the world that one currently inhabits at the moment. (Any moment in which two of these worlds collide is what creates the sensation of déjà vu.) Maggie, on the other hand, wants to know less about what the future has in store.

As Worlds progresses along its path, director Isaac Byrne has the play travel back and forth within Maggie's different worlds, represented by fast-paced scene changes between Maggie and Axel, Maggie and her husband Skip (Greg Horton), and even Axel and Skip alone together. Each character wonders if he or she has made the right decision, or if a better, happier life awaits in an alternate world.

Worlds is more than just a play for medicinal purposes, a work it might seem necessary to sit through. It's actually quite gripping while never feeling too heavy-handed. Audiences shouldn't be confused or intimidated by Borden's subject matter, as Byrne guides the action along with such a deft hand that the play is quite easy to follow. The dialogue is candid and often rapid-fire, even when discussing such abstruse topics as Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle.

A show like Worlds creates a mighty challenge for itself, building at a steady pace yet making each character's lines sound natural, as if his or her thoughts were always occurring in that given moment. In doing so, it allows these concepts a better chance to filter though the minds of the audience members. This should come as no surprise to those familiar with Working Man's Clothes, the production company whose impeccable standards led it to a clean-sweep victory at last year's New York Innovative Theater Awards for its production of To Nineveh.

As always, Working Man's Clothes is blessed to work with a cast of exceptional actors. David somehow does the impossible, combining all of Maggie's warring emotions—her fears, her longing, her sensuality, her doubts, and her needs—into one perfect patchwork.

Miller, too, is utterly believable at every turn. He makes it clear that Axel's growing understanding of his own mortality has led him to ponder the role of certainty in life. Watching the two of them together at times felt so real that Worlds approaches voyeurism, yet the only things bared in the show are what lurks in the mind and the soul. Horton also maintains an intriguing presence throughout the play, although Borden provides a little less substance for Skip than he does for Maggie and Axel.

Nonetheless, all three characters play a vital role in this thought-provoking play. They all question their reality, but in Byrne's hands, there is one truth firmly steeped in reality: Working Man's Clothes has mounted another must-see show.

Sound and Vision

Folk-rock singer-songwriter Cameron Seymour converted to Sufi Islam and became a vocal critic of U.S. politics and consumerism. She subsequently became convinced that she was being monitored by various government agencies and developed a reputation for paranoid rants and emotional breakdowns during her performances. After staging a farewell concert for her given name, she disappeared and was rumored to have moved to Morocco, though she was never heard from again. Years later, her daughter Mary, who had been adopted by Seymour's manager, Burt Fern, set out to come to terms with her mother's disappearance and document both Moroccan Sufism and the concert that marked her mother's final public appearance.

Actually, none of this ever happened. But if it had, it would have made a compelling subject for a documentary. As a fiction, it would make a compelling subject for the increasingly popular faux-documentary genre. Set loose in real time and in three dimensions on the stage at St. Ann's Warehouse, it has become Must Don't Whip 'Um, a fascinating and highly entertaining hybrid of genres and media, written and composed by Cynthia Hopkins and featuring her real-life band, Gloria Deluxe.

Much about Must Don't Whip 'Um is difficult to describe, but it is essentially a theatrical staging of a fictional documentary film. Because the "film" in question has a rock concert as its primary subject, the show is also a musical performance. Between songs, there are voice-over segments, montages of still images, and clips of backstage bickering, all projected above the stage but all filmed in real time. Sometimes the filming takes place in full view of the audience and sometimes it is partially obscured, as in the scenes that are filmed against a green screen just offstage. The flatness of the screens is offset by the physical presence of the actors, as well as the diaphanous curtains and shimmering lights that dominate the production design.

This intentional division of the audience's focus allows for some clever effects. Early on, an argument between Seymour and her manager takes place first offstage and then onstage, and is simultaneously projected as video. The placement of the cameras and the way the image is edited cause the performers to appear to be facing each other onscreen when their backs are turned to each other onstage, and vice versa.

What is most remarkable about the production is that even with all the cleverness, all the nested layers of narrative, all the techno-fetishism, and all the coy flirtation with politics and cultural criticism, the result never feels flip or self-congratulatory. It is a rare achievement when a show with this much going on conceptually is so affecting and emotionally engaging.

While the very concept of the production is soaked in irony, Hopkins performs with such conviction and commitment that Must Don't Whip 'Um is simultaneously a parody of the faux-documentary form and a tribute to the real thing. Even as Hopkins is poking fun at self-important musicians with messianic aspirations, she also seems to be exploring the elusive mystique and charisma that drew her to take such figures as her subject in the first place.

The music is unquestionably the heart of this production, with songs that sound like a cross between the Mamas and the Papas and Antony and the Johnsons. Indeed, if Antony and his peers are in your music collection, you should probably check out Gloria Deluxe, regardless of whether you make it to St. Ann's Warehouse to see the show.

In their publicity materials, the producers at St. Ann's state their intention to present and produce "innovative theater and concert presentations that meet at the intersection of theater and rock 'n' roll." Given that focus, the hyper-theatrical brand of hipster rock epitomized by Hopkins and her band seems to have found the ideal venue.

Must Don't Whip 'Um is the second in a series of shows that make up a larger narrative. While I didn't catch the first installment, Accidental Nostalgia, I have no intention of missing whatever Hopkins comes up with next.

Dear John

There's a nefarious Hollywood influence that's made its way into theatrical press releases: the use of "pitch-speak," where a 90-minute show is reduced to a description that meshes two disparate pop-culture reference points. The use of phrases like "this show is History Boys meets Starlight Express," while effective at piquing the interest of theatergoers and critics, usually carries with it the implication that the production in question is not worthy of the reputation of either of the referenced works. In an ideal synergy of show and space, the Asteroid B612 Theater Company is presenting Hustler, WI at Chashama @ 217. The theater's entrance is right on 42nd Street, and the play's three characters (a prostitute, a john, and a pimp) look as if they could have wandered in from a pre-Giuliani Times Square. In lieu of cast or crew bios, the promotional materials include a line about how the play was "inspired by" Taxi Driver, among other gritty 1970's films. But instead of De Niro and Scorsese, the show delivers wan characterizations and a muddled script.

Blond streetwalker Kiki advertises her wares to the strains of a lewd club mix. She is approached by Clarence, an awkward young man hidden behind an orange cap, sunglasses, and trench coat. He has trouble speaking to her, especially when she tries not so subtly to arrange a date.

Once he manages to ask Kiki about herself, she turns cold, and her pimp, Bags (resplendent in a powder-blue leisure suit, silk shirt, and white shoes), comes over to handle the situation. Clarence explains that he's fascinated by their lifestyle and that he wants to be a pimp. He's chased away but soon finds Kiki and Bags in his apartment and in his life—for better, but mostly for worse.

Writer/director Michael Scott-Price's plot is clearly set up for Clarence to be the protagonist, Kiki the love interest, and Bags the antagonist. But the story isn't always told from Clarence's point of view. After the first scene, there are a few, quick, back-story-heavy monologues from him and Kiki, which disrupt the play's flow and seem incongruous. (Usually monologues are employed as a recurring device, not a one-off insertion of exposition.) One scene devolves midway into a pimp stand-up routine, and while it gets laughs, it compromises the production's integrity.

The piece's lack of shape extends to the direction as well; Scott-Price the director hasn't improved upon Scott-Price the writer's work. While Mike Keller, as Bags, pulls off a showy and complete performance, his fellow cast members do not fare so well. As Kiki, Ali Stover sells the audience on her sexuality and toughness, but she doesn't put over the drama as well. Besides her physical attractiveness, it's unclear what makes Bags and Clarence so protective of her.

Anthony D. Stevenson (Clarence) has the toughest challenge as the addled ex-serviceman. It takes a long time for his military past to come out, and even longer for the audience to realize that it's taken a toll on his psyche. (In the Vietnam era, a young guy in fatigues in the U.S. was assumed to have post-traumatic stress disorder.) Until then he's just a strange-acting guy who is not sympathetic or compelling enough to think much about. Instead of being cryptic, the character comes off as confusing. But then the press release's nod to Taxi Driver challenges this early-career actor to fill De Niro-sized shoes.

According to Asteroid B612's mission statement, the company intends to "operate more like a rock band than a theater company in terms of schedule." Maybe this rock 'n' roll aesthetic that it's chasing has led Asteroid B612 to its hip movie tie-in, anti-bio program. But rather than let the show speak for itself, this tactic only makes a curious audience member look at the program and the show more closely, and less favorably.

Sound Designed

Describing the various elements that serve as aural, visual, thematic, and narrative layers of Radiohole's Fluke doesn't come close to conveying the experience of watching the show. A fragmented, surrealist riff on Moby-Dick, this piece is less about great whales and existential crises than the explosive energy, theatrical ingenuity, and collaborative spirit of Radiohole's work. The result is a welcome shot of adrenaline into the heart of New York's avant-garde theater. An image of swirling bubbles is projected onto an upstage screen. What sounds like two separate recordings of bubbling water—one light and constant, one deeper and more sporadic—moves through the theater's powerful speaker system, reinforcing the idea that the show takes place on and under the water. Adding another level to the soundscape, and slyly complicating the distinction between live and recorded performance, are the lamps lining the walls. They are submerged in fixtures that are filled with colored water, gurgling and bubbling with a sonic texture that is more "present" than the recordings.

Four actors—three (Eric Dyer, Erin Douglass, and Maggie Hoffman) onstage and one (Scott Halvorsen Gillette) broadcast onto a video monitor suspended over a corner of the proscenium—act out a variety of monologues, dialogues, and physical scenarios. Their voices are almost always amplified, so that the voices of the actors onstage have the same quality as the disembodied Gillette. The voices are usually assigned individual speakers, however, so they come from the general direction of the actors and provide spatial orientation.

One radically, and intentionally, disorienting use of sound is made possible by a remarkable device called an Audio Spotlight. Designed for use in convention centers and other large, multi-exhibit environments, this flat, round speaker projects sound in a narrow field so that only those in front of it can hear it. Radiohole has mounted the Spotlight above the stage and set it in a motorized pattern that sweeps the audience. Segments of Fluke are divided by whispered passages of text consisting mostly of latitudes and longitudes; the whispered voice sounds as if it is moving through the auditorium.

The effect sent a chill down my spine a couple of times, as a word or phrase seemed to be whispered in my ear, but mostly it gave me a geeky, gadget-lover's thrill. Most significant, perhaps, are its implications for future experiments. Theater is often described as an inherently communal experience, but this idea is provocatively subverted if different audience members can be made to hear different things at any given time.

Roughly halfway through the performance, the actors sit in a row, close their eyes, and paint new "eyes" on their eyelids. After this, they perform most of the show with their eyes closed. Because we are witness to the application of the "eyes," the illusion is funnier and creepier. We see that the characters can "see," but know that the actors cannot. In some of the show's best moments, these crudely cartoonish "eyes" are unsettlingly convincing.

While most of the show is relatively meditative (if absurdist and surreal) in tone, two or three segments shatter the atmosphere with a rock-concert energy. Distorted guitars blast almost too loudly over the speakers while actors swing across the stage on suspended ropes or hunt for whales with golf balls instead of harpoons.

The show has no single director or designer; instead, the company members seem to have made every decision collaboratively, resulting in a radically democratized aesthetic that stands in marked contrast to the auteurist, guru-driven work of most avant-garde performances. Similarly, the sound, lights, and projections are controlled by the actors onstage. Much of the spectacle of Radiohole's work is watching the performers create every aspect of the piece. While a number of topical asides are sprinkled throughout the text, this hyper-saturated brand of collaboration is the show's most political statement.

Fluke also incorporates a fair amount of lowbrow humor alongside its highbrow literary and philosophical references. Other laughs come not so much from actual jokes as from delightfully absurd images and actions. The subject of the text seems to be alienation, disaffection, and despair. Because the performers are already making fun of themselves on some level, they are able to defuse any potential charge of pretentiousness. This might be viewed as something of a cynical defense strategy, but the show never feels cynical.

What seems to motivate all of the disparate elements and devices is Radiohole's fierce love for and dedication to its work. Yes, the contemporary world is exhausting, and yes, "meaning" is as elusive as Ahab's white whale. But the inexplicable optimism invoked in the show's final monologue is made possible by the fact that four very smart adults can still entertain themselves and their audience by getting really loud and playing with toys. Free beer, toy fish, and a little noise go a long way toward making a gloomy world seem a little brighter.

Avoiding Boredom

Richard Foreman says he is doing something new. Again. But despite his intention to create what he calls a "fascinating event that ... makes a new way of 'being,' " the resulting spectacle is a collection of images, sights, and sounds that manages to maintain, at best, mild interest. If this is the "new" Foreman, then it may be time to stage some of the classics instead. Foreman's latest performance piece, Wake Up Mr. Sleepy! Your Unconscious Mind is Dead!, marks his second exploration into combining live action with video. The first, Zomboid, has many similarities with this piece. Both have the same kind of setup, which his company, the Ontological-Hysteric Theater, bills as "a new kind of theater in which film and live action trace parallel contrapuntal dream narratives." What that means is a video plays in a room, and its narrative doesn't have much to do with what the characters are doing onstage. Both Zomboid and Sleepy feature a narrator whose utterances supposedly have some kind of deep, philosophical import. In both plays, this voice-over says, "Suppose I were to postulate …"

So, let's postulate. Is this really a new kind of theater? Foreman's career has spanned more than 40 years, since he founded the Ontological-Hysteric Theater in the late 1960's. Since then, his plays have earned him nine Obie Awards and an honorary doctorate, as well as numerous books, lectures, and scholarly articles devoted to his work. Obviously, he has done something right. And more often than not, he has done something new.

But this piece doesn't seem new. It has a retro feel to it; the setting—baby dolls, a mannequin dressed in a veil, books open on the walls, and endless writing scrawled across every available surface—seems to represent a confused history of various artists and their movements, from Artaud to Dada to Brecht.

Sleepy also features four actors wearing slightly different military-style uniforms. They run around on the stage, blinding themselves with handkerchiefs, climbing up on walls, and pointing to an airplane attached to the ceiling that is driven by a gang of baby dolls. The actors have maybe five or six lines throughout the performance.

Most of the "dialogue" is given to the creepy-sounding narrator (Foreman himself), who slowly repeats koan-like mantras, such as "the invention of the airplane ... a mortal blow to the unconscious." While the actors cavort about, a video plays on two walls at the same time. It shows images of different characters covering their eyes with handkerchiefs, picking up and dropping books, or standing in front of the camera, staring at the audience.

The piece doesn't seem that different in its "counter-narrative" from plays that others have been doing for years, such as Jonathan Zalban's WTC or The Waltz of Elementary Particles by Theater Lila. Zomboid and Sleepy both have oversize props and a kitschy potpourri of mismatched, albeit visually stimulating, objects lying about the stage, just as earlier Foreman pieces do. But the video seems like one of those modern art videos at the Whitney Museum that is interesting for 10 or 15 minutes but not for over an hour, even with live action.

Was the old Foreman something that needed that much changing? With his "new" work, he hopes to "avoid boredom" (he mentions that "boredom will be avoided" more than once in his online blog about this production of Sleepy, so it was obviously a concern). And the audience has much to look at, between the actors and the video. Yet the focus on the video diminishes the value of the actors onstage.

In an older Foreman piece—say, Symphony of Rats—even if it left you scratching your head as you left, you were sure to see some creative and entertaining segments. These would be mini-narratives where different characters' seemingly random actions added up to a cumulative effect that made sense. There was a payoff. Not so here. With Sleepy, what we get are repetitive motifs. Yes, Foreman is trying to say something about the unconscious mind, even if it's not clear what it is he is trying to state. But what results is not even an intellectual exercise.

There are some bright spots in the performance, moments of synchronicity when the video and the live action come together and give some sort of aesthetic pleasure. The piece is, after all, by Richard Foreman, who has managed to make an impressive career writing and directing theater that has always been outside of the mainstream. But such moments are far too few.