Thinking about seeing Bach at Leipzig, now playing at New York Theatre Workshop?

Consider the following:

Pro: Bach at Leipzig is the New York debut of playwright Itamar Moses—a writer of uncommon intelligence and imagination. His fast-paced play never misses a beat or a punchline and is always a few steps ahead of us.

Pro: Bach at Leipzig is helmed by Pam MacKinnon, a seasoned professional also new to New York, whose witty and adroit direction ensures that our eyes and ears are at the right place at the right time, making sure we don’t miss a thing.

Pro: Bach at Leipzig has one of the best ensemble of actors currently in performance on any stage in the city: not a word is lost, not a gesture wasted. These seven men toss our attention back and forth with grace and bravura, and we never see them sweat.

Con: There is only one. Bach at Leipzig forgot to give us something to do.

The play is so well-constructed—so economical—so perfected, that all we are left to do is to say, genuinely, “Good for you!”

Set in Leipzig, Germany in 1722, Bach concerns the death of Johan Kuhnau, the revered organist at the Thomaskirche, and the seven candidates vying to be his replacement. Said seven, all of whom happen to be named either Johann or Georg, are distinguished by their various hungers for this coveted position—from the noble desire to compose godly music to share with his fellow man (such is the hope of Johann Friedrich Fasch), to the less honorable needs of getting out of debt (Georg Lenck), or pleasing one’s parents (Johann Martin Steindorff). To delve into the minutiae of their motivations would take as long as the play itself, but more importantly, it would also ruin a number of frequently delightful surprises. The outcome is given away in the title; it is the process that should and often does interest us.

The trouble is I was yawning the entire time. Not out of boredom, but for lack of an opportunity to join in. Moses’s play is very very clever: the first act has a form that quickly becomes aggressively predictable; he begins the second act with a revelation that, for me, justified the first half (again, apologies, but I won’t do you the disservice of sharing it with you). In fact, throughout the evening, every time I thought the playwright had been neglectful, he narratively, or sometimes directly via the speech of one of his characters, swooped in and saved the proverbial day. But the result was that I found my vigilance to be pointless; Bach at Leipzig was so attentive to my theatre-going needs that I didn’t have a chance to figure out from moment-to-moment what those needs actually were.

While funny depends on the participation of others, cleverness does not. Too much cleverness excludes others. This is my central problem with the play: I felt like my being there was incidental; that the play—a farce, if I’ve not made that clear already— is scientific, all method and no madness. And experiencing madness (that is, feeling the extraordinary emotional circumstances of the characters in a certain uncommon situation) is what I find pleasurable in the theatre. Laughing, crying, dropping my jaw; you know, that sort of thing.

MacKinnon’s masterful production brings the play as close as possible to achieving this. Her designers (particularly David Zinn with his majestic anteroom) and her actors exhibit a wit that keeps eluding the playwright. As I said earlier, the cast is uniformly excellent, but if I had to single out a performance, it would be Richard Easton’s turn as George Friedrich Kaufmann, a ridiculously credulous and perpetually delighted old fellow who is fooled by his fellow musicians as the day of auditions approaches (not to mention being cuckolded by his wife at home).

I am in favor of you seeing Bach at Leipzig, largely because of this terrific incarnation. But also because I think Itamar Moses is a playwright to watch. I just hope his next stage outing is a little less finished, a little flawed, so we the audience—human, so unfinished and interestingly flawed ourselves—can have something with which to identify, to grapple, to live.

Scott Brooks's Bag Fulla Money is a madcap farce set in the kitchen of a posh resort hotel. The eponymous object is a black duffel bag containing more than one million dollars cash; it is found in the freezer by pastry chef Oscar, who decides that this dough will be the stuff to make him rich. He devises a plan with his fiancee Becky to steal the money, undaunted by the likelihood that the satchel was stashed in the cooler by crooks. Unfortunately, they are overheard by Jonesy, a hotel guest who is deep in debt because of his gambling habit—he has been hiding in a walk-in pantry because he and his girlfriend Laverne had been having an argument here in this kitchen when Oscar and Becky showed up. Eventually the bag's rightful "owners," a pair of petty gangsters named Randall and English, turn up, along with the hotel's owner Mr. Prescott and his dim son Jimmy, who is Oscar's rival for Becky. In the grand tradition of It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World and Noises Off, everybody runs around after the money and everybody hides in inappropriate places and opens and slams lots of doors. Lots of complications ensue. And somebody gets away with a million bucks (of course I won't say who).

Brooks's plotting is pretty neat, especially at the beginning of the second act, when he pulls off a fairly original twist that I obviously can't disclose here (but I didn't see it coming). The characters are drawn very broadly, which means that it's up to the actors to make us believe in and care about these people: Christopher Wisner and Heather Dilly, as Oscar and Becky, succeed best here, with Diana DeLaCruz turning in a fun and high-energy performance as Jonesy's very stereotyped firebrand of a girlfriend Laverne. Darius Stone and Stu Richel, fine actors both, have the least to do as Randall and Prescott, respectively.

Zany is really hard to do, and unfortunately director Sam Viverito doesn't always deliver. The principal problem, I think, is Michael Hotopp's set, which has one really nifty feature—an elevator that is so well designed that it creates an illusion of actually working (except for some reason the numbers light up only when it's coming down, never when it's going up). Otherwise, though, Hotopp's design lets the piece down. It has lots of doors, but the hiding places are all out of sight (which means that actors disappear from our view far too frequently). And the plethora of utensils that ought to be present—pots, pans, big butcher knives, and so on—are barely there at all (and Viverito takes scant advantage of what is available). So the inventive setting provided by Brooks is squandered, along with lots of opportunities for comic business.

So Bag Fulla Money in its present incarnation, while entertaining, doesn't quite work as well as we wish it would. But I think there's potential here (perhaps more for a screenplay than a stageplay), and maybe Brooks will get a more fortuitous production of his clever comedy sometime in the future.

I had a good time at Balletto Stiletto, the charmingly offbeat hybrid dance/theatre piece created by Mary Fulham, with choreography by Heidi Latsky and music by Benjamin Marcantoni. Inspired by the fairy tale "The Twelve Dancing Princesses" by the Brothers Grimm, it tells the story of the Appliance King of New Jersey and his bafflement at how his nine daughters (Fulham has reduced the number of "princesses" for some reason) manage to escape their locked bedroom every night and, apparently, go out dancing.

Vexed, the Appliance King makes a spectacular holiday offer on TV (in ads, projected on a big white curtain that fills the rear wall of the playing area): whoever can solve the mystery of his daughters' nightly sojourns will win the daughter of his choice in marriage, plus the appliance dealership of his choice as bonus/dowry. The competition spurs lots of local Jersey "princes" to action—even though the cost of losing the contest is the young man's own head.

For a while, it looks as if the daughters are going to keep their secret (and their single status). But eventually, a Soldier decides to give it a whirl and, with the help of an enigmatic Peddler Woman, he's able to resist the wine and sleeping powder with which the girls habitually trap their would-be suitors and instead follow them to their dancing haven, which turns out to be an underground club in Manhattan (they swim across the Hudson, you see). The Soldier wins the contest, selects a daughter (and dealership) for his very own, and is ready to live happily ever after. As for the dancing daughters—well, Fulham provides an ambiguous ending that suggests that their loss of freedom (which the Grimm brothers might have associated with adulthood) is more tragic than we might have suspected.

Nevertheless, the tone of Balletto Stiletto is delightfully light-hearted throughout. Most of it is danced, in evocative solos and duets by Latsky herself as the Peddler Woman, Brian Glover as the Soldier, and Eugene the Poogene as the King, and in enthusiastic but occasionally chaotic ensembles featuring the daughters and the four young "princes" who woo them. Latsky's choreography seems designed to showcase her own ample talents and to demonstrate that whatever the dancers' size, shape, or body type, graceful movement is not only possible but inevitable. There's a real joy and energy in the dance sequences—especially the piece set in the Manhattan disco, where contemporary dance moves are interwoven with Latsky's more eclectic vocabulary. Latsky stages several of her dances, strikingly, in silhouette, backlit behind the rear curtain.

Marcantoni's music includes electro-pop to rock and is occasionally set to lyrics by Paul Foglino. The story is mostly told in music and dance, with lyrics and a small amount of spoken dialog played on speakers (it's been pre-recorded by the actors) and accompanied by appropriate movement on stage. There's also a good deal of video, by Eva Mantell, some of it abstract, and some of it quite funny, like the ads I mentioned earlier. (A big map of New Jersey depicting all of the Appliance King's locations, projected for the Soldier's edification, struck me as particularly witty.)

Gregory John Mercurio's set, which consists of a "proscenium"  and some stepped playing areas composed of gaudy, be-ribboned appliance cartons, is clever and appropriate. Ramona Ponce's costumes—variations on themes for the "princesses" and princes"; a Yul Brynner-as-King-of-Siam feel for the Appliance King; vividly contrasting reds and blacks for the Peddler Woman; and naturalistic camouflage for the Soldier—are all quite effective.

It all makes for a fizzy and unusual evening of entertainment; not as overtly holiday-themed as a lot of other shows out there at the moment, but certainly offering an offbeat perspective and even a little food for thought as we navigate through all the Christmas sale ads that inundate us this at time of year.

The 1972, Upper Broadway coffee shop of Lanford Wilson’s Balm in Gilead is about as different from the contemporary Starbucks as could be. Where today one might see iPods, hear piped in jazz, and drink a skinny latte with well-dressed consultants working on Wi-Fi, the early '70s coffee shop of Balm in Gilead is chock full of junkies, hookers, and small-time dealers, many of whom have trouble coming up with the 50 cent minimum for their table. The Barefoot Theatre Company’s current revival of Balm in Gilead is a relic of a long-gone New York City, pre-Giuliani, which had a character and desperation that contemporary New York City seems to have replaced with commercial charms and safe harbors.

Though the all-night hangout of the play, called Frank’s Cafe, is packed with characters, there does not seem to be a single person amongst them who is not in the food chain of the local drug and prostitution trade—they are all either predator or prey. Any of them, on their own, could make an establishment seem shady just by showing up, but with these larger-than-life street types in every seat, Frank’s begins to look like the Extras Holding Area for Scorcese’s Mean Streets. It is hard to imagine there was ever a New York City quite this vivid. The play is so firmly rooted in a particular time and place that it is difficult to get a handle on what it says to us now. The place we are looking into seems so distant that it is hard to be shocked or enlightened by it. But this production, mounted confidently and faithfully by Barefoot Theatre Company does make us enjoy our long, voyeuristic look.

One of the most obvious challenges of this play is that there are almost 30 characters on the stage at all times, who move in and out of focus throughout the loose narrative. Eric Nightengale, who worked with Steppenwolf more than 20 years ago on its famous revival, directs both a massive stage full of colorful characters and the audience’s attention skillfully. I was never unsure of where I should be looking, and on whom the action was focused. Credit for this is also owed to a group of actors truly working as an ensemble. The space they have to work in is small and crowded with furniture, but the actors not only keep their moves clear and motivated, they make the whole play feel like one, seamless move.

The production is at its best when the action is contained within itself; showing the audience a bygone era, alive and bustling, like a moving kaleidoscope. It is less so when the actors break the fourth wall. Being so far removed from the manner of these characters and with a place that seems aged and insular, it was a stretch to feel pulled in and “a part” of their world. I was far more interested to sit back and watch than to try to feel included. In particular was the choice to have some of the characters out in the audience interacting with us as a kind of pre-show. These characters are much less effective outside of their context, and as each would approach to flirt or ask for a cigarette, I found myself thinking, “Please start the play, please start the play, please start the play.”

The two central characters, Emily and Joe, are brought to life by Anna Chlumsky and Barefoot’s artistic director Francisco Solarzano. Emily is the naive outsider who believes she will be tough enough to make it in the neighborhood and Joe is a charming, small-time pusher who is in way over his head and in debt to the wrong people. Both of their characters have a rather clear path from the start of the play, and its a credit to both performers that they could stay grounded and compelling, even in the midst of some moments that all the outside eyes could see coming from early on.

Though some elements of this play have not aged well, it is exciting to get a full look at the first full-length play of a very influential playwright. It's valuable to have an opportunity to see where the heroin junkies of Balm in Gilead fit in the history of such bar plays as O’Neill’s The Iceman Cometh and Williams’s Small Craft Warnings, and how Wilson’s desire to stage the members of society that many would ignore might influence the writers who would come later, such as Eric Bogosian and Stephen Adly Guirgis. Barefoot Theatre Company’s well-produced and solid revival gives audiences a chance to really experience this play, and is worth a look.

There is good news to report about the current Broadway revival of Neil Simon’s 1963 classic, Barefoot in the Park: it is much better than its recent deluge of bad reviews would lead one to believe. Yes, it’s not quite as good as it could be. And, yes, there is one big problem that keeps the production from realizing its full potential (more on that later). But, there is nothing here that is beyond repair. On the contrary, I would say that, with a nip here and a tuck there, this Barefoot is much closer to being really good than it is to being really bad.

First, though, let me say outright that comparisons of this production to the original, or even to the 1967 movie version, are unfair. It’s like comparing apples and oranges: it just can’t be done. The original Broadway production broke new ground by creating a template for the modern sitcom (which Simon fine tuned with his next play, The Odd Couple), starting the playwright’s commanding reign on the Great White Way (which has only abated in recent years), and launching the careers of Robert Redford, Elizabeth Ashley, and director Mike Nichols. The subsequent film version preserved two of Barefoot’s original stage performances (those of Redford and Mildred Natwick) and featured Jane Fonda in a star-making performance.

The current Barefoot revival, on the other hand, is not out to make any such history. And, in a way, it can’t. The newness of the play has worn off because it—and Simon’s entire canon—is so well-known. And with a well-heeled cast and director leading the way this time around, there is no new ground to be broken. This Barefoot simply wants to entertain, which is all that Simon has ever been interested in doing, anyway.

The story centers on Paul and Corie Bratter, two young newlyweds who have just moved into their first apartment, a small West Village studio with a leaky skylight, faulty heating, and no bathtub. Personality-wise, Paul and Corie couldn’t be more different: he is sensible and reserved, she is impulsive and emotional. Their marriage hits the rocks after six days, when they realize what opposites they are. Can their union survive? Mirroring their plight is the budding romance between Corie’s straight-laced mother, Ethel, and the Bratters’ freewheeling, off-the-wall upstairs neighbor, Victor Velasco.

As you can see, this is pretty quaint stuff from a bygone era. The conflict is tame, especially by today’s comedy standards. But Simon has always been a skilled and precise writer, and Barefoot is marked by his trademark strong technique. He proves that good jokes, no matter how simple, never go out of style. Case in point: a running gag involving the five-story climb up the stairs (six, if you count the front stoop) to Paul and Corie’s apartment. Many critics have carped that, in a day and age where such dwellings proliferate (and many people either live in one or know someone who does), the novelty of the top-floor walk-up has worn off. I disagree. Anyone who has ever lived in one of those apartments (I count myself among the many) knows how tiring the walk up can be, especially when you don’t want to do it. No matter how long one lives in such a place, one never quite gets used to the climb. So, when Simon keeps sending his characters stumbling through the front door, out of breath, grateful for rest, but with just enough energy left to toss off a pithy quip about the stairs, it’s funny. Because it’s real. One of Simon’s biggest strengths has always been his ability to plug into humanity’s sense of shared experience, a skill he was just starting to hone in Barefoot.

For the most part, the actors do a good job delivering the laughs. Patrick Wilson is great as Paul, showing a previously unknown talent for physical comedy and general goofiness. He exemplifies perfectly what Corie means when she calls Paul “a stuffed shirt,” and is more than willing to make a fool of himself (and I mean that in the best possible way). Jill Clayburgh is appropriately dignified, as Ethel, when she needs to be, and equally screwball whenever it’s called for. It’s good to see her playing an all-too-rare comic role. Tony Roberts is good as Victor, displaying the fine comic timing he trademarked in several of Woody Allen’s films. But he could stand to take Victor’s inherent flamboyance and outlandishness further in order to set up a bigger dichotomy between himself and Clayburgh’s Ethel. Right now they are not as opposite, in temperament, as written. As Corie, Amanda Peet has the right, bouncy energy, and can be heard clearly, but she often sounds like she’s shouting to be heard over a crowd, resulting in a consistently one-note performance. Hopefully, she can mix in more vocal and emotional color as the run goes on.

There are also lovely contributions from the designers. Derek McLane’s set nails the period cold (including some perfect blue-striped wallpaper), as do Isaac Mizrahi’s splendid costumes, and Ken Travis’s sound design puts the cherry on top with a mix of 1960s pop songs (“Downtown” by Petula Clark, Dionne Warwick’s “Walk on By,” “I Hear a Symphony” by the Supremes).

Despite everyone’s best efforts, though, this Barefoot feels a little tame. The production frequently feels like it’s stopping to think too much, and lacks that sitcom-type zip that Simon is known for. The blame, I think, lies with director Scott Elliott, who doesn’t seem to be entirely plugged into Simon’s fast and furious wavelength. It’s good to see him trying something a little different, but I’m not sure his sensibility is the right fit for Barefoot. His most successful productions, previously, have been with plays that emphasize behavior and savage humor (i.e. the current revival of Abigail’s Party), and Barefoot doesn’t play to those strengths. His attempts to, seemingly, make it fit that mold rob the play of its comic propulsion. If he’s willing to make some adjustments, even though the show has already opened—picking up the pace here, raising the stakes there—I think Elliott can still bring it up to proper speed.

On the whole, though, Barefoot in the Park is still a pleasant night at the theatre. Any chance to experience the work of Neil Simon is a good one. Fans and students of comedy can still learn a thing or two from his now-patented formula. And, anyone longing for those good, simple jokes of yesteryear will be thoroughly pleased.

Baron Rabinovitsj, currently at the New Victory Theater, is billed in its press release as “the very best music in the funniest way you can imagine.” And indeed, those who go to see this silly symphony can expect both music and humor. It is presented by Het Filiaal, a company from the Netherlands that specializes in creating musical works for young audiences. It must indeed be noted though that Baron Rabinovitsj is specifically directed with a child audience in mind, and may not entirely satisfy the palette for either musical performance or comedy that an adult audience might expect.

The concept of Baron Rabinovitsj is thrilling as an idea. A seemingly ordinary orchestra sets about to play a selection of music, which becomes interrupted by unfortunate “mistakes,” but eventually degenerates into a collection of clowns, a circus symphony free-for-all. However, the piece never really achieves its potential. The characters are underdeveloped, as is the story, making it difficult to engage with the piece, except in a basic moment-to-moment sense. It never builds much momentum either, and doesn’t really succeed as a comic gad peppered with music, or as a musical event peppered with comedy. However, it tends to be a bit more of the latter.

It seemed as if many audience members had the right idea regarding the ideal use for this type of show, using it as a vehicle to introduce children to classical instruments and music. Mothers and fathers, and the occasional grandparent, sat beside their children, pointing out instruments and encouraging the children’s excitement for the music and the gags. To Baron R.’s credit, children did seem to be giggling and not too many cried or asked to be taken home, an impressive feat for an evening that is mainly a musical event.

Much more could have been achieved with this well-conceived piece to make it more likeable and enjoyable for adults, and probably for children as well. However, it is both lighthearted and short, and is more than a worthwhile indoor activity to take a child (with even a passing interest in music) to during these especially chilly winter weeks.

STANDARD: Bartleby. I'm asking you to examine copy. Take these papers. Take them now, please!
BARTLEBY: I would prefer not to.
STANDARD: What's that Bartleby? What'd you say?
BARTLEBY: I say, I would prefer not to.

Into a Wall Street law copyists' office one day walks Bartleby, the eponymous antihero of Herman Melville's novella and now of R.L. Lane's fine stage adaptation. 150 years ago, legal documents were copied by hand by scriveners, who worked ten hours a day (half a day on Saturday) and were paid four cents per one hundred words. Bartleby joins Mr. Standard's firm, that gentleman having recently been appointed Master of Chancery for the State of New York and consequently requiring additional staff besides his faithful employees Turkey, Nippers, and Ginger Nuts. At first, Bartleby is a model of efficiency, working swiftly and with a neat hand, without exhibiting either Turkey's post-lunch inebriation or Nippers's sour disposition.

And then, after weeks of earnest good service, Bartleby begins his quiet rebellion: "I would prefer not to." First he won't examine copy. Then he spends long stretches away from his desk, apparently just staring into space, at a wall or out a window. Standard says, "Come Bartleby: time is money!" And Bartleby says: "Is it? I cannot say for sure."

From here it's downhill all the way. Bartleby becomes more obstinate, Standard becomes at once more exasperated and more concerned. Eventually Bartleby ceases working altogether, but he won't even be fired; he won't leave Standard's offices even after Standard, at the end of his (considerably lengthy) rope, actually vacates them and moves to another location. Bartleby winds up in prison, alienated but never entirely alone—for Standard is steadfast to the end, even calling Bartleby his friend.

Is Bartleby, as some suggest, literature's first existential hero? I think not: he drives Standard not from but to the tenets of traditional Christian charity, transforming this erstwhile model capitalist into a humanist. For me, Bartleby is the quintessential individualist, or non-conformist. That he knows only what he prefers not to do (as opposed to what he prefers to do) is his tragedy, but in his determination to not live by bogus regulations, he's somehow triumphant.

Lane's stage version, which is taut and touching and often very funny, bears me out on this point, I believe. The laughs derive from absurdities, but these absurdities are not Bartleby's but everyone else's. Why do we let ourselves sit in gloomy offices all day long copying out other people's documents? Why do we engage ourselves with foolish pastimes like drinking and cards that lull us into assuming we're content?

In Marco Quaglia, this production has a  riveting, soulful, eminently sympathetic Bartleby; his deep brown eyes and his hunched posture—a man squashed by the cosmic—are spectacularly eloquent, as is his delivery of his very occasional lines—soft, halting, fierce. Gerry Bamman, as the play's protagonist Standard, is a splendid match to Quaglia's Bartleby, coming upon his humanity dawningly and beautifully.

The supporting cast is generally excellent as well, especially Brian Linden's wonderfully caustic, almost-foppish Nippers (he has a grand moment during a sequence in which Standard's employees are trying to "cheer up" Bartleby with songs and games; his rapid-fire explanation of a complicated card game called "Preference" epitomizes the fight against meaninglessness that Bartleby appears to be waging). Hunter Gilmore is naive simplicity personified as the office boy Ginger Nuts, while Christian Haines is eerily efficient as an emissary from outside Standard's office named Fairchild. Robert Grossman nicely balances the pathos and seediness of a fellow called the Grub Man who keeps watch over Bartleby after he's imprisoned. Only Sterling Coyne, as the expansive, obsequious Turkey, seems a bit miscast, overdoing the faux-grandeur of this fellow in a manner that's often distracting.

Alessandro Fabrizi's staging feels less precise, in terms of spatial relationships and movement, than it could be, but the human relationships are delineated brilliantly and that's certainly more important. Harry Feiner's set—period office furniture in an abstract wall-less room, backed by projections/sketches of a building exterior and some windows—is richly evocative and seems the perfect surroundings for Bartleby's tale to play out in. Dennis Ballard's costumes add nice dashes of color (or lack thereof) as needed to explicate each of the main characters.

Bartlebys are important to society because they remind us of things that our daily hustle and bustle often make us forget. It's great to have such a smart and effective adaptation of this classic Melville work on stage here in New York right now.

The entire company of Roberto Aguirre-Sacasa’s new comedy, Based on a Totally True Story, accomplishes an impressive feat. They take a familiar story—in this case, the coming-of-age story of a young man enduring the first fiery trials of adulthood—and tell it so well that you’ll almost think you haven’t seen it many times before. On every level, this is a fresh and well-done production that will charm everyone who sees it.

Ethan Keene is an up-and-coming writer whose plate is full. He’s a prolific playwright whose work often gets produced regionally (but not yet in New York), and, for his day job, he writes one of DC Comics’ flagship titles, The Flash. Enter Michael, a journalist and novelist whom Ethan meets in a Chelsea coffee shop. (Ethan is quick to point out that he hangs out there because it’s where John Cameron Mitchell likes to write, “and not because it’s totally cruisy!”) They hit it off, and start dating, but their relationship is put to the test soon afterwards. Ethan gets commissioned to write the screenplay adaptation of one of his plays, a project that immediately consumes him (on top of his usual workload). Adding fuel to the fire is Ethan’s dad, who blithely announces one day that he’s in love with another woman. With all the conflicts in place, Based on a Totally True Story chronicles Ethan’s first taste of A-list career success, his parents’ impending divorce, and how both affect his relationship with Michael.

Aguirre-Sacasa does several things well here. I like the way he captures a couple of essential truths about the writer’s life. First, that it can devour a person whole. Ethan tells us that when he really gets wrapped up in writing something, he gets lost. “I go to that place,” he says, and we know exactly what he means. He’s talking about that zone where nothing else matters—not boyfriends or parents or other projects, only the writing. Second, that there may always be some part of his or her self that a writer shares with no one else. Ethan admits that he’s afraid that if he shares too much of his life with others, he won’t have enough of it left for his writing. This is his justification for not telling Michael anything about his father’s affair, or sharing the mounting pressure he keeps putting on himself to deliver a top-quality screenplay. Of course, by hiding both, Ethan puts his own relationship in jeopardy.

Another great thing Aguirre-Sacasa does is to illustrate how the characteristics of the parents are sometimes handed down to their kids. Ethan’s fatal flaw turns out to be that he doesn’t know how to share himself with others, a trait he learned from his folks. It’s easy to trace the lineage of this characteristic by watching Ethan’s dad deal with his own personal life. He can’t figure out yet exactly how to tell his wife that he doesn’t love her anymore, so he confides in Ethan and asks for his help (which is apparently the first time he’s ever done anything like that). Later, when he finally comes clean to his (unseen) wife, she admits feeling the same way, much to their mutual relief. But when his girlfriend gets cold feet and changes her mind, Ethan’s dad asks to be taken back, which his wife flatly refuses. For her, the good thing they had going has been ruined by the utterance of truth. “Don’t you see? You ruined it. You said it out loud,” she tells him.

Based on a Totally True Story is also funny, taking aim at show business and daily New York living. Mary Ellen, the producer who options Ethan’s play, tells him that, in the craft of screenwriting, “There’s too original and too challenging, but there’s no such thing as too schematic.” During their first conversation, she enthusiastically says of his play, “It’s very cinematic. Have other people told you that?” “Yes,” he answers. “But not as a compliment.” Later, while in the middle of an argument, Michael suggests that perhaps he should move out and find somewhere else to live. Ethan balks at that. “Trying to find an apartment in this real estate market is insane!” During that same fight, Michael admits that he chose to date Ethan over “a medical student—THE HOLY GRAIL!” In addition, Aguirre-Sacasa gives his play an injection of youthful emotion, but without any of the attendant self-pity, substituting sincerity instead (a much better choice).

Manhattan Theatre Club gives Based on a Totally True Story a top-notch production. Michael Bush’s direction is clean, economical, and smart. He knows where to let the actors breathe and when to rein them in, and he gives the play a fluency and speed that suits it. Michael Tucker gives an endearing performance as Ethan’s formal father. Kristine Nielsen once again strikes comic gold as Mary Ellen, making her sunny and optimistic in that aggressive way that borders on crazy. Erik Heger shines in a variety of supporting roles, including Ethan’s jock-ish comic book editor. And, as Ethan and Michael, Carson Elrod and Pedro Pascal carry the production effortlessly. They are funny, grounded, and utterly convincing.

Based on a Totally True Story is actually based on real events from Aguirre-Sacasa’s life, which is not surprising. It does have a very drawn-from-personal-experience feel to it. Thankfully, there is nothing self-indulgent about it. Whatever those events taught the playwright about writing and life, it’s clear that he’s learned his lessons well.

It’s easy to believe that Meital Dohan is a star in Israel. She is exceedingly beautiful (super hot would be more accurate) and she has all the qualities of a diva. She is magnetic and eccentric and undeniably talented. But all of this matters little to her because she has a dream—a dream of success in America.

American culture is pushed worldwide and when Dohan got her first taste of it (in the form of a Big Mac) she was hooked. True to form, she saw the "M" of the golden arches as standing for "Meital" rather than McDonald’s. However, despite her success in Israel when she finally moved to America she found herself to be a small fish in a very large pond. She tries to relate her struggles with those of any other immigrant, but her self-involvement overshadows any emotion that the audience might feel for her plight.

Bath Party is about Meital Dohan and everything else plays second fiddle, including any universal themes, emotional connections, and most certainly her subordinate actors Susan Hyon and PJ Mehaffey. And that’s just fine with me because Meital is certainly an interesting character.

The show has no discernable plot. It seems to simply follow her whims and the audience is just along for the ride. I think that’s what I liked most about Bath Party, I felt as if I had climbed into a car with a stranger who took me around town running errands before dropping me at my destination.

Dohan is a good actress and I’d love to see what she does with a role that is not all about her. Her singing could use a little polish but it is nonetheless entertaining. And her dancing is so cute and the space so intimate that I felt like I was watching someone get their groove on at a club. Director Karen Shefler deserves a nod for her consistently alluring use of the space and placement of bits that add a rich texture to the show’s look and feel. PJ Mehaffey is very funny is his role of a gay Texan stage manager and Susan Hyon does an amazing 360 in her role as the subservient Korean masseuse.

There are a lot of short film pieces spliced into the show and Dohan interacts directly with the characters on screen. There are also several really snappy tunes courtesy of musician Nir Z, and the choreographers Caron Eule and Jennifer Archibald use his beats to create some tantalizing dance numbers.

In the end I would recommend Bath Party because it’s fun. There’s no thinking or feeling involved—just straight up entertainment. The show is as charming as its star and that’s a lot of charm for one little show.

Beau Brummell, Ron Hutchinson’s contribution to the Brits Off Broadway series at 59E59, focuses on the eponymous hero’s obsession with style, showing that his character’s politics, values, and day-to-day priorities are subservient or in service of that single word. Quick wit, gradual reveals, and terrific acting combine for an evening that is highly amusing.

Lights rise on a hysterical, suicidal, and buck-naked Brummell finishing his bath. This should be enough to tip the audience off that something is amiss. But to reinforce this notion is Brummell’s slipshod valet, Austin. Austin, played by Ryan Early, is everything that Beau Brummell detests: he disdains his position, has no respect for his employer, values money and endlessly schemes for it, has no sense of humor, believes in revolution, and—worst of all—does not understand style. With Austin as provocateur, the story of Beau Brummell unfolds slowly and with humor: that he is on the outs with the Prince of Wales after a long friendship, that he is a profligate gambler, that he both owes money (including a year’s wages to Austin) and has spent time in debtors' prison, that he is living in self-imposed exile in France, and that he is mad. Yet, Austin stays and watches over him.

Ian Kelly, who has written a biography of Brummell, plays the man with precision. Kelly’s posture, the turn of his head, prove his character’s dictum, “Genius is in the wearing of clothes.” Brummell’s greatest rebellion is against the excesses of 18th century Regency England—wigs, laces, lavish brocades—and replacing them with the simple, understated elegance of coat, trousers, and a plain white shirt: “all the things I tried to get the Englishman to be.”

Indeed, Simon Green directs the evening as a reverse strip, with Brummell exacting from Austin each garment and building to a quivering climax with the tying of his cravat. Says Brummell, “To be dressed well, to say the right thing at the right time, that’s the nearest we ever get to the divine.” Kelly captures this belief and eyes the result of each additional garment in a full length mirror. He exudes dignity without ostentation.

Ryan Early gives Austin a good dollop of the practical, common man. If his Austin were around today, he would be perfectly comfortable in a pair of Levi’s, wondering why he was supposed to change to sit in the darkness of a theatre. Early keeps the script from floating too high off the ground with his character’s money-making schemes.

Hutchinson’s script is witty and informative. Yet, sometimes he sacrifices historical clarity for lines worth remembering. Occasionally, repetition rears its ugly head, but not enough to spoil the evening. Tom Rand has designed clever sets to accommodate the small stage and appropriate period costumes. Lighting and sound design are by Adam H. Greene and Mike Walker, respectively.

Hutchinson delivers a character who is more than a sharp dresser. Beau Brummell defines what this means, shedding some light on the convictions of this historic figure and the lengths to which he was willing to go to maintain his style.

There was a time when winning the Pulitzer Prize for drama meant that at least your very next play would get a first-class Broadway production. Nowadays, even the most heralded playwrights get no such guarantee; the shabby treatment that Nilo Cruz is currently receiving is a sad case in point. His Anna of the Tropics, a gorgeous work, got a lovely (if misappreciated) Broadway production a couple of years ago. But his next play, Beauty of the Father, has been wedged into the entirely unsuitable Stage II space at Manhattan Theatre Club, where it's been carelessly mounted by director Michael Greif in a staging that makes it almost impossible for us to judge whether the script itself is any good at all. Certainly this particular production, notwithstanding a valiant performance by Priscilla Lopez, is well nigh catastrophic.

The play takes place in and around the home of Emiliano, a painter who lives on the west coast of Spain. He was estranged from his wife for many years; she has recently died and their college-age daughter, Marina, has decided to come to visit him for the first time in about a decade.

Emiliano's household is complicated. He lives with Paquita, a woman near his age who is his housekeeper, and Karim, a Moroccan, about 20, who is his sometime lover and—for emigration purposes—Paquita's husband. And Emiliano's near-constant companion is another man, or the ghost of one: the spirit of playwright and poet Federico Garcia Lorca, who is the subject of Emiliano's current painting and, it seems, his obsessions as well.

As soon as Marina and Karim meet, the chemistry between them is palpable. Complications ensue. But the soap-opera quality of the story (essentially a love triangle, or even a square, with father and daughter at two opposing ends), which is stressed in Greif's naturalistic production, seems to me intended to be more incidental. I think that Cruz has written a play about acceptance; about the temporal nature of life and love; about the way that, as a famous movie puts it, this or that romantic coupling doesn't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world.

But if there's magic, romance, or profundity in Cruz's play (and I am convinced that there is), Greif and his creative team have managed to scuttle it. The performances—except, sometimes, for Lopez's animated turn as Paquita—are grounded in the mundane. Ritchie Coster, apparently uncomfortable as the gay dad, plays Emiliano so stooped over from worry and care that it's impossible to believe that this man is an artist with an active enough imagination to conjure a dead man to talk to. Oscar Isaac fails to deliver the poetry and showmanship of the living Lorca or the wisdom of his spectral self, while Pedro Pascal and especially Elizabeth Rodriguez, their inexperience telling on them, simply flounder as Karim and Marina.

The environment, meanwhile, seems designed to actively destroy whatever theatrical illusions may remain. Mark Wendland's set depicts Emiliano's studio as a raised island covering most of the MTC Stage II playing area. Spatially it confused me: where in Emiliano's home are we supposed to be? This is, apparently, where he spends most of his time: so why are there no seats? where (importantly, for a painter) are the sources of light? Entrances and exits are made from both ends of the stage, seemingly arbitrarily, and with no sense of a larger containing structure. I thought about this stuff A LOT—a very bad sign.

Wendland and his fellow designers Miranda Hoffman (costumes) and James F. Ingalls (lighting) rely on a pallette of browns and tans and beiges. Could be warm and earthy, but instead it's just dull and ugly, and again not at all suggestive of the artistic temperament that supposedly fuels the play's main characters.

Another of Greif's choices—the use of dialect coach Deborah Hecht—presents further distractions. Presumably all of these people are speaking Spanish to each other (though we're hearing English); if anyone's speech might be accented, it would be Marina's, right? But it is Coster who speaks with an accent, and one that is so thick that it's impenetrable about a third of the time.

So this production of Beauty of the Father, rather than serving Cruz, manages to defeat him rather soundly. I know that if this had been the first of his works that I'd ever seen, I'd be in no rush to see another.

Let's hope that Cruz—and other members of that cherished but oft-disrespected community, America's playwrights—is better served elsewhere, and soon. Meanwhile, MTC is about to give the world a new play by last year's Pulitzer winner, John Patrick Shanley. My fingers are crossed.

I'd sell your heart to the junkman baby
For a buck, for a buck
If you're looking for someone
to pull you out of that ditch
You're out of luck, you're out of luck

Welcome to the black world of Tom Waits. A world where “God's away, God's away, God's away on Business. Business.” A world where Romeo is bleeding, the piano has been drinking, the earth died screaming. A world where Eugene O’Neill, Kurt Weill, and Mose Allison would feel perfectly comfortable in joining together for a final drink. A world delivered up to you with a rasp and a leer and a shrug.

And a really cool driving bass line.

This world is skillfully and lovingly evoked by Stewart D’Arrietta in the intimate cabaret presentation Belly of a Drunken Piano, now at the Huron Club basement of the Soho Playhouse. For more than two hours, D’Arrietta growls his way through the Tom Waits catalog, with admirable fidelity, clean enunciation, and consummate showmanship. The Brisbane, Australia, native intersperses his singing with anecdotes drawn from both Waits’s life and his own, thus framing the songs and personalizing the evening.

D’Arrietta is complemented and backed by a trio of strong musicians—Philip Rex on double bass, Anthony Barrett on guitar, and Danny Fischer on drums. These are the kind of musicians who close their eyes and merge with the music; they serve D’Arrietta—and Tom Waits—exceedingly well with their tight, controlled, impassioned playing.

The evening unfolds in no particular order, with no one story to tell. (Or at least that’s the impression from the preview, which was a one-hour version of the full show, much to D’Arrietta’s—and the audience’s—obvious dismay.) D’Arrietta moves smoothly from the ironic to the cacophonic, from the sad and sweet to the harsh and insistent. His voice is as gravelly and compelling as the master’s; his interpretations are faithful. A haunting highlight was D’Arrietta’s recreation of Waits’s cover of the Bernstein-Sondheim classic, “Somewhere.” Numerous other songs were offered up to the appreciative audience, drawn from all stages of Waits’s career.

The venue is comfortable (in contrast to some of the songs). And it is thrilling to be so close to the music and musicians. The between-song patter was, for me, the least successful part of the show, as it was sometimes a bit coarse, sometimes a bit maudlin. But it effectively connected the material and—more importantly—connected the audience to the performer, and vice versa.

It is always a revelation to enter Tom Waits territory, to be simultaneously saddened and heartened by his gallery of misfits, rogues, losers, paranoiacs, dreamers, drifters. To find love in an ash heap

I miss your broken-china voice
How I wish you were still here with me

and hope in the gutter

They're wounded but they just keep on climbing
And sleep by the side of the road

And in these trying and bitter times, how reassuring to know that somebody’s always figured it would be just this bad.

don't you know there ain't
no devil, there's just god when he's drunk

If this world beckons you, see Belly of a Drunken Piano. It’s a decent substitute in the absence of a show featuring the real Tom Waits.

I'm sorry to report that Irish Repertory Theatre's production of Lenny Pickett and Lindsey Turner's "ritualistic 21st century rock opera" adaptation of Beowulf must be reckoned a failure.

The problems with this show, which are legion, start with its self-identification as a rock opera. Rock music usually has a back beat (read this, for example). This Beowulf, scored for harp and harmonium (!), has almost no beat at all; neither is it as loud or interesting as a rocked adventure story ought to be (last year's splendid punk Titus X stands as a great exemplar, in my book, of what bracing rock can do for a medieval legend).

Lindsey Turner's adaptation and lyrics (the latter co-written with composer Lenny Pickett) eschew rhyme almost all the time in favor of often clunky blank verse; near the end, I found myself unable to follow the story, such was the lack of clarity in the words spoken and sung on stage.

And yet these difficulties notwithstanding, Pickett's music and Turner's approach suggest that a really interesting ritualized music-theatre (not rock opera) Beowulf exists in this material, if only the right director and theatre could be found to pull it together. Alas, here's the real trouble with this Beowulf: Irish Rep and its leader Charlotte Moore—who are only to be applauded for their ambition in attempting to mount this piece—are so resolutely unsuited for this project that it's doomed right from the outset. The small boxy space can't contain even four or five male actors trying to dance exuberantly—they have to be so careful not to stumble over each other or into the audience that passion and freedom of movement never enter into their equation. Neither is there sufficient room for Bob Flanagan's most extravagant puppet creation—a Julie Taymor-esque dragon at the play's climax—to launch the surprise attack on characters and audience that would make it a coup de theatre: it has to sidle in from the lobby, hovering next to some unwary audience members before finally awkwardly rounding a corner (beside a supporting beam, obstructing its journey from most of the spectators) and then lumbering onto the stage to do its thing.

Moore's staging, meanwhile, flits uncomfortably between story theatre, kids' theatre, and more baldly ritualistic methods. Some of the time—and the very simplistic lyrics support this notion—it feels like this wants to be a Beowulf for kids, with actors directly addressing us to narrate the story. Other times, as when the play's actors don masks and operate puppets (with all the workings exposed), it seems like the creators are trying to comment on the nature of story-telling as they re-enact this particular tale. And at other moments—the arrival of the giant dragon is one—it appears that Moore wants to give us an all-out sensory theatre experience on the order of Ellen Stewart's epic renderings of Greek tragedy. But the inconsistency of style keeps any of these ideas from taking hold or working; and none is particularly well-realized, even as a set piece.

So what we have, finally, is pretty much a mess, albeit an admirably audacious one. Even mask/puppet designer Flanagan's contributions are uneven: the headdress he's created for the monster Grendel's mother looks like something the natives on Gilligan's Island would wear. Randall Klein's vaguely homoerotic costumes (leather and modish-looking mesh pretending to be chain mail) don't help, and in fact hinder; Richard Barth's very wispy Beowulf, who spends more time telling us in song that he's a legend and/or a myth than actually demonstrating why, is problematic, too. Indeed, the only cast member who seems genuinely comfortable is Jay Lusteck, who every once in a while is called upon to sing in a big operatic voice and does so with real brio.

Pickett and Turner need to work on focusing their script in terms of theme and clarity; and then maybe they can find a more comfortable home for their piece, in whatever (single!) style they choose to settle on.

I had always thought of Lorca's The House of Bernarda Alba as fundamentally a political play. Michael John LaChiusa's new musical Bernarda Alba reveals the pulsing romantic tragedy that lies under that polemical surface.

Bernarda Alba is a strong-willed matriarch who has just been widowed for the second time. Living with her are her eldest daughter Angustias (child of her first marriage) and her younger daughters Magadalena, Amelia, Martirio, and Adela (children of the husband just died). Completing the household are Bernarda's aged, possibly senile mother, Maria Josepha, and a trio of female servants led by Poncia, the maid who has been with Bernarda all of her adult life.

Bernarda has decreed that the family must remain inside the house for a protracted period of mourning. Angustias, however, is allowed a courtship (through her open window, every night at midnight) with one Pepe el Romano. Although Bernarda does not fully approve of this young man—he's handsome but of a lower class, and the sisters agree that he is marrying the unlovely and well-past-30 Angustias for her money (an inheritance from her father)— the marriage plans proceed.

What Bernarda does not know is that Adela, the youngest and most beautiful of her daughters, is in love with Pepe, and is secretly meeting him later each night, after Angustias has closed her window and gone to sleep. Though Poncia tries to warn the haughty Bernarda of this dissension in the ranks, she refuses to hear it. The results prove catastrophic.

LaChiusa's musicalization of this story is almost entirely sung-through, and almost exclusively devoted to the emotional states of the women who are trapped inside this house. Their repression is mostly sexual, yet LaChiusa finds shadings in the states of minds of each of his characters, which is the play's great strength and surprise. The approach is unexpectedly potent.

The centerpiece is a long scene in which each of the five daughters sings of her longings and desires. Magdalena views her surroundings as a prison. Angustias, in one of the score's loveliest and most powerful songs, wishes against the odds for a happy romance where she is loved for herself. Amelia prays for simple, abstract happiness. Martirio, who is homely and walks with a pronounced limp, dreams of an alternative childhood in which she is pretty and popular. And Adele fantasizes of a union with her beloved Pepe. It's a thrillingly ecovative sequence that gives vibrant inner life to all five of these complex women.

This production at Lincoln Center Theater is beautifully designed, with Christopher Barreca's simple unit set and Stephen Strawbridge's gorgeous lighting providing the perfect stark, solemn environment for the show, and Toni-Leslie James's costumes—variations on black mourning, with one alluring (though never worn) bright green dress offering the only contrast/relief—are precisely what's called for. Graciela Daniele's staging is less assured, especially in certain stylized aspects, such as some jolting flamenco choreography in a couple of places, and the use of two women actors to represent the (mostly male) outside world beyond Bernarda Alba's house.

The cast is generally outstanding. Candy Buckley is authoritative and earthy as Poncia; as the most grounded character in the piece, she is both our guide into it and its firm, solid anchor. Laura Shoop and Nancy Ticotin do fine work as the two younger maids and the chorus. Yolande Bevan is near heartbreaking as Bernarda's lonely mother. Judith Blazer (Magdalena), Sally Murphy (Amelia), and Daphne Rubin-Vega (Martirio) are splendid, providing strong acting and singing; Saundra Santiago is even better, making the most of Angustias's emotional solo and creating the most memorable characterization in the show (no small feat, for the smug and jealous Angustias is perhaps the least likable woman in the story). Only Phylicia Rashad and Nikki M. James let the show down, the former never mustering the fierceness and determination that are Bernarda Alba's hallmarks, and the latter lacking (perhaps) the experience to fully depict equal fierceness and determination within Adela's forbidden passion.

But overall, I was both impressed and moved with Bernarda Alba. In its concentration on the single theme of emotional repression, it's insightful and ferocious. Sad, lonely, wasted lives are illuminated with piercing honesty here; a fine achievement indeed for a contemporary chamber opera by one of our most prolific and ambitious theatre composers.

Beyond Reason is a new one-act play by Nichol Alexander about, well, exactly what its title says its about. Daniela is, as far as we can tell, a typical twentysomething woman living in New York, with a job, a fiancé, and a mother from somewhere else whom she does not get along with. But—and this happens before the start of the play—suddenly her fiancé, John, is killed in an automobile accident. Daniela, deeply in love and deeply romantic, isn't sure whether she can go on. Beyond Reason traces her journey following John's death, and suggests that for some people, the death of true love is the death of everything.

We meet Daniela in a strip club, in the wee hours of a morning, where she flirts with a nice-looking young man named Izzy. Her mission is apparently to submerge herself in sensory pleasure to forget her pain. She falters just a bit, and then brings Izzy home for a late night of sex and alcohol.

Izzy is intrigued by this woman who picked him up under such bizarre circumstances, even after he finds out about John's very recent death. Daniela is torn between Izzy, who turns out to be a much nicer guy than she expected, and John, whose specter haunts her. Daniela's mother, Susan, arrives unexpectedly and stays with her, determined to see her through the funeral and, after she learns about it, just as determined to squelch the possible budding relationship with Izzy.

Eventually, John's ghost seems to be asking Daniela to spend eternity with him now, and like a modern-day Orpheus, Daniela begins to explore ways to kill herself to be with the man she loves. In different ways, and with different strategies, Izzy and Susan try to prevent Daniela from committing suicide. The suspense in the final half of Beyond Reason lies in who among the three will prevail.

Alexander's writing and plotting has a certain visceral quality that makes the play fairly compelling as it spins out. But the characters all feel underdeveloped: we just don't have enough information to understand why Daniela is behaving in the erratic way that she is (we have to take her romantic streak, her impetuousness, and her tragic self-image pretty much as givens; Alexander doesn't supply underlying motivation or psychology); similarly, it's not clear why Izzy, who seems fairly centered, is willing to invest so much in a relationship with a woman he met in a strip club a couple of days ago; or why Susan is so opposed to Izzy's presence. John's ghost speaks to Izzy at one point, which is confusing; a woman (billed as "Angel" in the program) appears from time to time to perform various acts ranging from dancing at the strip club to handing Daniela some razor blades for a suicide attempt—the meaning of this character is also somewhat unclear.

Director Kira Simring has staged the play with economy and efficiency on a very spare unit set built around a large bench-like piece that serves as bed, sofa, chairs, table, etc., even opening up at one point to turn into a bathtub. (Ryan Scott is the designer). A great deal of time is spent turning this piece this way or that during scene transitions—a very distracting bit of business. But the lighting (by Nick Keslake) is exquisite and evocative, especially as reflected in the Venetian blinds that provide the backdrop to Scott's set.

The cast includes both the playwright's mother (as Susan) and the director's father (as a doctor), which suggests admirable family support for the project; alas neither of these novice actors brings much to their roles apart from being the right age for them. The younger members of the ensemble—who are professional actors—fare better, especially Josh Peters, who is enormously likable as Izzy. Tracee Chimo, as Daniela, runs through a range of emotions impressively (and cries real tears at an unexpected moment); but I never felt that she quite connected the dots in this admittedly sketchy role. I left Beyond Reason comprehending intellectually why this woman may have done some of the things that she did, but without ever really achieving a deep understanding of, or emotional connection with, this potentially intriguing protagonist.

Beyond the Mirror, the result of an extraordinary theatrical collaboration spanning three years, thousands of miles, and two radically different cultures, is the most stirring, affecting, and significant event of the theatre season, at least in this theatregoer's eyes.

Consider it: four performers from Afghanistan, a country we invaded just four years ago, are here in America, working with members of the New York-based Bond Street Theatre to share stories of their own lives and experiences and those of their countrymen and -women, in their own words, in their own language, in their own theatrical and musical vocabulary. The courage required to do this—a dangerous and fearful proposition on a number of levels—is breathtaking. I always say that people who work in the world of independent theatre do so only because they have something compelling and important to impart to audience. These remarkable performers, who have journeyed more than 6,000 miles to bring their play to us, exemplify that idea, and reinforce the great power of theatre to break down barriers and bring people from different cultural, religious, and ethnic backgrounds together. That they stay after each show for a half-hour talkback with the audience reveals still more about the nature and level of their commitment. How many Afghan people can be visiting the United States at this moment? We are honored to host these guests from Kabul's Exile Theatre. The thousand or so people who will actually take advantage of this opportunity to see and hear them during Beyond the Mirror's three-week run at Theater for the New City are privileged beyond measure.

The play itself is modest, surprising, fascinating. In a series of brief scenes, the last four decades of Afghan history are spotlighted. The styles of storytelling vary—some of the vignettes are movement-based, others take the more familiar shape of skits or ten-minute plays; there are filmed sequences and even some pieces performed with shadow puppets. All are accompanied by glorious music, mostly written and performed by Quraishi, a musician from Kabul who taught himself the rubab, an ancient Afghan instrument resembling a lute. Other sound, including evocative percussion, is provided live by American performer Michael McGuigan.

Which brings me to the American half of this collaboration: Bond Street Theatre, led by Joanna Sherman and including actors Seth Bloom, Christina Gelsone, and McGuigan, met the members of Exile while working in a refugee camp in Pakistan in 2002. Together, the companies decided to create a theatre piece that would bring some of the Afghan experience to the rest of the world. Beyond the Mirror begins with the Soviet invasion of 1979, and continues through the eventual withdrawal of the Russians a decade later, the long period of unrest that followed, the emergence of the Taliban in the 1990s, and the invasion by the U.S. after 9/11. The material is presented as objectively as it's possible for ruinous tales of war to be presented: Exile is careful, for example, to remind us that although the Soviets brought great destruction to Afghanistan, they also brought certain benefits, such as opportunities for international stardom to Afghan TV/film star Anisa Wahab, who is one of the actors in this show.

Filmed interviews with Afghan civilians (not actors, just ordinary people who have lived through some extraordinary events) are invaluable. And some of the theatrical devices here are stunning. The attack on the World Trade Center, which led to the American invasion of Afghanistan in 2001, is depicted here with breathtaking simplicity: two actors stand in silhouette behind a scrim. mime being "struck," and then slowly crumble silently to the ground.  A scene set during the Taliban era in which a baby accidentally steps on a landmine—silent except for some heart-rending "baby talk" voiced by Gelsone, is one of the most devastating moments I've experienced in the theatre. Credit—heaps of it—go to Sherman and her Afghan counterpart, Mahmoud Shah Salimi, for staging Beyond the Mirror in a way that both honors the Afghan theatre traditions from which it is derived and makes them accessible to American audiences.

I can't imagine living through the catastrophic devastation that has characterized Afghan life for the past 30 years. Yet the final message of Beyond the Mirror is fundamentally of human resilience and hope. Salimi told the audience, in the talkback session after the performance I attended, that Afghanistan is ready to remake itself, by itself. Americans often take our freedoms and privileges for granted. There are important lessons for us—in liberty and tolerance and essential humanity—to be learned from this potent play. This singular and very special experience is one that every concerned citizen of the world needs to partake of.

BFE, a play by Julia Cho now at Playwrights Horizons, strikes me as a very sloppily and lazily written work, gussied up by director Gordon Edelstein to feel funky, or relevant, or something. Edelstein has actors on stage in the main living room setting, watching TV, as the audience files in (to signal, I guess, the author's stated intention, per the press release, that the play is about "the devastating effects of an image-obsessed society"). When the play proper starts, Olivia Oguma as the play's main character, 14-year-old Panny, comes to the edge of the stage to deliver the first of many direct-address monologues. This is a bad sign: the sign, generally, of an author who hasn't bothered to figure out another way to get the exposition out. It's fashionable at the moment, but it's almost always an indication of problems ahead, and BFE bears this out in spades.

Panny tells us that there are rumors as to her whereabouts right now, the scariest being that she was the latest victim of a serial killer who is stalking the unnamed small American town where she lives. She's coy about the answer (the play having just begun, after all), and then takes us back a month ago to when the whole thing started. She enters the living room set and we meet her family—Lefty, her uncle, and Isabel, her mother. Eventually we learn that Panny was born out of wedlock and has never known her father; and that Isabel is pretty much a wreck, having left work one day sometime in the past, had some plastic surgery done, and never thereafter left the house.

Panny has typical 14-year-old angst, fretting about being a "geek" because she's smart and worried about not being pretty. The serial killer, whose exploits are voraciously watched by Isabel on the never-off TV, has a predilection for pretty blondes, prompting mother to tell daughter how lucky it is that she's neither. But when Panny's birthday rolls around, Isabel offers her the plastic surgery of her choice as a present.

A phone call to a wrong number leads Panny to Hugo, an apparently nice, ordinary 20-year-old college student. (The only detail we know about him is that he's a Mormon.) Panny and Hugo like talking to each other. She tells him she's 18, and he's eager to meet her. Meanwhile, Lefty meets a saleswoman at the store where he works at the mall. She's a black woman named Evvie who is as lonely as he is, and they click, and their relationship—which is the only one in the play that feels even remotely plausible, thanks mostly to the very humane character work of Karen Kandel—becomes more and more serious. Also meanwhile, Isabel languishes unhappily at home, fantasizing for some reason about General Douglas MacArthur (who, in a dream sequence, assures her that he will in fact return). Later, on the night that Panny goes out to finally meet Hugo but then ends up in the serial killer's car—oops, I shouldn't have given all that away, but don't worry, you totally see it all coming—Isabel seduces a pizza delivery boy, a la Blanche Du Bois (only successfully).

If at this point you're scratching your head and saying, "huh?"—you're not alone. I haven't even mentioned the offensively stereotyped Korean girl who is Panny's pen pal who LONGS to be American and delivers direct-address monologues meant to be letters to Panny in a nasty clipped accent about how great it would be to live in America and consume things and buy things and so on. This character is obviously intended to reinforce Cho's idea about our image-obsessed society, as are the nasty and/or sad outcomes of Panny's encounters with first Hugo, then the Serial Killer (billed enigmatically as just "Man" in the program, but he may as well be wearing a neon sign around his neck, it's so obvious he's the psycho), and, finally, Hugo again. Lefty and Evvie's story, on the other hand, doesn't seem to be about this theme, and just sputters to a limp non-conclusion.

Edelstein does stuff like have actors hover on the sides of the stage (sometimes) and behave as props (Jeremy Hollingsworth, who plays the pizza boy and MacArthur, also has to pretend to be a display rack in Walgreen's on two occasions, holding up a large piece of pegboard containing merchandise on hooks; Sue Jean Kim, who plays the Korean girl, hands Isabel two filled glasses of white wine at the start of the seduction scene). All of this amounts to self-conscious theatricality, probably designed to bolster the lack of content in BFE but instead merely underlining the fact and managing to be distracting to boot.

"BFE," by the way, stands for "bum fuck Egypt," a presumably commonplace phrase I confess to not having been acquainted with; the play does not take place in Egypt. Why has Cho chosen this title? Is she making some kind of statement about the American heartland? The American heartland where Asian families like Panny's live? The American heartland where some people are Mormons and others are black? Ethnicity is mentioned all the time in this play, but it's never discussed, if you see my meaning.

Ultimately, BFE is a jumble of details that don't add up to anything interesting or coherent; don't even make much sense, in fact. Oh yes, the evil of our media-obsessed ways gets exposed, but I'm not sure that very many people in the audience are going to be edified by this clichéd message. Cho, trying too hard to be relevant, has tried too little to create characters and situations that feel authentic and worth caring about. That might be a better place for her start the next time she puts pen to paper.

Big Apple Circus’s latest effort, Grandma Goes to Hollywood, offers its audience the astoundingly expected. The Big Apple performers are some of the best in the business, so all the acts are executed skillfully. And even if there are exceptions (I saw two unfortunate performers having a rough night) still, the show is live, the skills are difficult, and no matter how much you practice, part of the magic is that something could go awry. But the successes rhythmically meet expectations, as dogs jump through hoops, jugglers keep pins in the air, trapeze artists stay aloft. This year’s production has a lot of skill, but not a lot of drama.

The Big Apple Circus is a complex organization. It is much more traditional than Cirque du Soliel, but far smaller than Ringling Brothers and a nonprofit to boot. They have a number of outreach programs such as the Clown Care Unit, which visits hospital pediatric wards; and Circus of the Senses, a program created to bring circus to children who are visually or aurally impaired. And each year they put on a one-ring circus, using traditional circus arts in a theatrical way.

The movies are a surprising theme for the most indisputable of the live arts to explore, but Big Apple succeeds in making them three-dimensional. Grandma Goes to Hollywood sets out to hit every movie trope, with boys in caps with clapboards and movie cameras, Harry Potter and Marilyn Monroe, and homages to Star Wars and Charlie Chaplin, to name just a few. Grandma the Clown comes out as Dorothy to introduce a dog act with an Emerald City theme. The show hits every circus trope as well, with equestrians, Chinese acrobats, ventriloquists, clowns, jugglers, and of course, the flying trapeze finale. It is unlikely that any movie-history buff or classical circus fan would be disappointed.

The two most memorable acts are the hand-standing contortions of Andrey Mantehev and Virgile Peyramaure, and the sweet Christmas morning scene with Christian Atayde Stoinev and his dog Scooby. Peyramaure created the counterbalancing act with another partner, and executes the feats of flexibility and strength with arresting ease. Stoinev is charming in his holiday scene, combining acrobatics with dog wrangling in a simple but compelling way.

Grandma Goes to Hollywood is a good, thorough, entertaining effort. All the performers are high quality, and Big Apple continues to be an important bridge between traditional and new circus. But in this year’s production, the theme of the show seems like an excuse to put new costumes on old acts and dazzle in predictable ways.

How is one to justly assess an affectionate tribute by artists who seem to have a shaky feel for the subject of their homage? In Big Times, co-authors and performers Mia Barron, Maggie Lacey and Danielle Skraastad resurrect that Hollywood standby of the '30s and '40s, the backstage musical. While the collaborators bring a lot of high energy to the enterprise, almost everything about it is, as one of the characters might say "applesauce."

While the characters (and the press materials) tell us the play is about three girls going to the big city to make it in vaudeville, the substance and the feel of the play is much, much closer to a low-rent burlesque sketch. Three main characters bulldoze their way through the 90 or so minutes of scenery chewing, spewing out the worst sort of fifth-rate jokes, some from the bad joke canon, the rest—unfortunately—original. Where vaudeville was the nation’s showcase for its best, wittiest, and most brilliant theatrical talent, here we are exposed only to the likes of an orphan who wants to be a comedian and so tells the worst of the wheezes (Barron), a burlesque dancer whom we never see dance or strip (Skraastad), and an unemployable airhead with NO talent (Lacey). Somehow or other (I’m not quite sure how) they are discovered by a vaudeville manager named J.P. Biggs and become headliners. (This despite the fact that the initials on the inter-scene title cards are "BFK," which stands for B.F. Keith, the biggest real-life vaudeville manager).

This is a show by three women who kind of love show business, but apparently not well enough to look into it very much. Note to producers of period pieces: always hire a dramaturg. We’re told that the show is about the "beginnings of vaudeville" which would place it in the 1880s, but the  show is clearly set around the 1920s, except a sort of Depression Era feeling permeates the back story; the burlesque act Skrastaad’s character describes also belongs to a later period, and the house band the Moonlighters seems to have a kind of '40s thing going on. To add to the confusion, the beautifully designed set resembles a cabaret or Parisian café-concert more than a vaudeville house. This is a world in which five cents is the price of a vaudeville ticket… except no vaudeville ticket was ever that low, particularly in big time, where $1.50 or $2 was the norm. (To add to the economic chaos, a milkshake in this play costs 15 cents—three times the price of a theatre ticket!)

The name of the great circus and vaudeville trick rider Poodles Hanneford is appropriated and used to name a fictional female character… much to the chagrin, I would imagine, of Poodles’s illustrious family, who still live and perform throughout the world.

All of this lack of care and attention to detail would be forgivable of course if the damn play were funny, or if we were at least engaged by the characters and wrapped up in their story. But we are not. As directed by Leigh Silverman, the three women bounce around the space like a trio of pinballs. They’re running around so fast we don’t have time to realize that most of the singing and (all of the music) is being carried by the topnotch Moonlighters, who are positioned, appropriately, UPSTAGE of the show’s presumed stars.

Of the few songs sung by our principles, one is Harry Rose’s "Frankfurter Sandwiches," clearly lifted from the 1999 PBS documentary Vaudeville. Ya gotta sweat harder than that to make a decent show about show business.

“Beige-ists” of the world beware! Billy Connolly is on the warpath, and he’s after your heads (as well as your cardigans). Among his list of beige-ist sins is the “beige decision” to have trucks make a loud alarm sound as they back up at 4 mph in the empty secured parking lots of the airport at 3am. His primary complaint being that the ridiculously unnecessary alarm convinced him that there was a fire somewhere in his hotel. He reacts to another beige decision with, “I don’t need AMBULANCE written backward on the front of ambulances to know that’s what they are!” Connolly’s examination of the state of the world is piercingly accurate and hysterically funny. Think that strokes and suicide bombers can’t be funny? Give Connolly a couple of hours, and I promise he’ll change your mind.

Billy Connolly’s latest stand-up comedy performance is, quite simply, outstanding. It is everything his fans have come to expect from this brilliantly funny man. For the Billy Connolly fans, you won’t need my endorsement; just go see his show. For those who can’t quite remember who Billy Connolly is but feel certain they should know, take a look at the photo above this review. You’ll immediately recognize the well-known Scottish comedian and actor. If you can manage to keep up with his rapid-fire subject changes and stream-of-consciousness storytelling, you will walk away from this performance extremely grateful that you made time for his show. In truth, even if you can’t keep up, it’s probably just as well. It will give your cheeks a break so they can rest. I laughed so hard for so long that I actually developed a headache. I had to sit serenely for a minute or two just trying not to laugh so that equilibrium might be restored in the blood flow to my brain.

The audience walks in to find a bare stage with a spotlight shining on a glass of sparkling water sitting atop a black stool. Soft, soulful music is playing in the background. An enormous backdrop is hanging, painted to look like a great, graffiti-covered brick wall (with Connolly’s laughing face, a Peace sign, and an Anarchy symbol among the graffiti). People sit with their drinks and chat while they wait for the show to begin. Given Connolly’s sense of humor, I had the strangest feeling that the whole thing was an absurdist piece of performance art; that we might all sit and stare at the bubbly water for an hour only to have Connolly come out and say “Thank you, and good night.” He’d do it too, just as a colossal joke to show what idiots we all are to pay good money to watch truly inane nonsense.

More than anything, Connolly’s performance feels like listening to a regular guy in a regular pub as he passionately expounds on a wide range of topics. He is completely comfortable wrapping himself up in stories, events, and observations that are funny to him. The fact that they are funny to everyone else seems almost like a side note. During this wandering conversation, he discusses the pleasures and perils of becoming famous as the day wears on, old-time chauvinism, children who lecture strangers on the dangers of smoking, one-sided hospital conversations, Bush’s inability to correctly pronounce the word “nuclear,” suicide-bomber instructors, recanting one’s atheism when plane turbulence strikes, the high style of corduroy suits, women’s ability to create audible silence, and out-of-tune religious parade bands in Malta. Though the conversation is, of course, predominantly one-sided, Connolly doesn’t hesitate to involve the audience or respond to them when it strikes his fancy. When an audience member in the front row tried to quietly slip out, Connolly started picking a fight with him and looked as though he might hop down off the stage and pummel the cretin for interrupting, that is before he started laughing and returned to his story. When another front-row member returned from the bathroom, Connolly gave him a brief recap of the current story thus far so that he’d understand the rest of it. The audience was absolutely howling with laughter.

Connolly wanders through topics the way most people wander through grocery store aisles. If he sees something that interests him, he picks it up and pores over it for as long as it takes to thoroughly investigate it. He competently keeps up with multiple layers of story-telling all at the same time. He even stopped long enough to say that a blurb he read about himself in an airplane entertainment listing was complete and utter crap. The statement? It said he could wander off topic for days at a time and still come back to the precise point where he left off. Though Connolly would argue the point with me (“I come quite close, and quite close is good enough for me”), he does indeed leave stories for side stories, then leaves the side stories for side notes, then returns to each point to close it out. His ability to do this over and over again is truly astounding, and it makes his show unlike any other. Connolly would most certainly sympathize with Holden Caufield, the protagonist in Catcher in the Rye, when Holden argues that the digressions students are supposed to avoid in speeches are, in point of fact, by far the most interesting parts. If you listen carefully, you can hear Connolly screaming from the back of the classroom, “F*** the beige-ists.” (A side-note of my own: the “F-word” is by far Connolly’s favorite word.) I fully intend to go see Connolly’s show again just to hear him wander off in other, unexpected directions. I can’t wait to see where he’ll wander next.

Week Four - The Runaway Birthday - reviewed by Alex Roe

The Runaway Birthday, a “Play for Families and Children” by Jennifer Palumbo, offers the usual young audience fare: heroes, villains, and knaves; plot dilemmas with edifying resolutions; and broad acting under all. But the play is more sophisticated than your run-of-the-mill kids' show. An ironical self-consciousness colors its ingenuous messages, providing both a playful story for the young as well as a wry amusement for their chaperones.

For a theme, the readiness is all. Beginning with a narrator who is running behind schedule, Birthday itself is not ready to start when it does. After a little banter, the Teller of Tales decides on a story, but it has already gotten away from him. He doesn’t know the characters’ names, he is interrupted by a variety of interlopers, and his strained past with a key character threatens to do in the whole narrative. This frame informs the whole play: anyone can get in over their heads. The question is how we deal with it.

The story Teller narrates, at least insofar as he can keep up with it, is of one Cinderella—not that one, another one—who prefers to go by Cindy, and who is as vain and spoiled a narcissist as you could wish. Princess of the kingdom of Whimsy, she resents the attention her awkward brother Melvin receives merely because he is heir apparent, and she wishes every day would be the one day she receives the attention she feels she deserves. Sure enough, thanks to a no-nonsense but accommodating fairy, she gets her wish, and it is more than she is ready for.

Though no one else appreciates that calendar years pass daily, every morning dawns on another birthday for the princess. From Cindy’s perspective, boredom is the first down side, but soon, she recognizes more dire consequences. To begin with, daily celebrations rapidly deplete the kingdom’s resources: the royal coffers empty, the populace starves, a national malaise infects the land. Then, although no one feels older or wiser, they acknowledge that the years are flying by, which means precious Cindy is middle-aged before her time, her parents (the king and queen) take off for a very early retirement, and hapless Melvin is crowned before he is out of short pants. And worst of all, under Melvin’s reluctant rule, the foundering kingdom falls victim to malevolent aristocrats from a nearby city—the Duke of Folly and his sister Lady Penelope.

Can Cindy set things right? Of course. She learns to see beyond herself, Melvin finds a lion's heart in his coward’s body, the Duke and Lady P receive a shot of humility, and even the Teller of Tales gets a lesson in responsibility.

What distinguishes The Runaway Birthday is in the telling. Palumbo’s dialogue is a funny pastiche of fairytale speech and contemporary vernacular. Her off-kilter characters and her playful plot are engaging and even surprising. Finally, her weaving together of the tale with its own telling is more than amusing, it helps the themes resonate.

Director Dominic Cuskern’s production mixes the whimsical with the mundane, allowing the play to seem both confident and casual, a fine tone for a story about discovering your stroke when fate throws you in the deep end. He and his performers’ telling clips along at a spirited pace while still enjoying opportunities for winning takes and indulging in playfully broad performances. Thomas Kelley is affable and engaging as the Teller of Tales. Ginger Kroll captures Cindy’s insufferable vanity while being charming herself. Chris Speziale as Melvin grows more likeable as Melvin grows himself. Marshall York is on the bogus end of the scale when he is playing the King of Whimsy, but he is very funny as the self-involved Duke of Folly. Jessica James and Jonathan Calindas are both surprisingly sympathetic in small roles as townspeople. And Emily Gabler as Fairy Fran brings a little magic onto the stage with each entrance. Sassy, wry, and over it all, this working-girl fairy grants wishes because it’s her job, but she has a sentimental side that is a little like hope. Ms. Gabler’s timing and swagger make the most of a refreshing device, and the ironical edge she brings to Runaway Birthday helps this child-friendly production dig deeper than you might expect.

Who is the ideal age for the play? The youngest in the audience the night I saw it, though attentive, did seem to be less on top at the end of the hour and twenty minute production than at the start. A teenager might be a little beyond the fairy tale story, while the play’s teeth are not so sharp as to thrill an adolescent. Perhaps it is the “tweens”, then, who are best suited to the play’s knowing tone and earnest import. But Runaway Birthday is a charming and witty offering to all comers.

Week Three - "Heaven & Earth" - reviewed by George Hunka

Stephen J. Bottoms, in his recent book on the off-off-Broadway movement Playing Underground, notes: “… [T]he one-act form relies less on linear dramatic development than on the presentation of an immediate, theatrical ‘moment,’ staging not so much a story but a single act.” The five-play program for the third offering of the Gallery Players’s eighth Black Box New Play Festival exemplifies the description.

The four collections or “boxes” of plays in this year’s festival are grouped under different themes. The plays of Box One, “Brooklyn Plays, Brooklyn Playwrights,” all touched on Brooklyn; those of Box Two, “The Sex Box,” sex; those of Box Four, “The Sandbox” (which opens next weekend), are children’s plays. Box Three’s theme, “Heaven & Earth,” covers everything else, with a nod to otherworldly possibilities. Each of the plays is “immediate and theatrical,” in Stephen Bottoms’ words, to varying degrees of success, as should be expected in a grab-bag like this one. The Players’s batting average in this program hovers at .600: three hits out of five at-bats, not bad at all. None of the playwrights who connect manages to smash one out of the park, but there are certainly solid base hits and doubles in the evening.

Daniel Damiano’s Bon Voyage, Mr. Phelps! and Staci Swedeen’s Chasing the Deal start and end the evening with a bang. Bon Voyage, Mr. Phelps!, a fantasy about an earthling’s vacation travel to Mars, manages to deliver a subversively anti-colonialist statement wrapped in a cheerily comic dialogue between a tourist and a travel agent; D.H. Johnson, as the unctuous agent Crenshaw, delivers a precisely comedic performance, featuring a supercilious grin that could melt concrete. Chasing the Deal is rather harder to make out—it’s a semi-absurdist comedy about a real-estate agent chaperoning the queen of an alien planet and a borderline necrophiliac cowgirl through a luxury house (funnier than it sounds, but really you have to be there)—but Swedeen’s knack for sudden, bizarre juxtapositions keeps the short play fast on its feet. Maria Ryan, as the frustrated and disappointed real estate agent, shines in this one.

These plays sandwich three by Joe Lauinger, a Black Box Festival regular, two of which are unfortunately the weakest of the evening. The Green Angel, the play which closes the first half of the program, is a neat but overlong character study about a statistics professor’s research assistant (Ryan again) and a peculiar, lovelorn librarian (played most creepily by Anthony Crep). Lauinger’s two other plays, Her Favorite Color and Grandma’s Sweater Blue, feature the same characters, Dawn (Elizabeth Phillipp) and Sean (Jeff Silver), in two stages of their marriage’s collapse. Phillipp and Silver try mightily to find sympathetic and consistent traits in their yuppie characterizations, but the playwright doesn’t help them much on this score. Silver succeeds in finding a melancholy sadness in the unlikable Sean, but Phillipp’s Dawn remains unsympathetic and inconsistent across the two plays (to Phillipp’s credit, it’s not for lack of trying).

In naturalistic plays like these, directors are hard-pressed to come up with unique interpretive perspectives. What can one do with settings like waiting rooms, cafes, and airport lounges? The standard of verisimilitude is limited to contemporary private behaviors in contemporary public places, and the long tradition of American realism is so well-defined that sometimes all a director has to do is connect the dots. However, Heather S. Curran in Bon Voyage, Mr. Phelps! and Raymond Zilberberg in Chasing the Deal find moments of creative scenic and staging potential for their plays here and there.

Lighting designer Erin O’Brien and set designer Timothy J. Amrhein provide an attractive and supple unit set for all five plays. Like directors, costume designers must feel somewhat hamstrung faced with contemporary realistic plays, but Kathleen Leary deserves praise for her playful and even somewhat poetic decisions in The Green Angel and Chasing the Deal. The lime-green detail for Ryan’s costume in Lauinger’s The Green Angel is a nice, subtle touch, not to mention the schizophrenic, epilepsy-inducing shirt-and-tie combination Leary supplies for the librarian. And although I never thought I’d find myself asking the question, “What would alien royalty wear when house-hunting?”, the Rube-Goldbergish contraption that Leary supplies for the stately Lauren Shannon in the last play provides a delightful response.

Week Two - "The Sex Box" - reviewed by Maggie Bell

Gallery Players has been producing affordable theatre in Brooklyn for over 15 years. The annual Black Box Festival of new plays is in its second week. In line with the format of most short play festivals, this week includes four plays and follows a theme, entitled "The Sex Box."

The first play, The Sex of Our Lives, jumps right into this theme. It begins after an impulsive three-way between two men and a woman, Jill, Paul, and Mike. Excited, the boys want a repeat performance and convince Jill to meet them again. Playwright Erik Cristian Hanson introduces an interesting twist when, upon Jill leaving, Mike discovers his attraction to Paul. As Paul and Mike, Noah Trepanier and Todd Isaac play well the awkwardness in this situation. They can push this a bit more. As Jill, Leanne Fornelli does not have much more purpose than a sounding board for the real story. Fornelli demonstrates both her vulnerability and sensuality well, darting from Paul to Mike in the love triangle. However, the play ends too bluntly, right when Mike and Paul begin to humanize this new discovery. It would be good for Hanson to explore this new relationship more.

The next piece, Michael Bettencourt's Sporting Goods, is a brave form of performance art about hidden desire. It takes place in a wrestling arena, where we see a match between two men who are on the brink of either killing or kissing each other. As they push and writhe, their words are poetry. Adam Blanshay and Nathan Freeman are confident in their skin. Their tension is palpable, but again, they seem to get lost in the pretty words at times and forget each other.

Bibbity Bobbity Boo by Charlotte Winters is a fantasy piece, occurring when three Fairies come to Johnny in his sleep and out him. Played with humility by Jamie Effros, Johnny comes to terms with his being gay through their reenactments of his actions. Of the three gay-themed plays, this one trades most in stereotypes, e.g., the fairies have lisps and limp wrists. It seems tired that we still have to witness this angle—it's refreshing when people are presented as people first, then as gay or not gay. As the fairies, though, Ken Dray, Chris Speziale, and Kyle Minshew have genuine fun onstage.

Set apart from the first three plays, the final play The Poison Party, written by John Paul Porter, is not about sex. Rather, it is a confident play about four New York women who gather to do Botox together, but cannot get past their judgmental views of each other. Liddy, the antagonist of the group, is played with a high-tone by Patricia Lavin, while Sue Glausen Smith plays hostess Eleanor with great neurosis. The catty maneuvers and polite body language among the women is delicious. The play could use some fine-tuning, as I did not prefer it’s general message of insecure women. The cast here could also move faster with the pace, making tense moments pop more.

Overall, the evening is enjoyable. I commend Gallery Players for their commitment to excellence in affordable theater.

Week One - "Brooklyn Plays—Brooklyn Playwrights" - reviewed by Jaime Robert Carrillo

The first weekend of Gallery Players' 8th Annual Black Box New Play Festival features five short plays themed “Brooklyn Plays / Brooklyn Playwrights.”

The first play, Only the Dead Know Brooklyn, aims at revealing the complex world that Brooklyn is, especially with all its unique neighborhoods. It begins with a surprising fourth-wall breaking staging choice by director Elfin Vogel. While refreshing for the first few minutes, this opening risks becoming uninteresting, as the audience has to crane their necks too much to follow the action. I appreciate the experimental nature of these first moments, but the motionlessness lasts too long.

Actors Todd Isaac, Demetrius Kallas, Steven Viola, Robert Kiernan show commitment in their performances, and deserve praise. The writing on the other hand is difficult to follow. Playwright Michael Bettencourt attempts thought-provoking drama, but it’s not clear whether the characters are alive or dead throughout the story. The characters, though strangers in the play, exhibit a forced familiarity with each other that is unconvincing. One of characters supposedly drowns, but there is no explanation as to why that happens, or how the subway platform he is standing on is suddenly used as the fatal body of water that dooms him. There is a random moment at the end where an actor pulls an audience member out of his seat (not a plant) to help carry a character off stage. I’m not sure what Vogel communicates with that choice. Designer Kathleen Leary’s costume for Man Three is eye-catching, especially the black-and-white shoes and business tie.

The second play, Cat & Dick, occurs on the ledge of a New York office building. Cat, played by Dianna DiPalma, attempts to plunge to her death, yet an innocent and eccentric character named Dick, played by Anthony Crep, interrupts her. Crep is hilarious, and is the one to watch here. While a few unexciting ironic jokes about death are present, playwright Andrea Alton receives a huge laugh from the audience with a clever joke about syphilis.

The third play is Anxiety & Grandma. Playwright Judd Lear Silverman successfully writes a credible play about an incredible situation. Noah Trepanier plays Joel, who is visited by his long-dead Grandma, played by Pnina “Penni” Tross. Both actors display high levels of commitment. Tross stands out for her convincing portrayal and unique-sounding voice. Director Michael Silverstone does a competent job.

The true gem of the evening is Maggie Lehrman’s comedy The Me That’s Me, complete with quality acting and solid directing. Miranda Lane as Abby, Thomas Kelley as Ryan, and Lindsay Joy as Kristen all deliver noteworthy performances. Joy is exciting to watch in this role from start to finish. She is funny and compelling as her character expresses happiness over discovering her real self. Director Brooke Delaney does a commendable job casting. Delaney stages the action so the audience easily understands the comedy and storyline. What makes this script appealing is that it captures honestly three very different people individually trying to find themselves. Anyone who has gone through  a process of searching inside themselves can relate to this bit of theatre. Lehrman has a funny and performance-worthy piece in her hands.

The last piece of the evening is Goode Books & Press by Allan Lefcowitz. It is about a couple in their 50’s deciding to sell their business in the face of slow sales and a high offer for their land. The bright spots are Joe Cooper’s charming quality as Edward, and Patricia Lavin’s sexy aura as Georgia. Thomas Kelley chimes in with a poignant cameo role as Phillip. It’s his earnest affection for this bookstore that provides the most touching point of the evening. But the direction by Scott Brocious and Lefcowitz’s writing are not attention-grabbing, which makes the finale of the evening feel dragged out.

Overall, this festival night is a good bargain at $15 for two hours of new theater.

New Zealand is about as far away a place on Earth from New York as it's possible to be. So it's a privilege to get to see Black Grace, one of New Zealand's premier dance companies, perform at the New Victory Theatre this season, in an enormously entertaining and exciting show featuring seven of their signature pieces. Choreographed by company founder/artistic director Neil Ieremia, the show incorporates traditional Samoan rituals and dances along with more contemporary styles, all set to an eclectic blend of music ranging from Bach to Chico Hamilton to the Kronos Quartet. Muscular, energetic, playful, and constantly surprising, Ieremia's dances are unlike anything I've ever seen; the 80-minute program left me hungry for much, more more.

The evening commences with a two-part prologue, performed by the seven Black Grace dancers, Sam Fuataga, Sean MacDonald, Tamihana Paurini, Daniel Cooper, Jeremy Poi, Ueta Siteine, and Taane Mete. (The company is an all-male troupe, though there are three female guest dancers performing in this program.) The first piece is "Traditional Challenge/Hand Game," an excerpt from a longer piece in which the dancers engage in movements reminiscent of kids at play, culminating in a thrilling synchronized hand game, where the dancers create spectacular percussion using various parts of their bodies. It's followed by "Fa'a Ulutao," a more balletic work based in the Tatau, a rite of passage in which young Samoan men receive a tattoo.

Following a brief introductory message, the program continues with "Minoi," the company's signature piece, a delightful and exuberant chorale to a traditional Samoan counting song. The harmonies created here by Black Grace, in voice and in movement, are gorgeous.

The next dance is "Deep Far," which is the most serious piece on the itinerary, reflecting on the nature of weather and inspired by a season of drought. The music is "Whirl-Y-Reel 1 (Beard and Sandals Mix)" by Afro Celt Sound System, with evocative and unusual modern sounds that are complemented by Ieremia's tight, almost constricted choreography inside geometric spaces created by the lights (lighting design, which is excellent throughout, is by Jeremy Fern).

"Open Letter," which closes the first act, is a dance for two women (guest artists Abby Crowther and Desiree Westerlund). It's a vivid meditation on connection and loss, in which the dancers' movements and the colors and shapes of their swirling costumes take precedence over narrative or characterization; something that I found provocative and fascinating.

The longest piece of the evening comes right after intermission. "Human Language" puts the male dancers in suave but casual attire—jeans with button-down shirts in different earthtones—and the women in elegant, brightly colored dresses with layers and layers of filmy petticoats underneath. The first segment is funny and surreal: the men blow up balloons while the women dance to the sounds they make. (The surreal touch is a giant rabbit that incongruously turns up.) Then, the mood heats up, as the dancers team up (in the only boy/girl pairings of the evening) for some romance of varying intensities, culminating in a gorgeous and joyous release of youthful emotion reminiscent of Jerome Robbins's West Side Story. The finale of this piece is a paean to Broadway choreography, yet so spectacularly original that I can't wait for Ieremia to try his hand at that form.

Black Grace concludes with a lovely series of danced variations to Bach's Brandenburg Concerto No. 3, in which each of the company members gets a moment to express his individuality in moves tailored to his body. It's a lovely and entirely fitting end to a show in which the dancers are all celebrated separately and as parts of a smoothly functioning and flowing team.

In Tim Burton’s film Ed Wood, Johnny Depp as the title character refuses to call his work a “monster movie.” It’s a “Science Fiction Epic” he declares, full of innocent love for whatever it is he thinks he’s doing.

I sensed that Ron Glucksman, writer/director/prime-mover of Blitzkrieg: The Hassidic Professional Wrestling Musical, could be counted on for the same. This show’s identity crisis is its most campy and entertaining aspect, and I marveled at just how what I was watching could have been, well, achieved.

The format of the thing is a bizarre hybrid of burlesque, B-film and, yes, musical. Following an opening titled “Uncle Skanky’s Burlesque” featuring a couple of dancing young women, the audience is somewhat clumsily transitioned into the story of our hero, who tries to win the heart of his true love and become a wrestling champion, because it’s God’s plan.

The story plays out a in series of rambling scenes, never quite settling on a style. We have the “play-within-a-play” (we’re told that Skanky’s Burlesque performers will be taking us back in time), we have the love story, we have the story of an idealist who is pitted against the crushing nature of grim reality. Glucksman often, in the midst of all this, reverts to simply dirty one-liners. (“She looks more pissed than a toilet!”). We even watch a rather elaborately staged group sex scene (clothes on, thank you very much.)

Through what already must sound confusing, Glucksman finds other ways to befuddle us. For example, his story takes place in what appears to be the modern era. God shows up looking like Ali G, at one point, and talks about text messaging. There is a discussion of pay-per-view wrestling. But the wrestlers that are referenced in this story are from the 1950s and '60s. Gorgeous George, the Grand Wizard, and Antonio Rocco? If I didn’t have a stash of copies of Pro Wrestling Insider from my junior high school days, I wouldn’t have any idea that these were not only real stars of a bygone era, but that the era is so bygone that he could have made names up and gotten the same effect. We also get a discussion on reality versus fantasy, as our hero doesn’t seem to know that wrestling is fake. Glucksman’s desire to turn the falseness of wrestling into a Network-style commentary on the nature of reality simply floored me. Especially because while he was doing so, a woman with a Mohawk was showing off the only thing covering her nipples: Two strips of black tape.

Did I mention that our leading character is a Hassidic Jew who uses a pro wrestling moniker that references Hitler’s most famous war tactic? Without a hint of irony?

Blitzkrieg ranks as one of the biggest theatrical messes I’ve ever seen. But it’s also so broadly insane that it bears a striking resemblance to the impulses of John Waters, and at least, the plain stubborn-headed earnestness that can be felt through the frames of Ed Wood's Plan 9 from Outer Space.

Surrounding this endeavor is a mix-and-match cast that, for it’s part, performs well. Leading the ensemble capably is Martin Friedrichs as the lead, Mickey Blitzman, who sings, dances, acts, and wrestles with aplomb. As his love interest Kelly Sweeney, Kelly Fraunfelder works against a weak sound system, singing torch songs and broad numbers with equal parts bravery and talent. In fact, the entire cast comes up with able moments, despite all attempts (bad sound system, awkwardly written scenes, wrestling outfits) to flummox them.

The less said about the production values and songs the better...they are present and work intermittently. This show has eyes bigger than its stomach, suffice to say, and strains to fill the cavernous Cutting Room.

It would be easy to call this show campy for the sake of campy, but the feeling in the room almost works against this, as if the script would like to be real commentary, and as the show goes on past the two hour mark, it looses the luster of pure camp. But in the midst of all this, is the ghost of Ed Wood, in love with his medium, throwing everything at the stage that he can think of. Glucksman has the makings of a camp hit here; once it’s accepted that a Hassidic Professional Wrestling musical could be very little else.

In Jeffrey Sweet’s Bluff, Neal and Emily meet in one of those chance encounters that seem preordained by fate. Both stumbling upon a victim of a gay-bashing incident in Chelsea at the same time, Neal, a defense attorney, and Emily, a fundraiser for a nonprofit organization, hit it off in the hospital waiting room. A romance begins to bloom, and soon the two are living together and well on their way towards a serious, long-term commitment. Through this engaging prologue—facilitated by the easy-going asides to the audience and fellow actors that are the stylistic hallmark of Sweet’s script—Bluff reminds us that you never know when an unforeseen chance encounter will change the direction of your life, suddenly propelling you into new territory.

But unexpected occurrences can also derail you, and crashing into this urban fairytale romance is Emily’s stepfather Gene, a dental equipment salesman who is visiting New York for a convention, and who has a knack for getting under Emily’s skin. Gene, an overbearing and opinionated blowhard with a penchant for ridiculous ties, is just the type of abrasive, ill-mannered relative to make a perfect comic foil for this self-assured and sensitive New York City couple.

This set-up—combined with the casual accessibility of Sweet’s writing style—prepares one for an affable but trite comedy about the acceptance of other people’s differences. But behind the breezy charm of Sweet’s writing is an insightful and surprisingly moving work that is in part about acceptance—of oneself as well as of others—but also about dealing with the emotional weight of unresolved and complicated family relationships as one grows up and grows older. Gene is more than just a boorish loud mouth for Emily to roll her eyes at. He is also the manipulative and bullying replacement of a dead and idealized father thrust upon Emily at an early age. There is deep-rooted resentment seething here, and as this simple tale unfolds, it brings to the surface not only the problems between Emily, Gene, and her mother Georgia, but also the unacknowledged pitfalls lurking in the perhaps not-so-perfect relationship between Emily and Neal.

There are also many sides to this story, and Sweet and director Sandy Shinner capitalize on this by having their cast members casually break the fourth wall, launch into digressions, argue about past occurrences before reenacting them, break character at the drop of a dime, and float in and out of scenes in a way that manages to tread the line of being gimmicky and does occasionally cross it—but always at interesting places and never for very long. This unorthodox theatrical style—apparently influenced by the work of Chicago’s Second City comedy troupe—allows the characters to tell and enact Bluff collaboratively with many dissenting opinions, which may be the perfect narrative form for a piece reminding us that there is more to a situation than in how one person chooses to perceive it.

It’s also a style that is immediately engaging and enjoyable without being heavy-handed, at least not in the hands of Shinner and this production’s fine cast. Ean Sheehy is likeable and charismatic as Neal, and Sarah Yorra as Emily does an excellent job balancing the character’s anger and insecurities while making her appealing enough for us to believe in their relationship. Michelle Best and Luke MacCloskey are surprisingly memorable in their supporting roles, and Kristine Niven holds her own as Emily’s alcoholic mother Georgia. Bill Tatum is terrific in the critical role of Gene, creating a character whose formidable self-confidence might be starting to fade with age. Tatum delivers Gene’s tough-talking words of wisdom and off-putting behavior without ever indicating how we’re supposed to judge his words and actions, and in doing so sacrifices what would probably be a number of cheap and gratifying laughs for a far more interesting and believable performance.

This is something that Bluff manages to do as a whole under Shinner’s direction, and it pays dividends in the inevitable confrontation between Gene and Emily. Here the acting, directing, and writing come together masterfully in a surprising speech delivered by Tatum that is satisfying dramatically without wrapping things up in way that seems cheap or contrived. In this the speech is much like the play as a whole, presenting the complexities of a well-worn theme in a fresh and incisive way.

Bone Portraits, an ensemble-created theatre piece from Stillpoint Productions, written by Deborah Stein and directed by Lear deBessonet, takes its title from a photography fad from the 1890s. After the X-ray was discovered by Wilhelm Roentgen, it became fashionable for ladies to have these new-fangled pictures taken of their hands. These "bone portraits," though novel, were obviously also extremely hazardous, especially to the men who were operating the cameras. Bone Portraits looks at the clash between innovation and safety, telling stories of Roentgen himself and two of the Americans who exploited his invention, Thomas Edison and an X-ray operator, Clarence Dally; another character who figures peripherally in the show is the scientist Pierre Curie, who, like Dally, died of (undiagnosed) radiation poisoning.

The show takes the form of a pageant, alternating back and forth between several story lines involving the aforementioned individuals and, interwoven amongst them, songs and sketches from early American vaudeville of the period and an occasional visit to the Chicago World's Fair of 1893. Edison serves more or less as our host.

The theme of the piece seems to be that rampant commercialism is a bad thing. Edison admits to stealing inventions to make a buck, and the craze for making "bone portraits" costs Edison's underappreciated underling Dally his life. The trouble with this line of reasoning is that Dally didn't know that the rare bone disease that was killing him was caused by radiatio