The engine driving the new production of Romeo and Juliet at Jean Cocteau Repertory is the frenzied, unstoppable, unquenchable lust for escape, epitomized by the two famous star-crossed lovers who, here, are desperately searching for a way out of the violent, hate-filled world of their feuding families. Director Rod McLucas gives us a very young set of young lovers, who are as much enamored with the idea of romance and the way out that it seems to represent as they are with one another. It's an intriguing concept, certainly one that justifies a second (or fifth, or tenth, or whatever number you're up to) look at this oft-produced piece. And this is true even though McLucas's central idea isn't fully realized here.

Cut to an uninterrupted 100 minutes or so (credit dramaturg Julie Hegner for helping McLucas trim the play with nary a seam showing), this Romeo and Juliet hurtles along relentlessly and breathlessly in a punk/apocalyptic post-everything Verona. Six actors play all the characters; even Kristina Klebe and David Ledoux, in the title roles, take on additional parts. McLucas mixes genders without fuss, and costume designer Michael McKowen has provided each of the four other actors with both skirt and pants, helping us accept each as a man or woman as the occasion requires. The casting plan works the actors very hard, and really only one of them—Seth Duerr, who plays Friar Laurence, Tybalt, and the Capulet servant Peter and makes each not only distinct but interesting—seems to have the chops to pull it off. Danaher Dempsey fares reasonably well as Mercutio and a mannered Lady Capulet; Kate Holland strives mightily as nearly a dozen lesser lights including Benvolio and Paris (plus the narrator)—she's made to do things like have a conversation with herself (when the Prince questions Benvolio), and her acting recedes into stuntwork at such moments. Anna Zostrow, who plays Lord Capulet and Juliet's Nurse, makes some disastrous choices in overplaying both characters. Her shrill, frenetic Nurse—who reminded me of Imogene Coca from the old Your Show of Shows, but not in a good way—is particularly ill-conceived.

As Juliet, Klebe misses some of the lover's urgency, energy, and youth. But Ledoux, who is new to the Cocteau, proves to be a real find: he conveys McLucas's (and Shakespeare's) ideas beautifully, conveying the teenagers' utter disenchantment with the ugly world their parents have created; his aching desire for release is palpable and affecting.

Ledoux succeeds here because he seems to "get" the style of the thing; McLucas has made this a very stylized rendition of the play, challenging the already-taxed actors. Fight scenes, choreographed by Joe Travers, utilize a strange apparatus that chains onto the actors' costumes; the actors link thenselves together during duel or combat sequences, and then pull back and forth against one another as if playing a form of tug-of-war. Abstract and vaguely futuristic in a Mad Max sort of way, and justified (perhaps) by the relatively small amount of space on the Cocteau stage, the battle scenes never ignite and never work, I'm afraid, and we miss what they should bring to the proceedings. Similarly, when characters die, they don't fall to the ground but instead move to the sidelines with arms outstretched and wrapped in a red cloth. This device is artful at the play's end, but elsewhere it feels only arty—again, I was aware of wanting something big and violent and ugly to happen (i.e., someone dying in a bloody heap) and never getting it. This is important, I think: for us to appreciate and understand what's going on inside Romeo and Juliet's heads, we need to know what they're rebelling against. But in this staging, I never felt the ruthless, random rage of the Montagues and Capulets—I pretty much had to take it on faith. Its absence leaves a large and important hole in the play.

And yet, in the end, the potency of the story and the language perseveres: I found myself moved by the young lovers making their final desperate preparations, and by the tragic consequences of the missed connections that conclude the plot. I think McLucas and his actors are going to learn a lot performing this play; the exciting news is that I learned something about it as well, even in a less-than-optimal presentation. Which proves something that probably doesn't need to be proven, namely, that Shakespeare endures for very good reasons. Manage your expectations and keep your mind open and you may find enough here to make this a Romeo and Juliet worth caring about.

Romeo and Juliet may be two of Shakespeare’s most famous characters, but they’re far from his most interesting. Every time a Hamlet struggles with himself, or a Lear descends into existential madness, something new can be gleaned, no matter how many times you’ve seen the play; but in my experience, the spectacle of the two star-crossed lovers grimly marching to their mutual grave always looks the same. As written, Romeo and Juliet are so enraptured with each other that they have precious little charisma to spare for the audience.

All of which means that a top-notch production is required to make this play come to life for anyone who has never seen or read it (which, if my high school’s English curriculum was any indication, is barely anyone). Unfortunately, the Kings County Shakespeare Company is not, at present, up to the challenge. By creating a doggedly straightforward production with neither a strong unifying theme nor electrifying performances, the cast and crew preside over three dreary hours of infatuation, feuding, and suicide.

Few if any risks are taken in this production, both in its reverently forthright interpretation of the play as a whole and within its approaches to the individual characters—even the casting of the Nurse as a man in drag (Roger Dale Stude) feels shopworn. There are stirring moments of fight choreography (orchestrated by Lucie Chin), but too few to make up for the long stretches of poetic declamation, most of which, alas, gets swallowed up in an echo-y space the cast has yet to master. The performances are uniformly competent but not much more, as exemplified by Frank Smith and Lara Silva as the eponymous sweeties: they’re likable and attractive, but their fire doesn’t blaze brightly enough to warm an entire audience.

Not that anyone seeing the show is likely to complain of a lack of warmth; the sad truth is that the KCSC’s temporary space at the First Unitarian Church in Brooklyn Heights presents several environmental problems that the company has yet to sort out, one of which is a stifling atmosphere only partially leavened by fans. Another is the pedestrian overhead light shining on actors and audience alike for the entire performance: stage lights are aimed at the playing space, courtesy of designer Doug Filomena, but as they are rarely used the monotonously bright texture of the production proves hard on the eyes. Combine this with the uncomfortable stiffness of the pews used for seating—please allow me to suggest that the loyal patrons of the KCSC, who have kept the company going for 21 years, are well worth the investment of a few cushions—and it’s no wonder that this lengthy viewing of one of Shakespeare’s less nuanced plays proves nearly as star-crossed as its unlucky heroes.

See Rose Rage and, in five and a half hours, you will witness the collapse of a family, a society, and a nation, eaten alive from the inside out. This extraordinary work manages to be both monumentally entertaining and enormously pertinent: a demonstration of Shakespeare's timelessness as well as his remarkable resonance in this particular historical moment, and a spectacular celebration of the art of theatre, the joy of language, and the power of live performance. It's long—5-1/2 hours, including two intermissions plus a 75-minute dinner break—and it's a bit pricey—$75, but that's for the equivalent of two full-length shows; it's entirely worth the commitment of time and resources. I'd see it again in a heartbeat.

Rose Rage is a condensation of the three parts of Henry VI, plays whose reputations as lesser and long-winded Shakespeare ensure that they are seldom mounted in any form. Director Edward Hall and co-adapter Roger Warren have culled some of the best bits to create two full-length dramas that, together, amount to a tight but epic account of the War of the Roses, which was surely one of the great human tragedies of English history. The plot, in basic outline, runs along the following lines: Henry VI, only son of the great heroic King Henry V ("Once more unto the breach..."), inherits the throne while still an infant. His uncle Duke Humphrey of Gloucester is Lord Protector during his minority; while other uncles and assorted relatives/nobility squabble and scheme for power, England gradually diminishes its hold on France, which had been conquered by Henry V, until, by the time Henry VI is old enough to reign on his own, virtually all of the English possessions across the Channel have been lost. Henry's wife, Margaret of Anjou, is in cahoots with the Duke of Suffolk, whose mortal enemy Richard, Duke of York, begins to claim a stronger right to the crown than Henry's. York stirs up a bunch of commoners led by Jack Cade to try to ignite a rebellion against Henry. When that doesn't work out, he goes to battle against the King himself; with his sons Edward, George, and Richard (who will become King Edward VI, the Duke of Clarence, and Richard III, respectively) he begins the 30-year Civil War, an increasingly brutal and chaotic struggle that will destroy two royal houses (York and Lancaster) and bring anarchy and turmoil to England.

Though this long and complicated tale of shifting alliances, betrayals, and bloody battles is told with virtually no scenery and by just a dozen actors, each of whom takes numerous roles, Rose Rage is never hard to follow and never less than thoroughly riveting. Hall's staging is the key: it's fast-paced and straightforward and, if perhaps lacking in subtlety in places, impressively clear-eyed. It's also filled with action, played out all over the theatre: when Jack Cade and his raucous rebel band turn up in the second act, for example, they march through the audience and even cry out from the rafters. Hall and his actors keep the energy high throughout—in the Cade scenes and during the whole second half, which is a series of violent battles and murders punctuated with rare quieter moments, the sense of an unruly mob or a vanquishing army is always palpable.

Yet the actors consistently create fully-formed, complex characters who alternately charm, repel, and fascinate us. Carman Lacivita is Henry VI, the weak, pious monarch at the center of the play, showing us the man's faults and his strengths, the most important of which is his deep and unflinching humanity: when Lacavita delivers Henry's speeches expressing concern for the fate of his subjects, the pain is genuine and implacable. Bruce A. Young reveals the craftiness and the desperation of the Duke of York; as his sons, Fletcher McTaggart (Edward) and especially Jay Whittaker (Richard) epitomize the way that York's greed and lust for power is rotting the family away from within. Richard W. Clothier plays the third son, George; but his bigger acting challenge here is the Earl (later Duke) of Suffolk, whom he imbues with a slickness and razor-sharpness that stand in direct contrast to York's more expansive brand of ambition. Everyone in this twelve-man ensemble has at least one moment to really shine, but perhaps the most outstanding are Scott Parkinson, who is every inch the witchy villainess as grasping Queen Margaret (he plays in a kind of impressionistic drag with an unplaceable accent and a bent posture that leads from a beak-like nose), and Joe Forbrich, who has two very different tour-de-force assignments—in the first half as the earnest but vainglorious rabble-rouser Jack Cade, and in the second part as the equally earnest but much more treacherous Earl of Warwick, who switches sides in the middle of the Civil War.

The production's signature effect is its use of raw meat to literalize the play's rampant bloodshed: whenever someone is about to be murdered, an actor will appear at the side of the stage with what looks like liver and other organ meats on a butcher block, which he will attack vigorously with a wretched-looking knife in synch with the choreographed fight sequence happening on stage. This, an interesting idea, feels more like affectation than successful theatrical device; however, the use of a cabbage to represent the head of each victim of decapitation—ripped in two by an axe-blade, sending shreds of would-be cole slaw flying around the stage—works really well. The set (by Michael Pavelka) is a sort of meat locker, on which are brought very minimal pieces such as the occasional chair, table, or carpet—it's enormously evocative, yielding a sense of place that's never confusing. Pavelka is also responsible for the costumes, which span multiple periods to convey personality, rank, and station by means of easily identified archetypes—an excellent conceit. Credit is due, also, to lighting designer Ben Ormerod and wig/makeup designer Melissa Veal, whose contributions are invaluable.

By virtue of its sheer scope and size, Rose Rage is an immense achievement—a showcase for all of the talented actors and behind-the-scenes artists who make it run like clockwork four times a week. But this is much more than just a technical feat. Rose Rage is a rare opportunity to see one (three, really) of Shakespeare's least-performed works, done with real vigor and style; it also offers a chance, for those so inclined, to observe Shakespeare's development as a writer (the three parts of Henry VI are among the earliest of his works, and there are pre-cursors everywhere here of the powerful dramas to follow).

Most important, Rose Rage contains important lessons for our time. Read if you will contemporary political significance into a story about a failed king who favors religious over political considerations and whose claim to the throne is based in usurpation rather than legality; then look at the panoramic events depicted here—an insurrection of common men seeking equity and justice from the noblemen who have enriched themselves on the backs of the poor; avarice and acquisitiveness leading governments to commit their young men to fighting purposeless wars, and the terrible, irreversible waste that that engenders; there's plenty to think about in this 500-year-old drama that feels timely today. Henry VI, Part 2 contains the deathless line "The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers" (which earned sustained applause from the crowd I saw the play with); and in Part 3, Henry says

O piteous spectacle! O bloody times
Whiles lions war and battle for their dens,
Poor harmless lambs abide their enmity.

Words worth pondering.

Runt, a one-man show written and performed by Michael Phillip Edwards, is at once an actor's showcase and a character study of a fascinating and deeply complicated man who is also the actor's father. Edwards—who has real presence and can conjure a complete human being with just a few deft moves—plays many different roles in this narrative, but the one he concentrates on is Ed Edwards, his dad, a Jamaican immigrant who became an enormously successful businessman but was never able to achieve stable loving relationships with his son or, apparently, anyone else.

Mike grew up knowing his father only from a distance. As a very young child, he spent a lot of time with grandparents in Jamaica, waiting for his parents to send for him in America. When he got older, his parents divorced, and so the only time he really spent with the mercurial Ed was on weekends and special occasions. He recalls trips to strange ladies' houses (often pretty blondes), where his father would leave him in the car while he went inside to have a romantic dalliance. And he recounts, rather dispassionately, arguments between his father and himself—one-sided discussions, really, that always seemed to end with dismissive disapproval of the son.

There is one point where a cycle of emotional distance and abuse, from grandfather to father to son, is suggested; but on the whole Edwards is respectful of his dad at the same time that he's critical of him. He certainly isn't interested in making judgments here—just finding a place of understanding that he can carry forward to his own young son, for whom, it appears, this show has, at least in part, been created.

As a result, the portrait of Ed is full-bodied and richly detailed. We see him in repose, or what amounts to repose for a Type A over-achiever, lecturing young Mike about the pursuit of happiness with a succession of women. We see him humbled, or nearly so, as he begs his son to come live with him instead of his mother. And we watch him at work, Jamaican accent reduced to the merest lilt, coping with a problem customer with an aplomb and grace that are elsewhere missing from his life—we marvel with the now-grown Mike at the dual (and dueling) natures of this man who can be so successful at the office and so clueless at home.

There are others included on this odyssey toward secure manhood, most memorably a Jamaican servant who weaves elaborate tales of boogiemen in order to scare young Mike and his siblings into good behavior, and an African American father who the adult Mike encounters on a bus, talking with his son about sex, school, and other pressing subjects in a manner that indicates that the Edwards men are not alone in faltering so clumsily with learning and teaching how to be a Man.

The show, just under an hour long, flies by; Edwards is a commanding, highly skilled actor and storyteller and he holds our interest unflaggingly, sans props, accessories, or special effects. Runt is an interesting glimpse into the relationship of a father and son whose difficulties in connecting with one another are almost certainly shared by many others.

I told some friends that I was going to see Rush's Dream; thinking perhaps that it had something to do with Rush Limbaugh, they perked up and said, "what's that about?" I explained that this is a new play about Benjamin Rush and his attempts to reconcile former colleagues John Adams and Thomas Jefferson after the presidential election of 1800 pitted them against one another as rivals. My friends' interest waned.

It shouldn't have—because this subject is not only inherently dramatic and loaded with conflict, but also enormously pertinent. The words of Adams, in particular, contain a great deal of wisdom; his views on religion, for example, strike me as startlingly modern and prescient.

But alas, my friends' instincts were nevertheless sound: though the idea that co-creators Julian Mulvey and Chris Breyer have come up with for this play is a good one, the execution is very poor indeed. Mulvey and Breyer have crafted their drama from letters written by Adams, Jefferson, and Rush, along with a few other missives written by Adams' wife Abigail and the occasional newspaper report. The material spans several decades in the early history of the United States, from the time when Adams and Jefferson, with several other patriots in the Continental Congress, conceived the genuinely revolutionary notion of creating an independent country out of the 13 American colonies of Great Britain, up to the seemingly supernatural coincidence of both men's deaths on July 4, 1826, exactly 50 years after the signing of the Declaration of Independence. It deals with the contentious political and philosophical issues that led to the rift between these two founding fathers—briefly, Jefferson's support for the French Revolution, states' rights, and an idealized view of rural common men governing themselves versus Adams' strongly pro-British, federalist, and elitist perspective. The letters trace the growing rivalry between the two men, as well as their subsequent reconciliation, which occurred thanks to the interference of their mutual friend and admirer, Dr. Benjamin Rush.

But the play, such as it is, squanders the dramatic potential of all of this: there's not much in the way of shaping here, instead the letters just follow, one after the other, in a numbingly repetitive format. Adams reads from a letter, then Jefferson reads, then Adams again. Sometimes an attempt is made to turn the correspondence into conversations, but this is fitful and not particularly successful. The staging, by Alexandra Farkas, doesn't do much to solve the problem, moving the actors back and forth from writing desks at stage left and stage right to an unvarying pool of light in the center of the playing area. (That light—courtesy of designer Jason Brandt—shone directly in my eyes for approximately half the running time, which made it very hard for me to actually see much of Rush's Dream at all.)

Richard Mawe's portrayal of John Adams proves, perhaps, most troublesome of all: at the show reviewed, Mawe was clearly not at all in command of either his characterization or even his lines, making liberal use of what appeared to be crib notes unsubtly hidden in books; or, more frequently and irritatingly, to a constant stream of "er's" and "um's" while he collected his thoughts. Mulvey, Breyer, and Farkas would have done better to let Mawe sit down and read Adams' letters directly rather than make the audience try to parse the (admittedly really interesting) ideas presented in this meager fashion.

Of the other cast members, only Margaret Ritchie as Abigail Adams turns in what can honestly be termed a successful performance—indeed, her moments on stage were the only ones when I perked up and really listened to what was going on. (Her role is, alas, quite brief.) But, her work excepted, the company of Rush's Dream never rises above the monotonous ambience that characterizes the rest of the production.

Costume designer Karen Flood has put Jefferson incongruously (and, I daresay, uncomfortably)  into the fur-collared coat from Rembrandt Peale's portrait; another misstep for the show.

I wished my friends had been wrong about Rush's Dream—there's absolutely a place for serious drama on philosophical, political, and historical topics such as the ones dealt with here. But this Dream is more of a nightmare, giving the genre a very bad rep indeed.

New York is filled with talent. What a treat to see it come together in the excellent ensemble revival of Sabina, now running at Primary Stages. Playwright Willy Holtzman zooms in on Sabina Spielrein, a psychotic Russian Jew institutionalized in Zurich’s Burghölzli Psychiatric Hospital, as the catalyst that brings together two giants: Sigmund Freud and his disciple Carl Jung. The story, tightly written, is a very good one.

As a young intern, Jung selects a nude, catatonic Sabina as one of his early candidates for psychoanalysis, against the advice of Ludwig Binswänger, another physician/researcher at the hospital. The complicated case and the patient’s ensuing progress prompt Jung to write to Freud, reporting on the developments. Freud becomes fascinated with the case; as the two men read their letters, their characters open and a strong bond develops between them. The story, which spans 1906 to 1942, takes us through the course of treatment: rediscovery of speech, word association games, and dream recall and analysis. Along the way to recovery, we see the stepping stones of psychoanalysis, among them catharsis and transference. As Freud says, cures are brought about through love, and sure enough Jung and Sabina embark on the verboten sexual relationship between doctor and patient. Sabina, brilliant in her own right, goes on to become a doctor and psychoanalyst.

It is at this point that Freud receives an invitation to lecture in America. But first, he travels to Zurich to see Jung and his patient. The clever Freud is not without a motive. He and his Vienna colleagues are Jewish, and Freud believes that his religion will be reason enough for others to thwart his work. He names Jung, a Gentile, his heir apparent and subsequently invites Jung to join him on his trip, a huge opportunity for Jung. But Jung's affair with Sabina threatens to discredit his contribution and he breaks with her before departing for America with Freud. Nevertheless, for the doctors, the trip is their undoing. Jung espouses some of his own theories, angering Freud, who subsequently breaks off all contact with him. Holtzman incorporates enough desire in his characters and plenty of obstacles in the drama to lead the play to a logical, yet not altogether predictable, ending.

Adam Stein flawlessly creates the role of Ludwig Binswänger, the voice of compassion and pragmatism. He offers fine counterpoint to Victor Slezak and Peter Strauss, as Jung and Freud, respectively, who both demonstrate strength and verbal dexterity. Strauss does a marvelous job of displaying a crisp, confident Freud, who understands the impact of his life’s work. His huge ego is most evident when Sabina dares to spar with him and he rages at her, “You’re going to play word games with me?” Slezak portrays Jung as a fervent young man, dazzled and obsessed by his patient. He shows a cold exterior that turns sad and empty when his character sends Sabina packing.

But it is Marin Ireland in her vulnerable, passionate Sabina who is the powerful protagonist. Even when she is not physically on stage, her presence is there. Credit Holtzman with a tight script. But give Ireland her full due. In this demanding role, she reveals the complicated mental state of a severely dysfunctional youngster who ultimately grows into a witty, passionate, and brilliant woman. She delivers a full range of emotions, sometimes within minutes of each other.

Ethan McSweeny directs and he keeps the pace moving at a nice clip. Characters enter and exit through lush, red velvet curtains—a far cry from the cotton-poly drapes that barely make it around a patient’s bed in today’s shared hospital room. Still, Mark Wendland’s simple yet wonderful set gives the necessary institutional quality. Metal pinnings crisscross overhead and windows are placed too high to see anything but the time of day. The room is virtually empty save a table and chair. We know where we are.

The original music, by Michael Roth, adds dimension to the drama unfolding on stage. The music ranges from melodic to haunting and Batya MacAdam-Somer’s violin does it justice. Costumes by Michael Sharpe, lighting by Jane Cox, and sound by Robert Kaplowitz are all effective, making Sabina a solid performance on all fronts.

Safety in Numbers, written and performed by Jan Rudd as part of the Midtown International Theatre Festival, is proof that it doesn’t take large casts and expensive sets to create theatre that is enjoyable and engaging. Rudd is a wonder. She has created a diverse group of characters that are painfully similar to people I have known in real life. I laughed until my sides hurt. This skillfully written 75-minute solo-piece is marvelous, thanks to Rudd’s ability to switch rapidly from character to character, without costume changes and with virtually no props.

Safety is the story of five women in a free group therapy class at the local community center. The “not presently certified” group therapy leader, Meg, just barely maintains control over her group: a belligerent ex-con (CT), a judgmental prude (Doris), a too-perky “ditz” (Cindy), an off-the-wall social misfit (Earla), and a woman attempting to deal with a breakup (Naida).

Although the action is balanced among the characters, the play begins and ends with the focus on Naida, who is desperately awaiting a phone call. The opening sequence, with Naida practicing her best casual “Hello,” is absolutely priceless. Virtually anyone can identify with waiting on some phone call that isn’t coming. When Naida breaks out the rum, her slurred attempts at a carefree greeting are hysterical and remind us that we don’t let go of things easily.

The comedy here is fabulous. Every character has a chance to shine, from Meg’s declaration, “a fish that is thirsty is in serious need of counseling” to Earla’s gruff-voiced, wide-eyed explanation of why Gilligan (of Gilligan’s Island) is so intellectual. Cindy considers the benefits of finding a man like the Pillsbury Doughboy and describes the difficulty she’s having in not seeing herself as the center of the universe.

Rudd’s brilliance is her ability (in both writing and acting) to let each character have human moments. Though their dominant traits allow for superb comedy, none of the characters is limited to a one-dimensional label. It is these human moments that give the play its heart. The script is full of carefully constructed comedy, but there is enough emotional substance to make the end truly touching.

The direction (by Rod Menzies) is simple and clean, and it uses the tiny stage of the Where Eagles Dare Theatre effectively. Nothing feels forced or artificial. Likewise, Alison Bristow’s lighting is effective and well suited to the piece.

Safety in Numbers has a couple more performances at MITF and is most certainly worth seeing.

Ah, commedia dell’arte, the earthy comedic art form of the people (albeit the Italian people of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries): what better tool with which to prod at the vanities and obsessions of the simultaneously funny/scary modern world we live in? After all, when performed with the proper combination of breakneck abandon, rigid mastery of craft, and perverse imagination, little presented on a stage can be more sublime.

And so I’ll get it out on the table: Saint Arlecchino, despite many promising moments, never quite reaches sublime. Nevertheless, it’s an admirable, ambitious effort, and a great introduction to some of the art form’s immortal stock characters and situations.

The piece’s ambition, truth be told, is one of its greatest obstacles Rather than focus on a single scenario, the script (lovingly constructed by Lynn Berg, who also plays Arlecchino) throws in everything but the cookery washbasin, never dwelling on any of its three main plots or dozen subplots long enough for the farcical machinations to carry much weight. The main catalyst of events is that Pantalone, the stingy patriarch, wishes to marry Rose, a lovely young woman who’s pledged herself to Jesus, and so decides to get himself elected Pope. Meanwhile, Pietro, a more suitable paramour, decides that the way to Rose’s heart is through sainthood, and so enlists the tutelage of the skeezy Saint Sithney to achieve his result. Meanwhile Arlecchino, Pantalone’s happy-go-lucky servant, also aspires to sainthood, in order to cash in on the easy life in heaven. Add to this the twenty-odd other characters who pop in and out of the action at various times, and you can see how the story might be a bit tricky to follow.

But as any commedia aficionado will tell you, plots are just a flimsy excuse to shuttle back and forth between the lazzi (Italian for “funny bits”). And under Eric Davis’s direction, it is these comic set pieces that give Saint Arlecchino its twisted comic momentum—pieces such as Arlecchino’s discovery (with St. Nicholas—yes, that one) of dead babies being sold as pork, and Pantalone’s attempts to drink a goblet of pus in order to win over the rabble. Though there are more pointed references to contemporary events (Il Capitano, a military blowhard, offers to help Pantalone by storming the Holy Land, unleashing a torrent of Rumsfeldisms in the process), it is the play’s more darkly whimsical moments that remind us how strange the world is, and how strange it’s always been.

Tying the piece together is Audrey Crabtree as Sister Betty, a brittle harridan of a nun who uses the examples of the characters to instruct the audience on proper morality. When commedia’s life-above-all spirit exposes the cracks in her acrid spirituality, she threatens, but doesn’t quite manage, to take the play hostage. Similarly, Saint Arlecchino’s flaws cannot prevent it from conveying its infectious attitude—a little more spontaneity, polish, and imagination might bring it within reach of the sublime.

Come in. Have a good look around. You're going to live here now. This house is like me. I won't have you complaining later on.... If you think it's all right, put down your bundle and stay. Otherwise you can clear out. This is not a royal palace. It's Sakharam Binder's house. And Sakharam Binder is not like your previous man.

Such a blunt, audacious, unexpected beginning! Can we blame Laxmi, the frightened and unsuspecting woman to whom these words are spoken, for being both cowed and intrigued? And can we blame ourselves for immediately being sucked into the strange, passionate, alien world of Vijay Tendulkar's remarkable play?

Sakharam Binder lives unconventionally, and he doesn't care what anyone thinks of him. Born a Brahmin, he ran away from home as a youth and turned his back on most of the trappings of his class and his Hindu religion. He lives in a small two-room house in a village in India, where his main relaxations are playing the mridanga (a kind of drum) and smoking Ganja with his friend and neighbor Dawood, a Muslim. He doesn't believe in marriage, instead favoring a system of his own devising whereby he finds women who have been abandoned by their families—Laxmi, for example, has been thrown out of her home because she has been unable to conceive a child (never mind that it is her husband who is impotent)—and brings them to live with him. Sakharam's woman must cook, clean, and perform wifely duties in bed; and she must obey Sakharam, for he has a nasty temper and very little patience with what he views as nonsense. In return, the woman gets two saris a year, two square meals a day, and a roof over her head. The arrangement can be terminated by either party at any time. All in all, a sensible, if scandalous, arrangement.

Act One of Sakharam Binder traces the tenure of Woman #7, Laxmi, from her fearful entrance in Sakharam's life through her tearful exit, a year later, after beatings, beratings, and assorted other humiliations. In Act Two, we meet Woman #8, a young spitfire named Champa who turns out to be different from any of the other companions Sakharam has ever known; more than a match for him, Champa quickly turns the tables by demanding that Sakharam make her tea and stealing his mattress for her own (Laxmi always slept on the bare floor). Against his better judgment, Sakharam becomes infatuated, and a new kind of relationship evolves in his life. But Champa and Sakharam's situation is threatened when Laxmi suddenly reappears, having been ejected from her nephew's home and now with literally nowhere else to go. Adding a further complication is Champa's husband Fouzdar Shinde, who emerges every so often from a drunken stupor to pine (in person) for his lost beloved wife.

These are larger-than-life characters, and Tendulkar fills his play with their desires, passions, loves, and fears. It makes for the kind of drama we seldom see on stage anymore: the outsized emotions and uncomplicated objectives of these people reminded me more of the early works of Eugene O'Neill than the introspective works of most contemporary American playwrights. (Actually, the third act of Sakharam Binder, in which Sakharam, Champa, and Laxmi form the three-sides of a very contentious love triangle, felt more like a heaving romance on the order of Duel in the Sun than anything else.)

Now, it occurs to me that Tendulkar is certainly writing social protest here: the caste system, religious prejudice, the debilitating and dehumanizing influence of poverty, and especially the treatment of women as chattel rather than human beings among Indian males all come under intense scrutiny in the play, and deservedly so. But for me, Sakharam Binder works principally as thrilling, involving drama—it's a supremely well-crafted play, one that kept me on the edge of my seat for nearly three hours. This is storytelling with an edge and a purpose: as good as theatre gets, as far as I'm concerned.

The strangeness (to me) of the play's cultural milieu and setting made the experience even more compelling. Sakharam's poverty—which I assume to be pretty typical of the millions of people who live in India's villages—is almost unimaginable to Americans: he lives in a house with no running water, has no television or telephone, no furniture to speak of, and only a couple of changes of clothing per year. Spending a few hours in Sakharam's shoes—excuse me, his bare feet; no one in this play ever wears shoes—brought me a little closer to understanding what life might actually be like in his country, so different from our own.

The Play Company's production is exemplary in every way. The detailed set (Antje Ellermann), colorful but spare costumes (Katherine Roth), realistic lighting (Nicole Pearce), and evocative sound (Bart Fasbender) enhance the piece expertly. Maria Mileaf's fast-paced and sensitive staging keeps us engrossed and excited throughout the 2-3/4 hours' running time. The performances of the five actors are outstanding. Bernard White makes the bombastic and mercurial Sakharam somehow likeable, while the strong-willed Laxmi of Anna George and the willful Champa of Sarita Choudhury offer a fascinating study in contrasts. Sanjiv Jhaveri as the masochistic Fouzdar and Adam Alexi-Malle as the chipper yet inscrutable Dawood round out the ensemble nicely.

I hope that other theatre companies will follow The Play Company's lead and continue exploring the works of Tendulkar and other Indian playwrights. Our world gets smaller every day, but you wouldn't know it from the roster of shows on the boards in "mainstream" New York theatre; not only do we stand to learn a lot from the drama of other cultures, but we may also discover that we're having a terrific time partaking of some of these heretofore unknown gems as well. That's certainly the case with Sakharam Binder, which is a spellbinder of a play in any language. Give it a try.

Maria Ferrari sets her intriguing new comedy Samuel the Fourth in a slightly skewed world where cloning is a fact of life. The progenitors, Margaret and Gregory, lost their first child Samuel in an accident when he was just a toddler. Thereafter they decided to clone Samuel instead of trying to have what Gregory calls a “regular genetic crap-shoot of an infant.” The second and third Samuels committed suicide because they were both so bored with their lives. Samuel II (aka Howard) is a '50s soda jerk who blew his brains out one day at the lunch counter. Samuel III (aka Zelda) is a '70s drag queen who OD’d on heroin.

This brings us to Samuel the Fourth, their current Samuel, who is an average 23-year-old still living with his parents and feeling somewhat directionless in life. He has a heavy load of psychological baggage passed down from the first three Samuels, whose ghosts constantly hang out in his bedroom with him. (The toddler ghost of Samuel I is played by a puppet.) His mother overcompensates for their losses by being extremely sensitive to any hints that he may be contemplating suicide. The catalyst for the play comes in the first scene when Samuel buys a gun from a homeless man. Margaret launches into mother hen mode. She decides to lock Samuel in his room and have a nurse (who, it turns out, wants Samuel to kill himself) drug him and take blood samples for no apparent reason. This finally pushes Samuel over the edge.

The question is; has this Samuel learned from the faults of his forerunners? Generally, we consider clones to be less perfect copies of the original, similar to a photocopy, but can we break free of our Xerox mentality and think of copies as leading to perfection?

Ferrari’s world is a strange one but not so totally bizarre to the point of alienation. It’s like an episode of The Twilight Zone where everything seems pretty normal except for one little thing. The press info says that the play is a metaphor for the quarter life crisis. I didn’t get that when watching it, but in retrospect it makes sense and indeed Samuel the Fourth is a very clever allegory for the feelings of confusion that come with reaching your mid-twenties. However, I think Ferrari could amplify these feelings of confusion by turning the bizarreness up a tad. There are moments in the play that struck me as too average when compared to other more eccentric moments. This makes the play feel uneven. Samuel the Fourth is a funny play, but I didn’t laugh as much as it seemed I was supposed to and neither did my fellow audience members. Ferrari is most certainly a talented writer with a wonderful imagination and sense of storytelling, but it was very clear from early in the play that Samuel is an average kid. I was never given the chance to consider that he may go either way when it comes to killing himself.

The cast members all have their moments to shine, but it is Chad Kessler, playing a variety of roles, who shines the brightest. He skillfully creates several distinct characters and gets the most belly laughs from his audience. Eli Kranski is also very funny as the cross-dressing ghost of Samuel III. Kranski shows so much commitment to his role that he doesn’t even break character when the lights go down. Alison Crane, who plays Margaret, creates a character so odd and yet familiar that I could not help but listen to every word she said. She is paired up with Larry “Rock” Kolber, who plays a competent Gregory. Patrick Blumer is excellent as the stolid ghost of Samuel II. Anthony Bagnetto gracefully animates the puppet toddler Samuel I. And finally, Amos Crawley portrays Samuel the Fourth as sufficiently fed up and confused.

Director Jesse Geiger manages to elicit a balanced style of acting from most of his actors. Overall, he creates an alluring atmosphere for the play and keeps things moving along at a good pace. However, there are a few choices that I have to question. First, the roles of Margaret and Gregory are played by actors who are decades apart in age. The roles call for older actors. The fact they are not even close to the same age draws attention to the fact that one actor is “acting” older while the other simply is older. (I’m assuming that Geiger cast the play, as no one else is credited.) Also, the puppeteer operates the Samuel puppet while rolling around on a chair. It is an interesting choice that creates some fluid movement but it just didn’t work for me. The chair’s wheels are too loud on the floor. They keep breaking the illusion of the puppet. I don’t mind seeing the strings or a puppeteer dressed in black but there is something less engaging about the way this is done. Despite these choices, Geiger puts together a tight production.

The technical aspects of this production are all quite noteworthy. I liked the effect of the light through the windows created by Christopher Chamber’s light design. The glow paint on the walls, the Christmas lights and back lighting of the opaque kitchen windows all produce striking effects for this production. Matt Allar’s set design put me in just where I needed to be for the show and Jeremy Wilson’s sound took me wherever it wanted to take me. I also liked Kimberly Matela’s costumes. They cover the 50-year time span with precision.

The world of Samuel the Fourth is a dysfunctional science fiction where ghosts of clones help to improve on themselves. The quest for the perfect copy is time well spent and so is Samuel the Fourth.

Among the many wonders one could see at the 1904 World’s Fair in St. Louis were the “living exhibits” of tribal cultures. The largest of these was a Filipino contingency of more than a thousand people from various tribes. There were also groups from Africa, Japan, and South America and several Native American tribes. It is this aspect of the fair that Ma-Yi Theatre Company focuses on in its new production, Savage Acts. The production explores how the perceptions and representations of race and ethnicity have changed over the past 100 years in a vastly illuminating and stylistic manner. Savage Acts is funny, on a sliding scale, and it has peaks of poignancy that are mountainous in their implications.

Savage Acts is actually four short plays. The thread that runs through them is the previously mentioned World’s Fair. We are taken back into the world of the early 20th Century and invited to look into the future where all four plays are set.

The first piece, P.O.W.W., written by Kia Corthron, shows us a captured Afghani “enemy combatant” who has a relatively friendly relationship with his Marine guard. He was captured when he was only 14 years old in a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. His guard is a young woman who is a first generation Haitian American. The dialogue between these two is honest and tender and it contains a smoothly flowing undercurrent of the issue of what this country is doing with enemy combatants. It is made clear that he was in Guantanamo but has been moved to some place called Camp Iguana where he is a part of some sort of display. I liked the parallel between this and the “living exhibits,” but Corthron could clarify who is coming to see this display and why. The captured young man has a childlike quality in his behavior. While this is very endearing, I didn’t really understand why Corthron chooses to present him in this way. It seems like the playwright is trying to play on my sympathies by making the prisoner young and adorable. However, considering the gravity of the issue it’s just unnecessary. Still, the piece is one of the most touching and thought-provoking plays in the group.

The next piece, written by Han Ong, is titled Peripherama. It’s about a young ethnic actor who is forced to take stereotypical roles or is relegated to secondary roles. “I just want to be seen,” he says over and over, but he can’t seem to get a break. I laughed my head off at this piece. It has a great set-up and a clear bell of truth rings behind some of the speeches and lines as if it were a part of the sound design. Han cuts straight to the heart of the matter with a speech delivered by a white movie director about what an American audience will accept. Han brilliantly has this character skirt around the point he’s trying to make and in doing so makes his point even more clearly. Han is a talented writer and Peripherama gives the production a boost in the right direction.

Behind The Masq, written by Sung Rno, is the third piece. It is laugh-out-loud funny and has compelling moments of style. It is about a diverse hip hop trio named “Bun Roc Q,” the members of which all have racial identity issues. The group’s leader is a Korean/Filipino named DMZ who grew up in Westchester County and graduated from MIT but pretends to be from the street. Another is a white male who is a total Japanophile and is the trio’s Bunraku puppet master/spiritual leader. The third is a sexy black female who has slept with both of her fellow band members. She categorizes their music as ‘hip hope.” There is a hilarious interview scene which is simultaneously shown on a large video screen via a live camera. There is also a very potent human puppet scene where an actor, connected to strings, is manipulated by two other actors while he recites an ironic poem about manipulation. Sung’s writing is funny and provocative but it tends to teeter between extremely original and glaringly cliché. Nevertheless, Behind The Masq is an audience pleaser. The night I saw it they were rolling in the aisles.

The final piece, Look, A Latino!, written by Jorge Ignacio Cortiñas, is comparatively slow and naturalistic. It concerns a young Latino boy, his worried mother, and his proud, convict father. The young man is following in his father’s footsteps and his mother is trying to steer him in the right direction. Cortiñas gives us a sincere slice of life but the story lacks the sense of urgency that seems to be needed in order to turn this boy around. Other than the obvious fact that it is about a Hispanic family, I did not understand how this play fit into the rest of the program. It doesn’t seem to address racial perceptions but is rather a look into the world of this particular family. In the end, the energy of Look, A Latino! is so starkly different from the previous three that I thought the production would do better without it.

The ensemble is an unbreakable chain of actors. Each one creates distinct and nuanced characters without falling into the trappings of caricature. I was very impressed with the mastery of the various accents used in the show. This cast takes the production to its highest level of professionalism. I cannot remember the last time I saw a cast so fine tuned.

Director Ralph B. Peña does an excellent job creating some eye-catching stylized movements. He holds a tight rein on his actors' approaches to each piece and gives the production, on the whole, the feeling of attention to detail. I liked Sarah Lambert’s scaffolding set. It is very effective and yet so simple. Carol Bailey’s costume design is magnificent.

Savage Acts is a real credit to Ma-Yi Theatre Company. Its message is clear and its method is entertaining. It should be seen by a wide audience and taken into schools. It is presented as part of the Performing Ethnicity International Conference and Arts Festival.

In the beginning was the Note, and the Note was with God. Whosoever can reach for that note, reach high, and bring it back to us on earth, to our earthly ears—he is a composer, and to the extent of his reach, partakes of the divine.

So wrote composer, conductor, pianist, and 20th century legend Leonard Bernstein—rather elegantly, it must be said. The feisty, egomanical charmer would perhaps be all too pleased with this praise, if cigarettes hadn’t killed him in 1990. So it rests on the nimble actor Tom Nelis to bring the maestro to passionate life in the one-man chat, Score, at the New York Theatre Workshop, under the direction of another legend, Anne Bogart. Score does not have a plot, nor is it a biography, beyond a few anecdotes from his childhood and early career. Adaptor Jocelyn Clark has framed the work as a lecture, all words being drawn from Bernstein’s writings about art, music, death, childhood, the creative process, and smoking. Nelis plays him as one of those smokers who has the courtesy to ask if you mind, but interrupts the question with the flick of the lighter, and finishes it upon the exhale of the first drag.

We spend this night with Bernstein at the pinnacle of his career, a time in his life when he wears mantles like “living legend” and “genius” in reviews and profiles regularly. He is loving the attention, but Nelis brings out the wonderful gift of the gab he possessed, the accessible give-and-take Bernstein brought to everything—especially music. Watching Nelis bound through speeches, literally conducting himself with his own arms and body, we witness the rejuvenating power of merely talking about this stuff. It is, after all, about mysteries. Who doesn’t love a good mystery? Out of the mysteries come questions, and to stop asking them is to die early. Bernstein ruminates about the odds-defying fact he is even alive to lecture. He smokes, drinks, stays awake nights, and works like a man possessed. What is death, and why hasn’t it crushed Leonard Bernstein before this night?—one of many questions that we ourselves ask repeatedly for an hour-and-a-half, as he coughs from his lungs with no relief. “Life is juicy!” Nelis howls repeatedly, one of Bernstein’s better answers.

Fortunately, the rejuvenating effect of the material stops short of making us feel we’ve somehow been plopped back into 4th period Music Theory class. This is, after all, theatre, and Bogart has used a keen array of stimuli to negotiate the stagnancy pitfalls that have claimed many a one-man show. Naturally, classical music is heard throughout—perhaps Bernstein recordings, though the program doesn’t include credits about this. Bernstein uses the music to illustrate points, or reminisce about his own experiences. He becomes giddy describing the high he felt discovering the charm in Beethoven’s 9th, and reverent regarding the final page of Mahler’s 9th—“the closest we have ever come, in any work of art, to experiencing the very act of dying, of giving it all up.” Darron L. West’s sound design is beautifully woven in with Nelis’s voice. Never does one compete with the other. Instead, a gorgeous, precise balance between acting and design is achieved, to the point where we become unsure if Nelis is augmenting the music, or the reverse. Underscoring is attempted rarely in straight drama these days, but a show about Bernstein getting worked up in a music talk practically demands it. These professionals pull it off with flair.

Christopher Akerlind’s lighting is also an appreciable element of spectacle, and eases the tonal shifts between the various elements of Bernstein’s writing. Perhaps the most abstract path Nelis takes us down is one Bernstein calls “the central line,” the travel of a musical work from the trance-like unconscious of the composer, to the written page, to the conductor’s podium, to the listener’s ear. It is the trance that Bernstein is awed by, and Akerlind establishes an eerie atmosphere of shadow and murk around Nelis. Upstage of Nelis is a tangled thicket of music stands twisted every which way, and the clip lights atop each stand flash in a random frenzy during this section. It is perfectly disorienting and spooky.

The final bit of razzle-dazzle needing mention is Nelis’s movement throughout the piece. He is a teacher of physically-rooted acting techniques such as Suzuki and Bogart’s own Viewpoints, and the dance-like kinetics of his performance flow effortlessly. It matches Bernstein’s own energy, but also takes on an ethereal representation of something larger than the man himself—his spirit. I doubt that Bernstein had quite the agility of Tom Nelis, but by capturing Bernstein’s soul and using it to power his physicality, Nelis becomes a captivating spectacle in and of himself, and makes the marriage of Bernstein and theatre a happy one.

Score inspires brain and heart, belief and passion. It manages to make us pensively consider what in our fundamental humanity puts us in a theatre, concert hall, or museum to witness art. Is it innate? If so, are we evolving away from it, and should that worry us? Are we so focused on bare existence that we are forgetting what it is to be alive? We hear Bernstein tell us “A work of art does not answer questions: it provokes them… for each question, there are two answers, roughly corresponding to Yes and No, and attended by innumerable variations.”

Score is such a work, and the question of recommendation earns a resounding “Yes” in my book. This is rare, meaty theatre, too precious to miss.

At the root of seal sings its song, the intriguing but problematic new play by Matthew Paul Olmos, are two compelling plot concepts. The first has to do with a man, gay and consequently already somewhat marginalized, who discovers in 1982 that he has a deadly disease then known as GRID (Gay-Related Immunity Deficiency; soon to be recategorized as AIDS). There's no cure, no treatment, and because the only people who seem to be getting it are gay men like himself, no great rush on the part of the establishment to provide any help. So, in an act that's part political statement and part activist science, he contrives to infect two women with his virus, in the hopes of getting some media attention focused on the looming medical catastrophe.

The second is about the plight of baby seals. Due apparently both to their overpopulation and their prized coats, these creatures became the target of brutal (though disguised as humane) mass murder in the hands of an international establishment bent on drastically reducing their numbers. Olmos imagines a man who, with his friend, captures one of the bludgeoned seals and brings it to his home, hoping to nurse it back to health and, presumably, release it back in the wild.

The man in paragraph 1 and paragraph 2 are the same guy—a quixotic iconoclast named Henry. The thing that makes both of these far-fetched and desperate actions feel like the vision of one man is their anti-establishment bent; but even given that, it's hard to understand why someone would undertake these two missions at more or less the same time. Henry does, giving seal sings its song its shape and arc, but ultimately not as much narrative glue as it probably needs. Though Olmos's objectives here seem humane and interesting, the actual implementation is murky as a tense medical thriller collides with a polemical environmental docudrama (complete with detailed explanations of how the baby seals are clubbed and killed). Two separate plays might have served the author's purpose better—I was never really clear as to what I was ultimately supposed to get out of the mix of stories presented here.

Details in the script are also troubling. Henry's partner in caring for the seal is a large but inarticulate man named Edmund. Who is he? Is he Henry's lover—is he the one who gave him AIDS? He's played by a black actor—is that significant? One of the women Henry seduces in order to spread his virus is a blatant stereotype referred to in the program and in dialogue as the Jewish Broad. What's this all about? Another character, Salina, appears to be the "soul" (if you will) of the dying seal that Henry and Edmund rescued; she counsels the others and sometimes sings snippets of "Mack the Knife." Olmos is clearly trying some things out here, but much of the time I wasn't able to make out his specific intentions.

Matters are not much helped by the direction of Eriko Ogawa, which is slow-pitched to the point of stagnation in places—the second act, in particular, felt very heavy and long. But Shawn W. Fisher's set design, using a few found items in ingenious ways to conjure a variety of locations, is impressive. Udi Pladott's sound and Benjamin Kato's lighting contribute much to the somber, portentous mood of the piece.

Michael Billingsley is surprisingly appealing and heroic as Henry; the anti-social actions of the character almost make sense and even feel human in his hands. Diana Forero and Beth Manspeizer play to type as Henry's victims, a Latin American immigrant and the aforementioned Jewish Broad. Jason Raines is utterly enigmatic as the usually silent Edmund, which I guess is what he's supposed to be; Moira Stone plays two different characters with sharpness and specificity. Chantel Lucier has the unenviable task of playing Salina.

There's clearly talent and intellect at work in this production, from woken'glacier, of seal sings its song; but the final product isn't nearly as edifying or satisfying as one might hope.

As Troy Lavallee, dressed as a philosophical “Fox,” began his pleadings to a silent Bishop on a Park Bench, I think I had a flash of the roots of The Zoo Story. Dressed in pelts, covered in dirt, carrying his quarry of a human in a red sack on his back, “Fox” is the murderous and unruly Nature of Man trying to find Meaning in his Existence. He pleads to a member of the establishment, who represents Tradition. He finds, instead of answers, confusion and a deep sense of Loss. Please note the excessive use of capital letters. The Zoo Story has a similar pleading for understanding, a similar park bench, a similar representative of the status quo. It refrains from the capital letters.

East River Commedia has taken two one act parables by Polish writer Slawomir Mrozek, and given them life on the New York stage. They bring to bear excellent stage craft and spirited performances; it’s a disarmingly energetic display. And exposure to a relatively obscure playwright is always a worthwhile expedition for the audience. This one beats us about the head and shoulders with his social satire. Satire isn’t easy to make subtle, of course. Serenade and Philosopher Fox work more often to titillate and rile up the audience than truly challenge them.

Mrozek’s writing is translated, of course, and that can be a balancing act. Anyone that’s tried to make Gogol’s jokes work in English can attest to that. While these short stories seem to fare better in English than Gogol does, there is evidence of overindulgence in the interpretation by Jacek Laskowski. This is especially true in the first play, Serenade, wherein a henhouse is beset by the seductions of the Fox, who uses both song (playfully chosen eighties tunes like “Hungry Eyes”) and a bad-boy style seduction to finally get a bite to eat. In their translation, the word “terrorist” rears its ugly head, and then weighs heavy on the proceedings. Is the hungry Fox adequately deemed a terrorist? Does he have political goals? It seemed out of place to attribute this very loaded term to the Fox… it’s easy enough to call any murderer a terrorist. Harder to justify the comparison, it seems. I’m curious if that word appears in the Polish language version, or if it was simply a provocation for our New York ears.

Essentially, this is the only major gap between the brilliance of the performers and the effectiveness of this performance: the plays are being pushed and pulled to be relevant. The use of the word Terrorist warrants heavy scrutiny in this context. And the Church is far from silent in the United States right now. Begging to hear just one piece of useful meaning from a Bishop starts to feel like begging a timpani drum to play a little bit louder. Director Paul Bargetto’s staging is fine, even inventive; but it’s the plays themselves that get in the way.

Muddled messages notwithstanding, the performances are thrilling. Each actor on the wide stage at Collective Unconscious is wildly energetic, specific, and thrilling to watch work. At the center is Lavallee, who chews the scenery with a mixture of high tension and savoir faire, doled out with perfect balance. Radoslaw Kaim gets quality laughs as he hams it up as Red, a hen-in-drag, and unsettles us with his wicked gyrations as the aptly named Cock. Roy Wasik’s work as the guardian Rooster is entertaining, but he gets the most mileage in a silent turn as The Bishop. Heather Benton (the Brunette) and Michelle Guthrie (the Blonde) hit the right balance of fascination and humor, as Fox pulls them in with his charms.

There are absolutely powerful moments to be found here; bloody as Grimm’s Fairy Tales and human as Albee’s misfits. If the overall evening left me a bit cold, it can only be that the plays themselves didn’t find resonance with me in the way I felt they were intending to. But how ever Serenade and Philosopher Fox fail as political allegory, they work just fine as a showcase for talented performers and a brave new company.

In farce, where pranks and misunderstandings are plentiful and plot is often predictable, the joy comes in the emotional journey. The audience, usually sympathetic with the underdog, willingly takes the ride. Servant of Two Masters, the 18th century comedy by Carlo Goldoni, has all the elements of a typical farce.

The plot is simple. Truffaldino, a harlequin figure, is unemployed and hungry. By happenstance, he finds work as a servant to both Beatrice—who has disguised herself as her deceased brother, who was betrothed to Clarice—and to Florindo, Beatrice’s lover, for whom she is searching. After Clarice, daughter of Pantalone, hears of the death of her betrothed, she subsequently becomes engaged to Silvio, son of the pompous Dr. Lombardi.

The play, newly adapted and directed by Holly Golden, opens with Karl Gregory as Truffaldino confessing his hunger. He tells us this with the eagerness of someone who doesn’t know a moment of hunger. In an otherwise spirited production, Gregory sidesteps the perfect opportunity to connect with his audience and elicit our sympathy. Rather, he heads straight for the storytelling and the physicality that farce encourages, hoping the audience will be there for the subsequent laughs. But in farce, as in drama, the audience must empathize with the desire of the characters each step of the way. Without pathos, pratfalls wear thin quickly. This Truffaldino’s quest becomes a device rather than a real desire, sacrificing the heart of what is at stake—the pursuit of a good meal. In doing so, Gregory loses the devotion of his audience.

Still, the energy of the ensemble is strong, and the cast demonstrates considerable skill in gymnastics, mime, pantomime, and charades. All of the actors pick up on the mission of Play Practice Theater Company, the producer of this show, which is committed to “explosive, physical, outlandish, experimental plays that use camp and humor….” Gregory demonstrates extraordinary agility and shines most when he literally throws his character around the stage. Justin Yorio embraces his character, Silvio, earnestly, reacting to what others say even when the spotlight is not on him. He accepts the character’s speech impediment as if it were his own, demonstrating that big laughs can be had at small, unexpected moments. Amanda Brown gives a broad interpretation to Clarice, giving new meaning to the words "temper tantrum." Smeraldina, Clarice’s tartish servant, is enthusiastically interpreted by Dara Seitzman, who wrings comedy from unpredictable gestures and expressions as well as from her scripted lines. She uses her voluptuous body in a mime that is more than entertaining. As Pantalone, Reuben Saunders delivers an understated performance for maximum effect.

Filling out the cast are long, lean Leigh Williams as the disguised Beatrice, who delivers her campy asides with finesse; Khris Lewin as the studly nitwit Florindo; Dennis Fox as the hot-air-balloon Dr. Lombardi; and John Pieza as the gun-wielding Brighella.

As mentioned, Golden directs with an eye toward the physical, and she elicits plenty from the cast. Her use of campy asides brings a humorous, contemporary air to this classic. She distinguishes the characters in clever ways, giving them effective traits and sight gags that are very funny. One in particular, the ensemble’s reaction every time the city of Turino is mentioned, adds particular rhythm and pacing. But others run out of gas long before the play reaches its end. The audience knows where the plot is headed, becomes too familiar with some of the routines, and arrives at the ending about 20 minutes before the cast does. This is easily fixed: cut, cuT, CUT. As a one-act play, this production might have thrown sparks.

The whimsical costumes by Jessica Gaffney add a colorful dimension to the production. Pantlaone’s red velvet suit with the four inch necktie made me smile every time he came on stage. Clarice and Silvio’s pastel pink and baby blue sateen outfits are perfect, and Florindo’s stuffed groin emphasizes where most of his grey cells are. Ryan Streber makes effective use of music primarily during scene changes. During one scene, he introduces music as a device, adding complexity and interest.

Owen Hughes designed lighting and sets. His sets are good, although inconsistent. A contemporary scrim, stretching the width of the small stage, is lovely but underused. Aesthetically unrelated are two plain trunks that make do for an elegant sitting room, an inn, a boudoir, and a courtyard, with nothing but the program to indicate where the action takes place. At the end of Act I, two café tables are set for the two masters. The tables are a welcome sight, simple and appealing, but again unrelated in style to the scrim or the trunks. All three styles work, but not together. In the same vein, the question should be asked: In a play without any props, why is real food used?

Theatre reviewers—other audience members, too, I think—learn to approach with trepidation evenings of new short plays. So when one such evening turns out to be a consistent delight, professionally created and produced in every department, it's cause for real celebration. This turns out to be the very happy case with Desipina & Co.'s seven.11.2005, a terrifically accomplished and entertaining program of new short works—seven plays, each about eleven minutes long, each set in a convenience store.

Now it happens that Desipina is a theatre troupe dedicated to showcasing the work of the pan-Asian community, which ensures that seven.11.2005 is, in addition to the foregoing, thrillingly diverse in terms of ethnicity, creative contributors, and points of view. The result is a lively, exciting, interesting look at contemporary life, as seen from vantage points not typically assumed in so-called mainstream theatre.

The evening commences rather gently with Paris, by Anuvab Pal, in which an American Muslim of Indian descent wanders into a Parisian convenience store to buy some cigarettes, and winds up having a surprisingly intimate conversation with the seemingly haughty young French woman who works there. Pal looks at the kinds of assumptions people from different cultures make about each other, as well as the ways commonalities almost sneak up on people. It's a smart, sweet play that tackles big issues in a subtle manner.

The tone completely changes with Debargo Sanyal's hilarious S.A.M.O.S.A., in which a pair of misfit students at Mercer County Community College (MC-cubed) deal with their sci-fi obsessions. Mohammed ("Mo") has come up with the brilliant idea to found a new club on campus—South Asian Men Organizing Science-Fiction Adventures. And because his best pal Horace ("Ho"), who works in a convenience store, is Korean, he's added a special by-law that the one member of the club who doesn't have to be South Asian is the President's best friend. ("That is so smart of you, man," enthuses Ho.) Sanyal perfectly captures the rhythms and anxieties of his young characters, so that we are always laughing with rather than at them. His third character, another Korean named Beatrice Cho, adds a romantic complication that's nicely sorted out by play's end.

Celena Cipraiso's Salesgirl pits a young Asian woman named Cassie against an older, more experienced one named Cay as they discuss their love lives; it turns out they have more in common than initially meets the eye. Cipraiso adds a neat, satisfying twist to the end of her play. Intimate with the Locals, by Rachel Astarte Piccione, is a touching kind-of love story about an Indian store clerk named Mohit and his favorite regular customer, an American writer named Evie who has just returned from a life-changing trip to Bombay. Beckoning Cat, written by J.P. Chan, is an offbeat black comedy about Lotto, a lucky cat, and a diabolical scheme that gets hatched, spontaneously, by a frustrated clerk and his even more alienated pal.

Rishi Chowdhary's inventive and fascinating Color Me Desi comes next on the bill. In addition to presenting a charming look at two young men trying to cope, in very adolescent ways, with the expectations of friends and families, this piece offers an exploration of two South Asian subcultures than I—and, I'll wager, most white Americans—barely know anything about. Chowdhary's protaganist is a Punjabi Indian from Kenya who is in love with a Guyanese (West Indian) Muslim girl. The makings of a modern-day Romeo and Juliet are laid out here: prejudice and intolerance are by no means the exclusive provenance of westerners.

The evening ends with a bang with the musical Soonderella, by Samrat Chakrabarti and Sanjiv Jhaveri, a sung-through (!) eleven-minute comic fairy tale that updates the Cinderella story to present-day New Jersey, where our hard-working title character gets a crack at convenience store royalty in the person of Prince Charming Singh. Told with nimble wit and filled with funny, surprising lyrics and pleasing music, Soonderella brings the giddy excess of Bollywood movies to life with its eccentric characters, who also include Soonderella's American aunt and the Prince's goofy traditional servant Foffatlal. Happy endings are guaranteed for all—including the audience.

Good as the writing is—and every one of these seven plays is a keeper, as far as I'm concerned—it's matched by the rest of the production values. Director G.R. Johnson demonstrates remarkable versatility in finding the right tone and rhythm for each of these very different works; with simplicity and elegance, he transitions between the pieces by having the actors move the main scenic element—a counter with a cash register on it—to a different location for each play.

The ensemble of seven is enormously impressive. Debargo Sanyal, who wrote one of these plays, appears in four others, offering a near tour-de-force of virtuosity as the quiet, patient Mohit (Intimate with the Locals), a hapless Indian bus driver (Beckoning Cat), the restless immigrant clerk (Color Me Desi), and, hilariously, the outlandishly humble Foffatlal (Soonderella). Andrew Guilarte also appears in four roles, delivering outstanding portrayals of the American tourist in Paris, sci-fi geek Mo in S.A.M.O.S.A., the best friend in Color Me Desi, and Prince Charming Singh in Soonderella. Kavi Ladnier plays no fewer than three characters in Color Me Desi, to terrific comic effect, and then wins our hearts as Soonderella; John Wu is delightful as the clueless Ho in S.A.M.O.S.A.; and Jackson Loo, Jackie Chung, and Lethia Nall fill out the cast in a variety of roles throughout the evening.

seven.11.2005 is a grand celebration of storytelling, immigrant experiences, and cross-cultural pollination. What we have to learn from one another is just boundless; Desipina & Co. are doing a worthy thing tearing down some of the boundaries that exist between us and letting us laugh and cry together in the dark.

One final note: the venue for seven.11.2005 is the theatre at the historically rich and significant Lower East Side Tenement Museum, itself a great cross-cultural pollinator and well worth a visit.

As Britain's Prince Harry has vividly reminded us this past week, rich, powerful, over-privileged 20-year-olds do really stupid, thoughtless things sometimes.

This seems to be the main idea of Kyoung H. Park's one-act play Sex & Hunger, in which six fabulously wealthy young people convene in the luxurious Central Park West penthouse of one of them to ingest drugs, drink, have sex, behave dysfunctionally, and—as it develops—destroy the poor person who has dared to intrude on their lifestyle. The group includes a young woman named Sonia who is related to North Korean dictator Sung Il Kim; Sinta, an African Muslim wine heiress who speaks with a French accent; and Isabella Passolini, who has just won an Oscar—these three apparently have known each other for quite some time, reminiscing at one point about a trip they took together abroad. The men in the party are David Ricardo, a Latin hip-hop sensation; Blake Williams, a Columbia student who everybody says is going to be President of the United States one day; and Michael Eisenstein, his Jewish best friend who will be his Chief of Staff and who now supplies him with cocaine. The outsider is Tomas Kovarik, Sonia's current boyfriend, a Czech hunk who is supposedly heir to a brewery fortune.

Blake seems to be the protagonist of the play for most of its running time; he also seems to be a sort-of youthful doppelganger for George W. Bush—a not-too-bright but kind-of likeable scion of wealth who is destined for great power and unquestioningly sure of his entitlement to it. But whatever resonance such a mapping might produce dissipates fairly rapidly in the context of Park's weirdly plotted story: Blake is in love with Sonia, and determined to win her as his wife, whatever the cost. But, as Michael points out, the future President of the United States can't marry a relative of a North Korean communist dictator.

Sex & Hunger puzzled me. Who are these people? How old are they? Blake is in college, but presumed contemporaries David and Isabella are enormously successful entertainers; we don't know how the others pass their days.

What year is it? Blake is taking a class in Women's Studies and reacting to it as if feminism were something brand new (perhaps it is to him; the males in this play are generally presented as Neanderthals when it comes to sensitivity to the opposite sex). And everybody seems inordinately concerned that Tomas might be a Communist—though surely there haven't been Communists in charge of the Czech Republic since 1989 when, one imagines, these young people were in elementary school. Such inconsistencies make it hard to buy into Park's premise.

And so the possibilities of this piece—satirical, political, farcical—fail to gel; ultimately, it felt more like a group of young people pretending to be really, really rich—and perhaps trying to shock us with nearly non-stop foul language, simulated (kinky) sex play and drug use, and amorality—than the edgy dark comedy that I suspect it wants to be  At its best, Sex & Hunger sort-of works as a study of a spoiled but clueless young man trying to win the girl of his dreams (and Matthew Rini's grounded performance as Blake contributes mightily here). Mostly, though, Sex & Hunger touches superficially on a whole bunch of interesting and occasionally inflammatory subjects without actually telling us anything we didn't already know about them.

Remember a few years back, when all the world was talking about the phrase “it takes a village”? Some made fun of it, some defended it, some had no idea what the hell all the fuss was about. Well, if you want to see a show that truly demonstrates the idea that it takes a village to raise children properly—that it takes community; that it takes friendship and trust and love and all sorts of people to make it through this life—then get yourself over to the McGinn/Cazale Theatre and see Shay Youngblood’s Shakin’ the Mess Outta Misery, presented by the Vital Theatre Company in an excellent revival of their 2000 production. When the show was done five years ago, Martin Denton had this to say: “Shakin' the Mess Outta Misery is a joyous, exuberant play… masterfully directed by Stephen Sunderlin and beautifully performed.” The same is true of the current production. Sunderlin’s directing is indeed masterful, and the cast is uniformly excellent.

The show is basically a coming-of-age story; a memory play narrated by Daughter, a young African American woman (played with quiet dignity and grace by Kimberly Hebert Gregory) whose parents weren’t around for most of her life. Subsequently, she is raised by a group of unforgettable ladies who, through their various quirks and talents, help her on her way to becoming a woman—to becoming a fully rounded human being. These surrogate mothers are led by Big Momma, a strong, kind, Bible-carrying matriarch played with a flair matched only by her vulnerability by Johnnie Mae. Ms. Mae is a pillar of strength, wisdom, and joy, delivering her lines with ease and conviction. Daughter lives with Big Momma and Aunt Mae, Big Momma’s sister, who is a little less pious than Momma. Aunt Mae is the wilder of the two—passionate and fun. As Aunt Mae, Kimberly Q gives the character just the right blend of sexuality, humor, and fun.

But these are only two of the surrogate mothers. There’s also Miss Corine, a beehive-wearing, self-described “domestic engineer” who runs a side business by having a beauty parlor in her home. Nysheva-Starr captures the absurdity and glory of Miss Corine easily. In a role that could be over the top, she seems natural.

Almost all of the women in the play are maids, and all of them are African American and living in the South—and there is an underlying, never-spoken bond running through all of them that is palpable. My favorite character is Miss Lamama, who is played to comic perfection by Phynjuar. This is a wonderfully written character given a wonderful performance. Erika Myers plays several roles—a little brat of a girl; a fallen woman trying to make good; and the octogenarian Miss Rosa. Myers gives each role such focus and precision that you forget that they are played by the same woman. Donisha Brown is equally flexible, playing three characters herself. Rounding out the cast as the long lost mother of Daughter is Renee Threatte, who dances across the stage like a nimble ghost. There isn’t a weak link in this ensemble.

The direction is tight, bringing in the play in less than two hours. The staging is clever, but not too clever—it never gets in the way of the story, but rather enhances it. The design is simple, more evocative than literal.

One of the remarkable things about this show is that, in being so specific about its characters, it led me to think of all the different teachers and surrogate parents I’ve had in my life who helped me become who I am. I bet you will do some fond reminiscing yourself after you see this fine production.

The little boy who had his thumbs cut off because he couldn't stop sucking them. The little girl who played with matches and burned herself to death. The misbehaving bully who got bit by a rabid dog and died. These sorry creatures could be YOU, if you don't change your ways.

Shockheaded Peter, a successful British import which returns to New York after appearing at the New Victory in 1999, is a cautionary revue for twisted children, a how-to-be-good guide that could have been written by Edward Gorey in the throes of a morphine binge. Stories of terrible things happening to mischievous children are interspersed with the ongoing tale of a forlorn couple who buried their monstrous baby—a boy with unmanageable hair and foot-long fingernails—beneath the floorboards, an act of weakness that begins to transform them for the worse…

Many elements are essential to this unholy stew. The primary ingredient is Struweelpeter, a collection of darkly didactic poems for children written in German in 1845 by one Heinrich Hoffman that provides this musical with its ominous, off-kilter libretto. Equally important, though, is the participation of the Tiger Lillies, a notorious cult cabaret trio led by the creepy falsetto of ringleader Martyn Jacques and abetted by bassist Adrian Stout and drummer Adrian Huge. Their songs—which would be equally at home coming from a senile grandmother's decaying music box or the dim stage of a seedy Weimar cabaret—provide the show with a unifying auditory identity that slightly tweaks the unforgiving tone of the original poems into something funnier and more theatrical.

On the optical end, the acting and design are stunning. The stage-within-a-stage, with its working doors and windows that conceal all kinds of wonders and horrors, is a masterpiece of engineering, as are the various puppets (a stork, some bunnies, some things I can't even describe) that populate it (all courtesy of production designers Julian Crouch and Graeme Gilmour). As the greasy, self-important master of ceremonies, Julian Bleach turns in one of the most consistently hysterical performances I've seen in years, all the way from his opening declaration that he is “the greatest actor who ever existed” all the way to his clumsy attempt to impart a closing moral while wearing one of the most outlandish costumes ever constructed. (The ripely squalid costumes are by Kevin Pollard.) The rest of the cast is equally sharp on the physical and vocal fronts, though they don't get quite the same opportunity to show off.

With its melodramatic gestures, its toy-theatre set, and its 19th-century source material, Shockheaded Peter is a sinister pageant of Victoriana—not only in terms of its visual and theatrical elements, but also its moralism, its notions of psychology, and its attitude towards children. Though everything in the production (directed by Julian Crouch and Phelim McDermott) is presented with a knowing wink, it hints at the black depths of terror the world of 150 years ago offered anyone unfortunate enough to be born young.

My qualm with the Shockheaded Peter is that, with just a little less winking and hinting, it could be so much more than the deviously clever entertainment that it is. Poking through the absurdities and self-conscious stagecraft—like the freakishly overgrown fingernails of its title character—is a truly mesmerizing parable about the horrors of childhood, and the universality they gain as they bleed into the horrors of adulthood. But the cautionary fables don't always gel with the occasionally clumsy frame story surrounding it, and certain production numbers performed straight, without stagecraft—the strangely moving “Flying Robert” in particular—leave you longing to see them visually tied together with the others—and, in turn, tied together all around, into something greater than the sum of its parts. Though the production itself is as polished as any show could ever hope to be, the writing and conception still feel like they're still a draft or two away from achieving their full potential.

But when you laugh as hard at a show as I laughed at this one, perhaps it's a bit Victorian to expect something more edifying. Lovers of music, movement, comedy, and spectacle will be thoroughly entertained—and perhaps that's moral enough for one story.

Gareth Armstrong’s Shylock, a one-man show now at the Perry Street Theatre, is a loving, truly exquisite production from its haunting music and across-the-ages set (with a backdrop painting of Venice’s Rialto Bridge) right down to the elegant, frame-worthy programs. Armstrong is a thoroughly mesmerizing performer whose work I will run, not walk, to see in future. Much of his material is some of Shakespeare’s finest and most provocative. Most of his own contribution as author is excellent as well.

An accomplished British actor with a sing-song Welsh lilt to his beautiful voice, Armstrong has been performing Shylock for several years now and taken the show all over the world. He deconstructs Shakespeare’s “most  controversial character” through Tubal, his best friend (and only friend, as Tubal obsessively reminds us) who breaks the news of Antonio’s financial ruin, as well as Shylock’s daughter Jessica’s (a) eloping with a Gentile “monkey” and (b) vindictive squandering of her father’s fortune. And, as we’re also indignantly reminded countless times, Tubal’s entire playing time in The Merchant of Venice is one scene with eight lines.

Commandeering Merchant’s Act III, Scene 1, Armstrong effortlessly pops back and forth as both Tubal and Shylock. And he’s brilliant. His eyes, already dark and intense, savagely wither the audience one moment, and then twinkle  over a childlike grin the next. His Tubal can only stand impotently by as Shylock rages and grieves at his beloved Jessica’s betrayal, and gloats at the pound of flesh now owed to him by Antonio. But Tubal acts here as Shylock’s confessor, and we learn through this exchange how human Shylock truly is. His heart has been so deeply broken, his losses so profound that all he can grasp to ease his pain is the blissful, all-consuming darkness of hatred.

But then Tubal steps out of Shakespeare’s world to become, in effect, the audience’s rabbi/professor/tour guide, and takes us on an informational, occasionally dramatized mini-adventure across two millennia regarding how Jews were generally perceived and, more importantly, how they were depicted by dramatists. To his credit, both as author and performer, Armstrong never proselytizes, never takes an “attitude,” whether pro- or anti-, to Jewry or anti-Semite playwrights or any of his characters. By his own admission in press materials, Armstrong wants his audience to draw their own conclusions.

And here is where I started to get a little confused. Conclusions about what, exactly? Unfortunately, some really intriguing facts and well-written vignettes, both funny and disturbing, almost get lost in the dense, crazy quilt of information Armstrong offers us, and I found no specific conflict on which to focus. How are we supposed to know which way is East if there is no star or sunrise to follow?

Armstrong always redeems himself when he has a real character to play. I could not take my eyes off him when he stepped into the part of Pontius Pilate who “washes his hands” of guilt for condemning Jesus Christ to death and heaps it all instead on the bloodthirsty Jewish crowd. There is a wonderful scene in which Armstrong, quite literally, puts Shylock on a New York analyst’s couch, and we are treated to a Woody Allen-esque exercise in psycho-babble. In another unforgettable, heartbreaking moment, Armstrong dons a braided ginger wig and hook-nosed mask to perform Shylock as he would have been played in Shakespeare’s time: a monstrous farce-like caricature. As Tubal, Shylock’s long-suffering but devoted friend, he is always a delight—as well as very sexy.

But there were times I felt our beloved Tubal slip away, and some nameless PBS documentary host quoting facts and figures stood in his place. “X” amount of Jews were killed in such-and-such racial purge; why the word “ghetto” was first associated with Jews; why the yellow star was worn and later adopted by the Nazis. Fascinating and blood-chilling, yes, but this is talk, not action, and, as far as I’m concerned, not theatre. With all this filler uncohesively weeding its way through much of the second half, the show became long, even at times tedious in the intermission-less 90-minute-or-so production.

It was undeniably a thrill watching Armstrong’s astonishing performance. But alas, when I left his Shylock, I felt I had sat through what was ultimately a very well-done, very entertaining lecture disguised as a play—and I was ready for class to be over.

All families have mythologies. All children have heard stories about what their parents were like before they were parents. In Warren Leight's play Side Man, directed by Heather Siobhan Curran and produced by Gallery Players, a son, Clifford (Jason Winfield), explores his family and his parents' relationship. As he tells the story of how his father, Gene (John Blaylock), evolves from being a successful jazz musician who works "60 weeks a year" to an endangered/almost extinct species on the music scene who struggles to work 20 weeks a year so that he can collect his unemployment check, Clifford muses on aspects of his family as a sort of “goodbye” before he leaves New York for California.

Clifford, who narrates the play, directly addresses the audience and steps in and out of scenes, even handing the actors props at times, to emphasize that he is sort of the conductor and the rest of the actors are playing out his version of the story most of the time, especially in the first act, when the events take place before he was born.

The first act is a mostly pleasant history of his parents' meeting and their interactions with Gene's band members, who have become their chosen family. The band members have some negative issues to deal with, concerning substance abuse and divorce, but Clifford only lightheartedly comments on these elements, and so I didn't take any of it seriously. Instead, I became intrigued by the dynamics of the group, the stories they told, the witty dialogue, their passion for music, and their superstitions, such as the box they bring from Neon Leon which Clifford's mother, Terry (Erin Kate Howard), uses to heal her hands. Until near the end of Act I, I never predicted that Clifford was preparing the audience for the dark undercurrents to come to the surface.

One way to put it is that Act II makes Act I one more interesting. What I thought was just a family history play mixed with a romanticization of the end of the Big Band Era turns out to be a much more interesting play about the effects of disappointment on a family. When Terry tells Gene her name for the first time, she says she is known as "Crazy Theresa." This apparent joke is contrasted with Act II when, in all seriousness, she has lost a grip on herself.

The ensemble cast is excellent, especially the actors portraying the group of musicians and the waitress, Patsy (Amy L. Smith), who has loved and/or married, seemingly, all the musicians or ex-musicians she knows. Patrick Toon as Ziggy, D.H. Johnson as Al, and Daniel Damiano as Jonsey all create specific characters, not just eccentric clowns. These men share a history of playing a type of jazz together in New York City at a certain time with specific people, but they also have detailed, real stories which are played out on stage since the drama takes place over the course of about three decades. One of the most impressive aspects of the play, actually, is how the actors age themselves so that they start out shiny and new and then become varnished—a little slower and a little sadder—by the end.

As Clifford, Jason Winfield, has a challenging job of telling the story, moving through time, commenting on the action, and doing a little aging himself. At the performance I saw, I felt that he started out with lower energy and seemed to warm up as the play progressed. Erin Kate Howard, who plays Terry, makes wonderful transitions from an adventurous and vivacious, quick-talking (though already toughened) young woman; to a mean, cursing alcoholic; to a tamed, sad older woman. Her Boston accent is fantastic. John Blaylock's Gene has a lot of heart. He is clearly incapable of living any other type of life, being so in love with his trumpet and the jazz scene, and he is clearly in denial about the demise of Big Band and his disintegrating marriage. I felt especially moved during a scene near the end of the play, when he becomes noticeably more alive while listening to a recording of a song by Clifford Brown made on the night Hart died, and then goes home to play it for his son.

The set, designed by Cully Long, uses the space well. The cast works in distinct playing spaces, defined with the aid of Kate Ashton's lighting, which shifts the audience's attention as the characters move quickly from a bar to an apartment to a hotel room or a hospital, or when several scenes take place at once in different settings. Sean Sullivan's period costumes are sometimes elegant (I think of a specific purple dress I fell in love with), sometimes delightfully simple (as when Patsy adds or removes a red coat to move her between the past and present), and always help tell the story. I felt the pacing should have been tighter, especially in the first act, when the group of musicians sometimes tells stories as a unit or when Clifford introduces a scene, but the production is generally well staged.

One aspect of the production I did question is that no musicians are credited in the program, although the sound design is credited to Martin Miller. At times in the play, the actors name the musician playing a trumpet solo, and I assume that if they say that it’s, say, Dizzy Gillespie playing, then it really is; but when it’s Gene or one of the other musicians who's supposed to be performing, there is no credit for who actually played the pieces. In a play about the work of musicians, I felt the company should credit the work of musicians. Plus, I’m curious.

Rarely do I go see a show alone and leave wishing I’d brought a gaggle of friends with me (most of my friends are, yes, geese, and the one who was supposed to take the other ticket cancelled at the last minute). But such was the case with Ma-Yi Theater Company’s current entertainment, Sides: The Fear is Real.

The reason: it’s really really funny. Not necessarily “clever” or “witty” (though both those elements are present)—Sides is expert buffoonery provoking laughter not from the head, but from the gut.

Not quite a play, but more substantive and less jokey than sketch comedy, this episodic piece is a collaborative creation of the six performers on-stage (collectively crediting themselves as Mr. Miyagi’s Theatre Company), based (presumably) on their actual audience experiences. “Sides” is defined in the program as “an incomplete script that shows lines and cues of a single performer,” and throughout the course of this brief evening, we are treated to a cavalcade of personalities that run the gamut from the acutely sensitive to the brutally honest, from the paralyzingly principled to the blithely superficial, etc., all of whom will seem strangely familiar (or familiarly strange) to anyone involved in “show business.” All six actors are Asian American and their treatment in a Caucasian-dominated field is definitely some, but not nearly all, of the focus of their devastating satire.

A few anticipated FAQs:

• “Do I have to be an actor to enjoy this?” No: these folks are clowns and their physically- and vocally-eccentric characters transcend the waiting rooms and casting director’s offices that they inhabit.
• “Do I have to be Asian American to enjoy this?” No: you’ll miss about as much as you would if you were a Texan going to see Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.
• “I am Asian American and my old college buddy’s new girlfriend is an actress. Is this really just an indulgent opportunity for these actors to blow off steam about their dead-end careers?” No: each of these terrific actors has a number of impressive credits to his/her name, and together they have created a show in which they give themselves the opportunity to shine as exceptional comic talents.

Director Anne Kaufman has orchestrated the evening well—the timing, the volume, the fluidity. Set designer David Korins and lighting designer John-Paul Szczepanski have created a number of convincing locations in a rather small theatre. And the cast commands the stage: Sekiya Billman, Cindy Cheung, and Rodney To are perhaps the more outrageous of the bunch (their standout roles include an English-as-a-17th-language Japanese actress, a personal-boundary-challenged casting director who also enjoys acting, and a Filipino stage-auteur with a paranoid eye for detail); Paul H. Juhn, Peter Kim, and Hoon Lee have more understated but equally impressive things to do (for example, Juhn as a clumsy, sweat-soaked, but hopeful auditionee; Kim as a casting director who redefines “smug”; and Lee as an Actor who is unmistakably and aggressively Classically-Trained).

I mean this is the most appreciative and enthusiastic way when I say that this is what Saturday Night Live should be. This is therefore yet another excuse not to sit home on a Saturday night. Or whatever other nights Sides is playing. Go see it.

I’ve seen shows that are a series of one-acts where the producers have asked the playwrights to base their work on an object or an idea. Usually the playwrights are given the freedom to be as subtle as they please so long as the incorporate the object/idea in some way. In the case of Sin, a program of short plays from On the Leesh Productions about the seven deadly sins, some of the playwrights are so subtle that I had trouble making the connections between their plays and their sin.

The evening is hosted by M.C. Eric Walton who plays a burlesque magician and, as it turns out, offers the audience some of the most entertaining moments of the night. He and his assistants operate as segues and stage crew for the transitions between plays, but I couldn’t help thinking: why doesn’t this guy have his own show? I really enjoyed his performance and it is a clever device for entertaining the audience during the transitions, but I couldn’t understand how these characters connected to the rest of the show.

The first sin we see is Greed. Titled The Company Kept, this one actually attacks its subject directly and playwright Daria Polatin creates three good characters but the story is not particularly fresh and the ending is vague. Following this is T.C. Higgins’s perspective on Sloth, The Blasphemy Tree. Higgins’s play is one of the best in the group. It actually taught me something. All this time I always thought of sloth as meaning laziness or procrastination, but Higgins showed me that it can also mean apathy. Next we look at the sin of Envy, in a play aptly titled Envy. Playwright Hettienne Park explores the subject through a mother/daughter relationship where the mother is envious of her daughter’s freedom. While it is certainly a powerful moment of discovery when the mother’s envy is revealed, Park glaringly neglects to have the daughter recognize that her mother is losing her mind. Comparatively, the envy seems insignificant. Rounding out the first act is Josh Ben Friedman’s hilarious and insightful vision of Wrath, entitled Removing the Head. Friedman does an excellent job setting up the act of wrath and I felt for the first time in the program a playwright was examining the psychological motives behind their respective sin.

Act Two begins with James Scruggs’s ingenious portrayal of Lust in his one-man play Danny’s Line. Early in the piece, Scruggs makes the point that his character is aging and overweight. He lusts after beautiful young men and this lust has led to the character’s issues with self esteem. What isn’t clear is why, if the character is so driven by lust, did he let himself go. The next sin is Gluttony. Playwright Damian Luaiye broaches the subject in Sate (meaning to satisfy fully) but that is the exact opposite of what I felt after watching this piece. The only thing gluttonous in it is the case of Twinkies on the floor. Finally, we are presented with the sin of Pride. Ellen Shanman’s Good Help is most definitely funny and I liked the characters, but the connections to pride are vague at best. The program says that there is supposed to be one last play on the subject of Virtue, but the night I was there it didn’t happen. There was no explanation offered.

All sixteen actors do an outstanding job with their roles. Some of the highlights include Jeffery Thompson as the lustful man in Danny’s Line, Mikki Jordan as the envious mother in Envy, and Katie Barrett as the Twinkie glutton in Sate.

Directors Dan Fields and John Ruocco each do a good job with their shows. Both directors match one another's pace, giving the two-hour program an even and sharp atmosphere. I especially liked the levels of emotion created by Ruocco in Blasphemy Tree and in Envy. Fields, on the other hand, does a good job pulling out the comedy in all four of the plays he has directed.

Technically the show looks great. Jessica Jahn’s costume all work well, Peter Michael Garcia’s sound design is fine and the lighting design by Chris Conti and Chris Reising is quite attractive.

Sin has its moments. It has some clever lines, some terrific performances, and of course a little magic from the host. I would say this production is worth the price of the ticket.

The Catholic Church has got a bad reputation these days. A scandalous stint in the spotlight doesn’t really bode well outside of, say, Hollywood. The horrific abuses of power by priests who made their way through the Boston Archdiocese over the past four plus decades that began topping the headlines in the '80s are still in the news today.

Lawsuits are still pending and new ones are being brought against a large number of priests charged with sexual misconduct, some cases dating back to the '60s. These crimes are the ultimate breach of trust committed by the clergy. These men devoted their lives to minister the word of the Lord, became trusted family friends, and then preyed upon the very people who looked to them for counsel. The major violation here, however, is the great lengths the Church went to in covering it all up. Priests accused of sex crimes were not punished; instead they were “sent for treatment” (because allegations of homosexuality, pedophilia, or any sort of sexual deviance were, to the higher-ups in the Church, similar to a disease that could be cured) or, even worse, just transferred to other parishes, putting more Catholic youth (mostly young altar boys) in harm’s way.

What I’ve seen and read on the news surrounding this is enough to send chills up and down my spine. This is pretty much the definition of drama. To bring this to the theatre and present it in such a way that it holds attention without completely offending or enraging the audience is no small feat. In this regard, I extend a sincere round of applause and congratulations to The New Group in their presentation of Michael Murphy’s Sin (A Cardinal Deposed), which will play the Clurman Theatre through December.

I was told upon entering the theatre that if I were to exit at any point I would not be allowed to re-enter. I thought it slightly odd, but very reminiscent of the strictness of Catholic School. Once Sin got underway, however, I fully understood the need for the forewarning. We all sat, rapt, as the dramatization of the deposition of Cardinal Bernard F. Law unfolded. This is the kind of stuff that can make folks a little hot under the collar. I myself grew up in a Roman Catholic family outside of Boston and this is not a topic we discuss at full volume. Ever.

Riffing off of the “docudrama” style of plays such as The Laramie Project and I am my own wife, playwright Michael Murphy has walked the fine line and skillfully constructed an absolutely engrossing evening of theatre. He weaves a number of the major suits of the sex abuse case, mainly those against Fathers John Geoghan and Paul Shanley, into one. Murphy’s program notes make clear mention of the fact that he has taken some liberties to turn some 15,000 pages of deposition “encrusted in legal jargon, non-sequiturs and vague references” (released to the public by court order and some going back 40 years) into a provocative and unsettling work.

John Cullum is excellent as Cardinal Law. His journey is clear and his fall from grace precise. His Law is so imbued with the blind faith that is beaten (sometimes quite literally) into you in Catholic School. The fast-talking attorney is too much for a man who signs his letters “yours in Christ.” This deposition is his demise; he is, under oath and by court order, being forced into confessing his sins of omission.

Thomas Jay Ryan is spot-on as the prosecutor Krieger. He is pointed yet careful in his examination of the Cardinal. With great care he tempers his questions with a frustrated patience and lets his clear distaste for the situation simmer just far enough below the surface to dig into the befuddled Bishop. He is almost equally matched by the counsel for the defense, played well by John Leonard Thompson. Thompson’s character is painted into a corner—the case against his client is solid. Pages and pages of testimony of horrific allegations leave him with nothing more to hope for than for Ryan’s Krieger to slip up. Together, the two lawyers create a tense volley.

Dan Daily and Cynthia Darlow play a hefty number of roles in which they relay the contents of more than 200 exhibits of evidence against the Cardinal. They are stationed on either side of the stage, like gargoyles in confessionals, and do well to paint the portraits of the vast number of believers affected by the indecent secrecy and concealments at the hands of the Catholic Brotherhood.

Pablo T. Schreiber tackles perhaps the toughest role of the piece with a calculated restraint. He plays Patrick McSorley, the internally fraught kid who came forward and reluctantly became the figurehead for the movement to bring these abuses to light. Schreiber is painstakingly convincing as a kid from a blue-collar Boston suburb: the look, the accent (he’s the only one who truly nails it) and the sad quiet demeanor of a boy betrayed.

Sin is a major achievement.

As the audience enters the theatre, Russell Barr, the writer and star of Sisters, Such Devoted Sisters, is standing, dimly lit in full drag, behind a shinny Millar fringe curtain, the kind you might find hanging in a tacky bar or strip club. There is soft background noise playing, which grows louder and louder, more and more ugly, getting closer and closer: people fighting, barking dogs, traffic. The jarring tone is set for Barr's alter ego, Glasgow drag queen Bernice Hindley’s semi-autobiographical journey through the dark underside of Glasgow’s gay and drag club circuit. La Cage Aux Folles it is not. Sharply funny one moment and brutally violent the next, Sisters is a somewhat disjointed peek under the wigs and behind the glitter, at a side of the drag and transgender world that is certainly not peculiar to Glasgow.

The show jumps back and forth between Barr’s childhood in a dysfunctional, middle-class family and the five months he spent as a young adult working as a drag performer and hostess at a nightclub called Gillespie’s. Both worlds are equally disturbing in that way that you can’t help laughing at, and then feeling awkward for laughing. As a very young boy, for instance, Barr has fond memories of sitting on his auntie Norah’s lap at the rugby club, dipping her pearls in her beer and sipping it off. Later, he and a childhood friend would amuse themselves by hiding gunpowder in bits of bread and watching the pigeons who ate it explode in midair.

The gay and transgender world that revolves around Gillespie’s is populated by sinister and psychotic characters like Geraldine, who took GHB, the date rape drug, recreationally; Laura, the shoplifter and bank robber; and Ross, the man Barr was in love with, who regularly put his boyfriend’s head through walls. Between the funny moments about incontinent relatives and wigs catching fire, and the many insane situations that inevitably pervade the lives of serious alcoholics and drug users, there are sinister and dark stories about child pornography and serial rape, and one horrifying and graphic episode about the brutal murder of a transsexual, which Barr was a witness to.

Barr’s stories are colorful and emotional, if somewhat random and unordered. Barr is a captivating story teller, spending much time moving through the audience, showing pictures of the real-life people who make up the stories’ casts. As with all too many one-person shows, though, Barr speaks directly to the audience throughout and simply recounts his many seedy adventures. There are so many rich characters here that could have been brought to life, and so much opportunity for creative movement and staging. Barr chooses instead to either stand or sit and occasionally take sips from a cup of tea. Simply watching a man stand and sit in a bad dress and heals is not intriguing enough to a modern audience. No director is credited here. An outside overall vision of the piece might be just what is needed to make these great vignettes feel more like strong theatre.