nytheatre Archive
1999-2000 Theatre Season Reviews

Zaloom, who is probably best-known for his work on the PBS-TV children's show Beakman's World, works his magic dressed in mismatched pajamas on a small stage literally filled with junk. To his left is a makeshift puppet theatre, on which he uses a variety of shower curtains as the witty  backdrops for a dozen or so little dramas. These range from his initial tale of a typical day in Los Angeles (waking up, watching two office workers chat up a pair of hookers, getting stuck in freeway traffic, getting harassed by a cop, and so on) to his armageddon-ish account of a vacation in Vermont that culminates in the utter devastation of that state's ecology.

Center stage is a table with an overhead projector, just like the one they had in your classroom when you went to school. In Zaloom's hands, it becomes a miniature stage on which are enacted some more stories, with the roles taken by various found objects (not all of which I could readily identify). Zaloom's visit to his dentist (who he says studied at the Marquis de Sade dental school with Dr. Mengele), and his frightful account of a fiery airplane crash are among the stories he tells us in this "venue."

Finally, to Zaloom's right, is a large frame, from which hang a series of tacky black velvet paintings, each of which depicts a story or event that Zaloom explains to us. There's a wonderfully kitschy picture of a sort-of anti-nature scene, dominated by a guileless-looking smurf, which in Zaloom's hands manages to somehow sum up all of the arrogance of humanity vis-a-vis the natural habitat we seem so bent on destroying. And then there's a cockeyed Last Supper--Last Brunch, actually--which should give pause to any of us who ever bought into the "Greed is Good" philosophy that was so popular back in the Reagan-Bush years.

Zaloom moves back and forth among these three areas as he relates his long, surreal dream to us. Actually, it's not so much one dream as it is a series of nightmares: that trip to the dentist, for example, and that airplane crash; and also a journey to hell (where cryogenically frozen Walt Disney is the welcoming committee and the lobster that Zaloom ate for dinner last summer is standing over a pot of boiling water to help dish out some suitable punishment--"it's not the heat, it's the humidity"). The whole thing ends with the worst nightmare of all, namely the 2000 Republican Convention, shown here in daffy but apt representational terms, with Charlton Heston portrayed by a toy gun and Trent Lott by a douchebag. Don't worry: Al Gore and Bill Bradley turn up as well; there's something here for everybody. 

Which is precisely Zaloom's point: the gentle jibes that punctuate all of the sketches in Velvetville are finally never directed at any specific other person: they're always about us. This is the kind of show that makes you feel guilty about not having recycled your glass and plastics properly, and by no means do I think that's a bad thing. The dazzlingly ingenious connections that Zaloom makes throughout Velvetville are designed not only to entertain but to enlarge: this is a show about being thoughtful, in every sense of that word; about being engaged in the moment--in every moment.

But as I've said it's a very gentle, good-natured show: there's a message here, but Zaloom never hits us over the head with it. Instead, he lets us laugh, long and hard, at ourselves. Some of the stuff he comes up with is so off-the-wall hilarious that I found myself laughing, more or less uncontrollably, for several minutes. (My favorite bit: Zaloom's recreation of a LAPD cop getting rolfed by a burly masseur who looks like the Incredible Hulk.) It seemed to me that many others in the audience were having a similar experience, though it didn't always happen at the same time for everyone. I liked that.

Zaloom is only doing Velvetville for two more weeks at P.S. 122's Second Floor Theatre, which is not very large. So my advice to you is to immediately try and obtain tickets. Shows this funny and insightful don't come around that often.

By romance, by the way, I'm speaking of the real thing: the Romeo and Juliet kind, where a two people love so deeply and so purely that each is willing to do literally anything for the sake of the other. And I'm also speaking of the Tale of Two Cities kind, where a man is so devoted to a thing bigger than himself that he is ready to die for it. Or a woman: the title character of Arrah-na-Pogue got her nickname (which means, literally, "Arrah of the Kiss") when she helped her foster brother Beamish escape from prison by concealing a message in her mouth and passing it to him in a kiss. But her love for her Irish homeland is tested even more severely when the British discover that she has been sheltering Beamish in her home, from where he has been organizing the latest in a series of local rebellions against the tyrannical redcoats.

Boucicault raises the stakes by setting these events on Arrah's wedding day. Her husband-to-be, the doting, good-natured Shaun the Post, soon finds himself embroiled in the plot, even though he has no knowledge of Arrah's dangerous allegiance to Beamish. Shaun's love for Arrah is so strong, however, that he too is willing to risk everything to protect her. Thus it is Shaun who winds up in jail for allegedly stirring up a rebellion he knows absolutely nothing about.

Arrah-na-Pogue is the kind of play where, even though you're completely certain that everything is going to work out for the hero and heroine, you sit spellbound trying to figure out how. Boucicault obliges the audience by providing all sorts of felicitous coincidences and tangential subplots that complicate and convolute the story but do not upset its breathless pace. Arrah-na-Pogue is old-fashioned stylistically and attitudinally, but it's never less than skillful; in places it's actually quite beautiful. As a devilishly engaging spinner of exciting yarns, Boucicault has few equals.

I was struck, incidentally, by how influenced Boucicault seems to have become by his adopted country of America: although Arrah-na-Pogue is dominated by its Irish-English tensions, its hero Shaun the Post feels quintessentially American to me. He's a wise guy and a smart aleck, but likeably so; an uneducated country boy who consistently gets the better of his so-called betters; a common-sensical chap who lives by his wits and, when necessary, his fists. If that doesn't describe the mythological American hero of the 19th century, then I don't know what does. And yet Shaun feels entirely at home in Arrah-na-Pogue, which blends the folkloric qualities of Irish storytelling with the crackerjack innocence and arrogance of American tall tales into a seamless whole: Boucicault's melting pot.

Director Peter Dobbins has staged Boucicault's work lovingly and carefully. He establishes the play's patriotic subtext subtly, with some atmospheric (and authentic) singing and dancing; and he establishes the play's theme of faith in true love in a series of tender and heartfelt scenes between Shaun and Arrah. This is a big play, and some of the crowd scenes and some of the fight scenes still felt a little unformed in the preview performance I attended. But though I wish that Dobbins weren't constrained by the budgets of off-off-Broadway theatre (in terms of time as well as money), I can report that he has done admirably with what's available to him: Boucicault is very well-served here, even if some of his play's potentially most spectacular moments are not.

The cast of twenty-one (!) actors is generally fine. Among the standouts are John Aherne, who delivers some remarkable step dancing at Arrah and Shaun's wedding, and Honor Finnegan, who gives a truly lovely rendition of "The Wearin' of the Green" along with several other Irish songs. Dan Berkey gives perhaps the evening's most accomplished performance as Major Coffin, the steely English soldier who arrests and tries Shaun for treason. Bernard Smith (as the oily informer Michael Feeny) and J.J. Reap (as the kind-hearted local magistrate O'Grady) also make strong impressions.

In the leading roles, Conn Horgan and Kate Brennan are wonderful. Horgan proves, as he did in the title role of Storm Theatre's The Shaughraun a couple of years ago, that he is as magnetic and interesting an actor as anybody around: he's expressive, instantly likable, and enormously appealing. Brennan, who was also in The Shaughraun, here gives a performance of real depth and passion. We care a lot for Arrah and Shaun, and that's a testament to the fine work of these two performers.

No one writes plays like Arrah-na-Pogue any more. For one thing, linear narrative seems anathema to the MTV generation; but more important, I think, is the fact that in their unquestioning nobility, Boucicault's values simply don't scan with contemporary audiences. If that's true, it's a crying shame. We need productions like this one, from the valiant and ambitious Storm Theatre, to remind us that passion and faith are unremittingly, wondrously human qualities, that we can't afford to be without.

I've just seen Wrong Mountain, Hirson's new Broadway play. It's bitter, vitriolic, manipulative, shallow, and reprehensibly sensationalistic. Dramaturgically speaking, it's an unsound work; theatrically speaking, it's a negligible one. But it's the only new serious American drama to reach Broadway this season and by virtue of that shameful fact it commands attention. When I think of all the worthy new work being produced in New York's off-off-Broadway houses, each with a budget that's probably less than one percent of what was expended on this fiasco, my heart sinks.

A little bit of background is in order before I proceed with my discussion of the work. Wrong Mountain is exactly the second play written by its author David Hirson. His first play, La Bete, was the most well-publicized flop of the 1990-91 Broadway season. It's not at all clear from his bio in the Playbill what Hirson has been up to these last ten years apart from writing this play. The penultimate sentence of the bio tells us this, though: "In April 1999, he was honored by the 18th annual William Inge Festival as the outstanding new voice in American theatre." Is something askew here?

Anyway, let me tell you about Wrong Mountain. It begins in a doctor's office, where poet Henry Dennett, doubled over with pain, is being diagnosed with a rare parasite by a smart-alecky, sitcom-ish physician. Dennett's insides are host to a giant worm--not lethal but really, really painful--that we actually get a glimpse of, Alien-like, in a few scenes. Next, we meet Dennett's family, which consists of his son, Adam; his daughter Jessica and her husband and baby; and his caustic ex-wife, who is accompanied by her new live-in boyfriend Guy Halperin. The Dennetts, by the way, are Jewish, but we meet them here celebrating Christmas, with a huge decorated tree behind the dinner table--the first of many bizarre inconsistencies peppering Hirson's text.

Dennett is a poet's poet, celebrated by his peers but unknown to the rest of humanity. His lack of tangible success has made him very bitter indeed; he's also an effete, intellectual snob, and his smug superiority and arrogance are shared by his children and, to a lesser degree, his ex-wife. Halperin's presence is particularly galling to Dennett, because Halperin is an enormously successful, critically-lauded, crowd-pleasing popular playwright, whose work is regularly produced on Broadway and who has, apparently tons of money. Dennett spends much of this scene denigrating popular culture in general and Halperin's contributions to it in particular; he also rails, severely and inflammatorily, against the rich middle class morons who frequent the theatre. (That's us: get it?)

We next find Dennett in a remote Arizona theatre company, run by a queenish old actor-manager named Maurice Montesor (pronounced "Morris," the British way). Between scenes, Dennett and Halperin made a wager, to the tune of $100,000, that Dennett could write a successful play and get it produced in six months. Now his play, called "Wrong Mountain," is competing in this obscure festival where the top prize is a full-scale production (which of course translates to a hundred grand for Henry if he wins). Dennett is as nasty and abusive to Maurice, the actors, and his fellow playwright-competitors as he was to his family. But his play is, apparently, brilliant.

Act One ends with a Big Confrontation between Dennett and one of the younger playwrights, a clear-eyed and bright young man named Clifford Pike. This scene concludes with Dennett taking a big drink from the foul, possibly magical waters of the Fountain of Livia (sic.) that sits in the center of town. And sure enough, as Act Two commences, we see that Dennett's personality has undergone a significant transformation: he's pleasant, for one thing; he even participates in one of Maurice's warm-up exercises for the cast, jollily impersonating a wildebeest (of all things) in front of his colleagues. It's not clear whether Livia's water or just the (offstage) fellowship of the company has changed Dennett, but something has.

Or has it? The family arrive for the play's big premiere, where it turns out that Dennett's "Wrong Mountain" is a thinly-disguised roman-à-clef that takes potshots at all of them. (Note that we never actually see a scene from Dennett's play; in fact, take note, please, that an enormous amount of critical action takes place offstage in Wrong Mountain.) The play climaxes with a bitter scene between Dennett and his son, in which it becomes clear that Our Hero is every bit the malevolent and rancorous fellow that he was when we first met him, only now he doesn't have any principles to stand upon because--or so his son charges--he has sold out for fame by authoring this soon-to-be-a-Broadway-hit play. A coda takes us back to the doctor's office, where we learn that Henry's worm has been replaced by a rare form of leprosy.

So--what the heck is this thing, anyway? Henry Dennett's journey makes very little sense and amounts to less: what is Hirson trying to tell us in this play? I suspect that Hirson wants to dispense with pandering to the public (by offering, one supposes, such things as believable or likable characters or a sensible plot) and instead dwell in the realm of ideas and intellectual discourse. But Wrong Mountain offers discourse of only the most shallow and superficial variety. Dennett derides rather mercilessly a young writer who commits the sin of imprecision; but in his arguments with Guy Halperin and Clifford Pike and his own son Adam, Dennett is woefully imprecise: exactly what vast middle class audience of live drama, for example, is he so worked up about? Last I heard, only about 2% of the population of the United States even sets foot in the theatre, and most of them go to see The Lion King.

Again and again in Wrong Mountain, I found Hirson's arguments entirely lacking in substance. Take, for another example, the character of Guy Halperin. He is, we are told, a successful American playwright, regularly seen on Broadway, respected by the critics, and rolling in dough. Exactly which playwright is Hirson thinking of? Not even Neil Simon or Arthur Miller can consistently get their plays produced on Broadway these days, and when they do, neither critics nor audiences can be counted on to champion them.

This is important: Hirson makes deliberate challenges to some undefined cultural establishment in Wrong Mountain, and his press agents have been having a field day informing the public how significant this play is as an intellectual artifact. But there's no meat on this play's bones: Hirson the self-promoter has done his job well, but Hirson the playwright has barely done his job at all.

A few comments about the production apart from the script: it's directed rather leadenly by Richard Jones, who has done far better work in the past; and it's been given a dysfunctional and rather crass design by Giles Cadle. Ron Rifkin, who is stuck with the role of Henry Dennett, can do nothing with it; but Daniel Davis is a crowd-pleaser as Maurice--repeating, mostly, his long-running portrayal of Niles the Butler from The Nanny TV series, but winning us over nonetheless. A company of talented actors is mostly wasted in the play's other, rather sketchy roles, especially the very engaging Anne Dudek, who has almost nothing to do as Maurice's pretty and perceptive daughter.

The story is that no less a personage that Queen Elizabeth herself asked Shakespeare to write The Merry Wives of Windsor; whether or not that's true, what the Bard came up with here is a jolly revel filled with slapstick, sexy talk, and practical jokes galore. Portly, vain Sir John Falstaff, who figured so prominently in the Henry IV plays, is at the center of The Merry Wives--literally, as it turns out, by sending, as the play commences, identical love notes to both Mistress Page and Mistress Ford proposing romantic rendezvous with each. These ladies compare notes, as it were, and resolve to teach the would-be Romeo a lesson he won't soon forget. (They live in Windsor, by the way; hence the title.)

Meanwhile, Master Ford gets wind of Falstaff's proposed dalliance with his wife and flies into a fit of jealousy. Determined to catch his wife flagrante delicto, he hatches his own plot against Sir John. Mistress Quickly, servant to a Doctor Caius, is enlisted by Mistress Ford and Mistress Page to aid them in their complicated scheme; she is also involved in machinations of her own, playing matchmaker for Mistress Page's daughter Anne and  no fewer than three different suitors. And then there's the good doctor himself, who teams up with one-time rival Sir Hugh Evans to play a trick on the Host of the inn where Falstaff is lodged.

Confused? Don't be: it all somehow makes sense as deception upon deception spins out in Shakespeare's skillful hands. Plus none of it actually matters very much anyhow: there's never any doubt that Falstaff will be soundly trounced by the wily wives, that Master and Mistress Ford will reconcile happily, or that Anna will find her way into the arms of the right young man. The Merry Wives of Windsor is all about the frolicsome fun of getting there: a Midsummer Night's Dream for grown-ups and without fairies.

Director James Alexander Bond keeps things moving swiftly and surely, deftly choreographing the endless parade of silliness on Mark Fitzgibbons's simple but very effective set. The ensemble is fine, and several members are much better than that: I was particularly impressed by Carol Schultz as clever Mistress Page and Jay Russell as her fun-loving, good-natured husband; Edward Seamon as a wily old country judge called Shallow and Greg Steinbruner as his tentative young cousin Slender; and Mark Willett and John Prave, each doing double-duty as various simple-minded and/or slippery manservants. 

Dan Daily, in the pivotal role of Falstaff, falls a little short of the mark: he gets the character's foolishness right, but misses the grandeur--he's just not quite big enough to do Falstaff justice. So it's Ray Virta who winds up stealing the show, playing the would-be/could-be cuckold Master Ford with outsized comic flair and passion that are downright, well, Shakespearean. Virta's is a gigantic, hugely watchable presence, and his performance here is splendid.

Though it lasts nearly three hours, The Merry Wives of Windsor flies by pleasantly and quickly. And though what's on most of the characters' minds throughout is sex, the show is entirely appropriate for kids. Indeed, I recommend that you bring the whole family along, especially those who have never before seen one of Shakespeare's plays. They're in for a real treat.  

But it just may be that the neatest surprise of the evening is the extreme excellence of the entire production. In terms of acting, direction and design, Watching and Waiting--the work of a young nonprofit theatre company called Inertia Productions, Inc.--is the finest and most consistently rewarding off-off-Broadway show I have seen in quite some time.

Observe, for example, the actress Danielle Liccardo (who is also the company's artistic director). Liccardo plays, in the first of the evening's plays, that eerie spectral woman in white who, seated now inside the young man's car, plays at being predator and prey as she alternately seduces and scares him with a mythology that she seems to be inventing as she goes along, even as its calculation and deadly precision become ever more apparent. In "Specter," Liccardo is sexy and smart and sharp and spontaneous: every move, every word is entirely unexpected. From the moment we lay eyes on her, we--and her would-be lover-cum-victim (expertly played by Eric Walton)--are hooked.

Liccardo returns in Act Two's opener, the evening's shortest and quirkiest play, "Ballerinas." Dressed now in a tutu and a foolish swan headdress, and affecting an attitude of utter emotional apathy (save a desire to eat whatever's at hand), she's pretty much unrecognizable as the ghostly waif of Act One. But she's every bit as compelling (and quite funny, to boot); and then we see her, doing probably her finest work of the night, in the final play, "Scarecrow," dour and unmoving as a troubled middle-aged mother engaged in a life-or-death struggle with the forces of evil. Wow!--in terms of sheer versatility and raw talent, Liccardo is the real thing.

And she's not alone: all five of her co-stars in Watching and Waiting do work that is equally impressive. Jackie Kamm plays a good-hearted (though not so innocent) housemaid in "Wonders of the Invisible World Revealed," only to turn up later as Liccardo's edgily repressed daughter in "Scarecrow." Missy Thomas is the sexy, sly obsession of a peeping tom in "Lurker" and then a hilariously bossy but sensitive danseuse in "Ballerinas." Calvin Gladen (Inertia's managing director) is deliciously weird as the title character in "Lurker," a nerdy guy turned compulsive voyeur; and he's awesomely seductive as the antagonist in "Scarecrow." Rhett Rossi, so funny in last fall's When Words Fail..., makes the most of the comic moments as well as the more serious ones as a man wrapped from head to toe in bandages in "Wonders of the Invisible World Revealed." And I've already told you that Eric Walton is terrific as the unsuspecting driver in "Specter"--a mass of tension and nerve slowly uncoiling before our eyes as his wildest--and scariest--fantasies play out in rapid succession. 

Because the five plays in Watching and Waiting turn on suspenseful detail, I'm not going to reveal anything more about them here. But trust me: as skillfully staged by director Kevin Kittle, they're exciting, disarming, and intensely watchable. (Kudos, too, to the understated but very effective work of set designer Eric Walton and costume designer Francis Chavez;  and to the evocative and moody lighting of Jim Hultquist.) At just a shade under three hours, the evening is somewhat longer than it ought to be, and the decision to end with the darkest and heaviest piece ("Scarecrow") may not be for the best. But these are my only quibbles about a  production that is otherwise thoroughly engaging and satisfying.

And now, the trouble is, there's only one week left for you to see Watching and Waiting. Go now. 

Bentley, by the way, has had his own say about the play, not only in the act of translating it into English, but also in the long introductory notes that accompany the published edition of that translation, and, on the very day this production of Edward II opened, in a long article in the New York Times. Bentley's take, which you should read for yourself, is that Brecht is writing here about sex--in particular, homosexual sex; and for that reason he sees this play as having seminal importance. I disagree; I need to tell you that this review is, in part, a response to Bentley's intriguing (but possibly misleading) piece as much as it is a report on the play itself.

Let me begin where Brecht did, with the source material for this play, which is Christopher Marlowe's Edward II. That play wreaks a certain amount of havoc on historical fact to create a tragedy about an unpopular and incompetent king who is eventually driven out of power by the nobility; a poet's defense of a man of poetic temperament whose passionate sensibility renders him unfit to rule but makes him heroic nevertheless. Marlowe plays down King Edward's homosexuality (or what we would nowadays call homosexuality; there was no such idea in 14th century England). Brecht, however, is very frank about it: the King's unabashed, open romance with his lover Gaveston is presented quite clearly as the cause of the nobility's ire. Or rather, as a cause: Edward's arbitrariness and his cruelty are also vigorously depicted by Brecht, and their ill effects on the country are amply demonstrated.

Which takes me right to the heart of it: while Brecht's Edward II is marginally revolutionary (or was in 1924) in its unflinching presentation of love between two men, it is by no means a gay play. Brecht uses the King's sexual proclivities to explain his alienation, which he then uses to turn him into a kind of existential hero, someone we can admire--in spite of his flaws--for standing alone against society and in defense of his own passions.

But even this is not the main subject of the play. I have already told you this is not a gay play; so what is it then? Well--and if you know Brecht, this shouldn't surprise you at all--it turns out to be an overtly political one, railing in its own way against the insidious greed and vacuity and hypocrisy of the "haves" as clearly as Threepenny Opera or Good Woman of Setzuan do. It's also incidentally an anti-war piece, in its quiet way as effective as Mother Courage. That's why it's so right to call this Brechtian: even before he had fully found his voice, Brecht has clearly, here, found his themes. And while he creates a compellingly heroic protagonist out of the defeated tyrant Edward, the real "hero" of the piece is the masses, represented by a Ballad Peddler who pops in out of scenes in whatever guise is necessary, a stand-in for the impoverished and oppressed folk who bear the brunt of the actions of Edward, his lover Gaveston, and his enemy Mortimer.

Lordi's production is at its best when it stays true to Brecht's purpose. Street scenes depicting ordinary Englishmen incensed by the rash actions of their rulers assault us vividly--a feat that is all the more impressive when we realize that what feels like a teeming mob is, in fact, only the riveting Ashley Smith as the Ballad Peddler, backed up by a couple of other players. And no moment captures the barbaric futility of warfare more shrewdly than the one portraying Gaveston's capture by Edward's enemies in a lonely forest: Jason Crowl, who has thus far given us an even-handed portrayal of the King's callow, naive lover, now shows us the simple, noble human spirit inside.

Indeed, it is the oh-so-human nature of figures wrought large by circumstance that propels this play to its ugly conclusion; I was reminded, over and over again, of Joanne Akalaitis's  Iphigenia Cycle from last season, which touched on the same theme with similar forcefulness.

The Cocteau's repertory company is in fine form here. In addition to the aforementioned Crowl, there are worthy performances from Harris Berlinsky as stubborn King Edward, Craig Smith as his cagey rival Mortimer, Elise Stone as spurned Queen Anne, and Jennifer Lee Dudek as unfortunate young Prince Edward (later Edward III). Brecht implies (and history confirms) the relative success and glory that Edward would achieve in his reign; how greatness can come from such misbegotten beginnings is the real riddle of this play (and humanity).

Cocteau regulars Robert Klingelhoefer (set design) and Ellen Mandel (musical direction) provide outstanding support to Lordi's vision, as does newcomer Trui Malten, whose lighting design is striking and interesting. I wouldn't go so far as to say that Brecht's Edward II is a lost masterpiece, but as put forth here at the Bouwerie Lane there is plenty to engage theatregoers of all stripes.

The story begins in Fullerton, England during the Regency period of the late 18th century, where Catherine Moreland, a smart but dreamy young woman, is sent off on a journey to the town of Bath in the company of her well-to-do neighbors Mr. and Mrs. Allen. At Bath, Catherine quickly makes the acquaintance of a flighty, fashionable young lady named Isabella Thorpe, and the two become fast friends. Soon, Isabella's brother John turns up, accompanied by Catherine's own brother James, friends themselves, it seems, at Oxford. Isabella and James are becoming attached to one another, and for his part John would like to press his own case with Catherine.

But there are three obstacles. First, and most practically, is the fact that Catherine really can't bear John: he's an utter snob, preoccupied with money, society, and horses; also a bit of a cad, given to the occasional exaggeration and untruth; honestly insufferable, top to bottom. Second, there's Henry Tilney, the graceful but unconventional (and not a little mysterious) young man who caught Catherine's eye at her very first ball here in Bath. Though Henry's interest in Catherine is not entirely clear, he has definitely captured her heart.

Third, and perhaps most significant, is The Mysteries of Udolpho. This breathless gothic romance (a real novel, written in 1794 by Ann Radcliffe) has won Catherine over even more resoundingly than young Mr. Tilney. We watch as she imagines herself as its gaudily romantic heroine Emily, longing for the return of her banished lover Valancourt, fighting off the unwelcome advances of Count Morano, and battling her villainous uncle Signor Montoni within the labyrinthine walls of his frightful and imposing Castle Udolpho.

Catherine's thirst for adventure is satisfied by Radcliffe's extravagant book; playwright Lynn Marie Macy deftly weaves incidents from the novel, as replayed in Catherine's vigorous imagination, with the comparatively placid, but no less eventful, incidents of Catherine's real life. The result is a delicious Wizard of Oz-like journey through Catherine's two worlds, culminating in her unexpected visitation to the Tilneys' estate, Northanger Abbey. Here, Catherine's romantic longings collide with the stark and sometimes ugly realities of Regency England. Suddenly and surprisingly, Catherine's fairy-story of a life twists and veers off-course. And just as Catherine begins to lose faith in the overwrought nonsense of The Mysteries of Udolpho, we find ourselves inextricably caught up in the mysteries of Northanger Abbey. Brava!: Austen, via Macy, triumphs as storyteller par excellence.

And Macy, as adapter, triumphs too, by beguiling us not only with this splendid and compelling tale, but also with a remarkably felicitous depiction of the ambience of Austen's world. More than a little social commentary has been slipped in here; what's interesting is how much the attitudes of two hundred years ago are still with us today.

Director David Scott has staged Macy's play with style and grace. Limited but never hampered by the tiny stage of the Flatiron Playhouse, Macy and his designers have conjured up a simple and spare playing space for Catherine's flights of fancy, shrewdly allowing the audience to imagine for themselves the lavish ballrooms, the blooming English countrysides, and the austere drafty chambers of Northanger Abbey. Cathy Maguire's period costumes, Lucie Chin's energetic sword fights, and some delectable authentic-looking dances bring us further into Catherine's world. Doug Filomena's lighting, as usual, is appropriate and helpful.

As for the actors in this Northanger Abbey, I can't praise them enough: this is an exquisite ensemble. Laura Standley, in the marathon role of Catherine and her alter-ego Emily, is on stage for virtually the entire length of the piece and is captivating every minute of that time; her comic instincts, in particular, are sound (watch her faint: she's terrific). Kevin Connell is enormously appealing as Henry Tilney, with just the right combination of conventional leading-man panache and unconventional puppyish playfulness. Andrew Oswald, as Tilney's rival John Thorpe, is magnificent: his elaborate business with some snuff, for example, perfectly encapsulates the thoroughly despicable, yet somehow sympathetic, rogue that Oswald has created here. And Annalisa Hill, as Thorpe's sister Isabella, and Ellen Turkelson, as their mother, match Oswald point for point; these three actors feel uncannily like a real family.

Fine work is delivered, too, by Lynn McNutt as Mrs. Allen, Sterling Coyne as Mr. Allen and Mr. Moreland, David Winton as Tilney's imposing father, and Amy Stoller as Tilney's secretive sister Eleanor. The playwright herself is delightful as a succession of maids, in the service of both Catherine and Emily; Dan O'Driscoll and Greaton Sellers do well in numerous unidentified roles. And finally let me mention the astonishingly versatile Mark Rimer, who is entirely convincing as Catherine's bland, well-meaning brother James and then turns up, spectacularly, in the Udolpho scenes as someone called Ludovico who helps Emily defeat her arch-enemy Signor Montoni.

Northanger Abbey's got it all: great acting, a stylish production, action, adventure, wit, and enough plot for half-a-dozen plays. It's only here until February 20 (unless some smart producer snaps it up and moves it to the off-Broadway or Broadway venue where it surely belongs). I urge you not to miss it.

The heroine of Fuddy Meers is a woman named Claire, whom we first meet awakening in a comfortably oversized bed, greeting a new day. For Claire, such a greeting has special meaning, however: for Claire has a rare kind of amnesia, which causes her to forget everything she knows about her life while she sleeps at night. Every day is, literally, a new beginning.

She is greeted by a plain, accommodating fellow named Richard who tells her he's her husband and starts to get her oriented to her surroundings; a fresh-mouthed teenager wanders in who turns out to be Claire's dyslexic son Kenny. Things are going smoothly, so Richard heads off to the shower. And then things go swiftly, strangely awry: another man appears, from under Claire's bed. Half-blind, with a disfigured ear, a lisp, and a limp, he identifies himself as Claire's brother Zack, and then breathlessly informs her that he has come to rescue her: that Richard is planning to kill her: that he will save her by driving her to her mother's house in the country. Not sure whom to believe, but ripe for adventure, Claire agrees to go with him. And so the journey begins.

Of course, this strange man is not Claire's brother. He does, however, bring her to her mother's house; eventually, Richard and Kenny turn up there as well (with a policewoman whom they have taken hostage), as does an escaped convict named Millet who travels with a foul-mouthed puppet named Binky. Mayhem of all sorts ensues: the assemblage is variously shot at, stabbed, and assaulted. Claire, meanwhile, must try and make sense of the information she is getting from these assorted characters and also from her subconscious, awakened by this trip back to the place where she grew up.

On one level, Fuddy Meers is a mystery story, with the audience and Claire both trying to make sense of the bizarre events of this action-packed day. This isn't easy even in the best of circumstances; for Claire, it's nearly impossible. This is a world where--literally--no one can understand anyone else: Gertie, Claire's mother, is a stroke victim, and speaks what Claire calls "stroke talk," a discombulated mangling of normal English that we can only fitfully make out; the limping man has a lisp and is given to disturbing bouts of violence; Millet is saddled loonily to his puppet; Kenny is alienated and often stoned; and Richard, whom we have seen capture a cop, is obviously not the nice guy he at first seemed to be. "Fuddy meers" is the way that Gertie pronounces "funhouse mirrors," recalled to Claire in a reminiscence about a day years ago when the family went to an amusement park. As the facts about the people in Claire's life come into focus, and the awful details of Claire's past emerge--dimly at first, and then with swift, painful sharpness--the absolute necessity of the comforting distortions of "fuddy meers" becomes entirely clear.

I won't tell you what Claire discovers: you'll have to see Fuddy Meers for yourself to learn its secrets. Suffice to say that playwright David Lindsay-Abaire paints a doleful, bleak portrait of humanity here, in particular of the cruelty and evil of which, I think, he believes all of us are capable. Only by escaping as Claire does, blotting out her past with every sunset, can living in such a world be endured.

I saw Fuddy Meers when it premiered at Manhattan Theatre Club last fall and again at its new home in the Minetta Lane Theatre; it's better now. Santo Loquasto's vaguely menacing set, framed by strands of flashing colored lights, looks great on the Minetta Lane proscenium; Brian MacDevitt's melancholy lighting works wonderfully as well.  The two cast changes are for the better: Clea Lewis is funny and tough as the surprised cop taken hostage by Claire's zealous husband, and John Christopher Jones is sweet and earnest as the disturbed naïf Millet. (Mark McKinney, who originated that role, was actually far too funny in it, damaging the balance of the play rather consequentially.) The rest of the actors have grown in their roles: Keith Nobbs is refreshingly smart and unironic as Kenny; Patrick Breen finds the right combination of pathos and swagger for the limping man; and Robert Stanton is disarmingly appealing, and scarily off-balance, as Richard. Marylouise Burke is touching and compelling as Gertie, at once helpless due to her inability to speak, yet firmly in command thanks to her overriding and unerring maternal instincts.

J. Smith-Cameron, who constantly amazes with her versatility, craft, and soul, is nothing short of magnificent as Claire: this is one of the finest performances of the season, one whose searing intelligence and heartbreaking honesty lingers long after the curtain falls. Look into her eyes (there's a photo at the top of this page): all of the confused, mixed emotions of Claire's bewildering roller coaster of a day are visible in that face.

Fuddy Meers is as deceptively innocent, and as achingly sad, as J. Smith-Cameron's visage in that photo. It's a play whose beauty and power deepens with repeated viewings and upon reflection: it may be the finest new American play of the season.

Confidentially, Cole is, in fact, two mini-musicals, played out back-to-back on the tiny Triad stage by Hayden and four musicians. The first takes place in the 1930s-40s, and traces the rise and fall of Cliff, a gay nightclub entertainer who moonlights as a gigolo (or is it the other way around?). We watch Cliff as he works the crowd in a garish, bluesy dive; we witness his brief and checkered career in the army; we see him land, sadly, among the detritus of post-war Hollywood. Mostly we see him disappointed time and again in love, always to the haunting refrain of a Cole Porter tune. By turns wistful and witty, evocative and provocative, Cliff's songs conjure up the melancholy, bittersweet, lonely existence of a man who knows, in Porter's famous lyric, "Old love, new love/Any love but true love."

The second piece takes place in Manhattan, right now: it tells the story of Cliff's nephew Chase, a very contemporary and endearingly naive gay yuppie-in-the-making. Chase starts out coolly rejecting the Pottery Barn-Brookstone lifestyle, but when Mr. Right turns up, he begins to experience a domesticity that his uncle could only have fantasized about.

It's not important whether Chase ultimately finds the happiness that eluded his uncle: Confidentially, Cole's strength comes from demonstrating--powerfully and honestly--the universality and timelessness of the situations of both men. Songs like "Love for Sale" and "After You" and "It's All Right with Me" and "Wake Up and Dream" reveal, with intelligence and wit, passions and feelings that are always real and always true. Hayden reminds us of this by simply letting us hear them again, albeit in an unusual context. And then he lets the music and the words weave their magic.

For me, the emotional highlight of the evening is Hayden's pure, beautiful reading of "Love of My Love," from The Pirate. Other standouts among the 23 songs and medleys that comprise the evening's score include "Let's Be Buddies," "Too Darn Hot," and "He's a Right Guy." And it's a joy to discover the risqué Porter wit in unfamiliar lyrics like "I'm a Gigolo," "I Like Pretty Things," "In Chelsea Somewhere," "Come to the Supermarket in Old Peking" (from Aladdin of all places), and--my personal favorite--"I Want to Be Raided by You," a plea to a cop that features this refrain:

Dear bobby
Come here, bobby,
And change my point of view.
People say that I'm
A daughter of crime
And I want to be raided by you.

Hayden's a fine singer, with a sexy, magnetic stage presence. The four-man band that accompanies him is equally accomplished, especially Rick Jensen on the piano (and occasionally helping out with the vocals). Jensen collaborated with Hayden on the arrangements, which are splendid: these Porter songs sound marvelous (the sultry, bluesy "Too Darn Hot," for example, is better and more authentic than anything in the current revival of Kiss Me, Kate).

Confidentially, Cole is here through March and then heads out for a national tour; the CD has just been released and is the first original cast album I've coveted in quite some time. It's definitely worth a look and listen.

The heroes of The Alchemist (if you can call them that) are a trio of con artists: Subtle, the trickster/conjurer who pretends to have whatever supernatural powers his clients wish; Face, the shill/procurer who finds the marks and lures them in; and Dol Common, a savvy but strung-out prostitute who oftentimes serves as bait. These three amoral lowlives have set up shop in the temporarily vacant lodgings of Face's employer (he works as butler/housekeeper to an absent gentleman called Lovewit). When the play begins, we find Face and Subtle quarrelling rather nastily about plans and spoils; they manage to cooperate when it serves them (as it frequently does), but there's no doubt that self-interest rules the roost here.

Face and Subtle make their living by appealing to the desires of their clientele. For Dapper, a young law clerk, they promise the blessing of a Fairy Queen who will bring him success at gambling; for Drugger, a tobacconist, they offer Feng-Sui advice on the most favorable way to set up his shop and a failsafe union with the woman he loves. Their biggest customer at the moment is Sir Epicure Mammon, a greedy knight who is convinced that Subtle is an alchemist; i.e., that he can turn iron and lead into pure gold through some exotic conglomeration of faith, spells. and science. Mammon is as piggishly, loutishly excessive as it is possible to be:

My meat shall all come in, in Indian shells,
Dishes of agate, set in gold, and studded
With emeralds, sapphires, hyacinths, and rubies.
The tongues of carps, dormice, and camels' heels,
Boil'd i' the spirit of Sol, and dissolv'd pearl,
(Apicius' diet, 'gainst the epilepsy)
And I will eat these broths, with spoons of amber,
Headed with diamant, and carbuncle.

Appropriately, Face and Subtle have designed for Mammon an elaborate, detailed scam worthy of such colossal gluttony. But the duo are both ruthless and indiscriminate in devising creative bilkery against all they come upon: a quarrelsome gamester disguised as a Spanish Count; an angry adolescent and his naive sister, who happens to be a rich widow;  a pair of clergymen; even--especially--each other.

Edelstein brings all of this wonderfully up-to-date by casting Jonson's menagerie of willing victims as thoroughly recognizable, contemporary types: stereotypes, even. So the angry young man is a strutting African-American would-be gangsta, the fortune-hunting Dapper is a cleancut, low-level Wall Street type, and the avaricious Mammon is a soft, overfed middle-management bureaucrat. With resourceful additions of pop culture artifacts--but (as far as I can tell) without changing a word of Jonson's astonishing, over-the-top versifying--Edelstein makes this piece accessible and wholly modern. More: he revels in Jonson's bawdy, profane Anglo-Saxon wit, and astounds us with its blissful and unfettered frankness. And, abetted by a well-chosen ensemble of very physical actors, he practically assaults us with the unbridled glee these conniving hypocrites take in getting the best of one another.

No one in Edelstein's company is more valuable than Jeremy Shamos, who embodies the enterprising Face with unbounded vigor. Funnier, though less emblematic, is the work of Dan Castellaneta as Subtle, assuming a variety of preposterous robes and accents and personas as appropriate to the requirements of each of his oh-so-willing victims (see photo at right). Johann Carlo matches both of these gentlemen point for point as crafty Dol Common: her seduction of hapless Sir Epicure Mammon is nothing short of triumphant. Lee Sellars is suitably distasteful as Mammon; Reuben Jackson, hilarious as the privileged homeboy Kastril; and Hillel Meltzer is exaggeratedly (and quite palpably) pliable as the tobacconist Drugger. Steven Rattazzi goes perhaps too far over-the-top as the clergyman Ananais, but he's very funny.

As usual, Edelstein has engaged kindred souls to design the right sort of world for his production. Adrianne Lobel's set offers bounteous jokey surprises, the best of which comes in the aforementioned seduction scene and involves a gaudy tiffany lamp with something up its metaphorical sleeve. Michael Krass's costumes work well, as do Stephen Strawbridge's lighting and Robert Kaplowitz's antic sound design. All in all, a superb realization of Jonson's--and Edelstein's--dark, cynical vision of the human character.

All, that is, except the final few minutes: Shamos's Face steps out of character and speaks ingratiatingly and slyly to the audience, and what he does afterward might subvert everything that Edelstein and Jonson have accomplished up till now. Is it pandering, or is it meta-theatrics? I'm not sure, and it made me uneasy. But the rest of this Alchemist is precisely the tacky monument to greed and lust that it should be. 

I don't mean, by the way, to suggest that this a less worthy or interesting endeavor than Sondheim & Lapine's: at its best, Nighthawks evokes the melancholic urban landscape with palpable fidelity. The most successful of the seven short scenes that comprise the play is "Nighthawks," which imagines just two of the characters in the famous painting (the man in the fedora and the woman in the bright dress seated next to him; see the picture at the top of this page). Rosen's idea is radically different from what I would come up with: he's a night auditor for a big company and she's an usherette at a local movie house; they have been romancing one another from afar through their respective windows. When they finally meet, the reality of their actual lives collides--hard--with the dreamy notions they had cooked up about each other. It's a bittersweet little slice of city life; different from the brittle loneliness that Hopper gives us but just as honest and just as authentic.

The other sketches, inspired by the paintings "Summertime," "Sunlight in a Cafeteria," and "Conference at Night," relate to their source material in pretty much the same way. "Sunlight in a Cafeteria," the funniest and most cheerful of the pieces, tells of an eager, unemployed actress who meets up with a man who she thinks might be a Broadway producer. "Conference at Night" is a vaguely surreal encounter among three officemates who have come together to plan a possibly sinister rendezvous with their boss. And "Summertime," which is actually composed of three very brief scenes, is a melancholy account of a lady of the evening fallen upon hard times: shades of Williams and Inge. Indeed, the searing loneliness of Inge's plays, and the brazen poetics of Williams's, inform Nighthawks as mightily as Hopper's desolate cityscapes do.

Not everything in Nighthawks works: Rosen takes many chances here, and they don't all pan out. "Conference at Night," in particular, feels out-of-place: it's too whimsical and self-referentially playful to sit comfortably with the dark moodiness of the other pieces. And it turns out that three visits with Lilah (the lady in "Summertime") are two too many: the opening scene, in which we first meet her, is excellent, but the subsequent ones really have nothing new to tell us.

Nighthawks has been produced by Willow Cabin Theater Company, and this production is as predictably fine as their previous work. The play has been tautly directed by Miriam Weiner, and is well-acted by a company of eight, most of whom are Willow Cabin regulars. The best work comes from Joel Van Liew, who is achingly sad as Ned, the hero of "Nighthawks": he has a moment when he imagines his ladyfriend transformed into the bright star he had hoped she was that is inexorably beautiful. Also outstanding is Cynthia Besteman, who has a two- or three-minute comic routine as the unemployed actress in "Sunlight in a Cafeteria" that is a veritable tour de force. Angela Nevard's Lilah is well-considered, also, though as I said before, she has fewer opportunities in her latter appearances.

I liked Nighthawks, and I admire and respect playwright Lynn Rosen for having the insight and courage to create it. And I am grateful to the folks at Willow Cabin for having the guts to attempt such a difficult piece, and for having a sufficiently high regard for audiences to challenge us with it. This is neither the most satisfying nor the best-crafted work of theatre this season, but it is indisputably among the most original and most intriguing. It's absolutely worth a visit.

So begins--audaciously, arrestingly--Andrew Lippa's The Wild Party, a show so good that you never want it to stop. Make no mistake: this is the most thrilling new American musical since Rent: intoxicating, melodic, dazzlingly choreographed, passionately performed, and-- yes--occasionally flawed. It marks the emergence at the front ranks of contemporary American theatre of at least three awesome theatrical talents to be reckoned with--choreographer Mark Dendy, diva Idina Menzel, and composer-lyricist-librettist Lippa--and perhaps several more (Julia Murney, Brian d'Arcy James, Gabriel Barre). It's riveting, emotional, raw, adventurous theatre that demands to be seen. If the gods of the theatre are in a just mood, it will be with us for a long, long time.

So, yes, Queenie was indeed a blonde: a dangerous, sultry blonde, portrayed here by leggy beauty Julia Murney. We meet her in an opening number that tells us who she is and where we are as much by its expository lyrics as by its nightmarishly lurid look and feel. She's surrounded by the ensemble, faces pallid and lined, clad in black lingerie, bodies and voices contorted in grim cacophony. We think, for a moment, that we've seen this before--in Cabaret, in Chicago. But The Wild Party is not another wallow in '20s decadence and self-indulgence. Very quickly it's clear we've sunk even further, to the very depths of degraded desperation. And yet somehow it's also clear that, for Queenie and this band of oh-so-lost revelers surrounding her, things are only going to get worse.

Quickly, too, it's clear that the musical theatre paradigm in which Lippa and his collaborators are operating is not that of Kander, Ebb, and Fosse but the vastly more textured one of Sondheim and Michael Bennett: the show The Wild Party is most like, in its exploration of rootless, desperate souls and its manic conflagration of complex, wordy duos, trios, and quartets interspersed with shameless pastiche, is Follies.

Okay, back to the opening: who is she, and where are we? She is a chorus girl, one who has been around the block more than a few times; one who, after a long and varied succession of men, has settled down in volatile connubial bliss with a vaudeville clown named Burrs. It's 1929, and we're in Queenie and Burrs's apartment, a dim and unkempt studio whose main accoutrements appear to be a rusty bathtub, an aging melancholy piano, and a lush, gaudy bed. Life isn't great: Queenie is bored; Burrs is exasperated. The solution: a wild party.

And so that desolate chorus--now in the guise of Queenie and Burrs's friends, and nattily attired in très 20s chic--circle and then land in the suddenly animated apartment; and they will spend the next two hours in madding, delirious pursuit of ineluctable pleasure; and they will find relief only in catatonic sex- and drug-induced sleep; and it will only be temporary. (Trust me: I'm not giving anything away here: all of this evident as soon as we lay eyes on these people.) We'll get to know, even sort of like, some of them: Madelaine True, for example, who is more or less a professional Lesbian, will charm us with her bawdy (but never vulgar) ditty "An Old-Fashioned Love Story," rife with sexy double entendres. Bulky pugilist Eddie and his incongruously petite girlfriend Mae will captivate us, momentarily, with their sprightly love duet "Two of a Kind." And rubber-legged Jackie, a bisexual chorus boy who has mysteriously lost his tongue, will dazzle us with his electrifying footwork.

We'll even get entirely caught up in the bacchanalian revel (reverie?): we'll become intoxicated by the sheer electric energy of the manic "Juggernaut," one of those new dance crazes that seemed to erupt every other day during the Jazz Age; we'll  find ourselves enthralled as the gang lets loose to the strains of "A Wild, Wild Party," a foolish but catchy new tune that two of the guests, the slippery, androgynous d'Armano Brothers, have hatched.  (These two musical numbers, staged with spectacular inventiveness, exuberance, and style by Mark Dendy, are the high points of this remarkable show: this is the most exhilarating and intelligent musical theatre choreography since Tommy Tune's Grand Hotel.)

And what of Queenie and Burrs? Well, they soon find themselves tangled in a messy and unexpected web. Queenie's friend Kate, a one-time prostitute and quintessential party girl, has brought a mysterious stranger to the party, a handsome, sexy guy named Black. The chemistry between Black and Queenie registers strongly and immediately; Kate's longtime desire for Burrs flashes to the surface in short order as well. It's certain that someone--maybe more than just one someone--is going to get hurt really badly. I won't tell you who, but I will confirm your suspicion that things will only work out tragically. Like I said, there's no way up or out for anyone at this party, least of all doomed Queenie and Burrs.

And yet we leave The Wild Party unaccountably thrilled: Lippa has taken us on this most harrowing of journeys but distances us enough from it so that we emerge from it sated but unscathed.: we could be the people in The Wild Party, but thank God we're not. This is not hypocrisy, it's showmanship; without it, this would be the most relentlessly depressing show imaginable. But it's not: the sinful pleasures of this Wild Party are all vicarious and non-threatening.

And, amazingly, blessedly, never vulgar, although the orgy scene in Act Two is sexier and more provocative than anything I can remember seeing before on a New York stage. Credit choreographer Mark Dendy, whose vocabulary of movement is breathtakingly fresh and original; and director Gabriel Barre, who almost completely succeeds in leveling the melodramatic impulses of the show's libretto and always succeeds in keeping things moving inexorably, fascinatingly, toward an inevitable conclusion. The show's designers, David Gallo (sets), Martin Pakledinaz (costumes), Kenneth Posner (lighting), and Brian Ronan (sound) are all at the top of their form here, too, especially Gallo, whose astonishing versatile set turns out to be a strikingly apt metaphor for the reckless proceedings.

The cast is superb. Julia Murney (Queenie), Brian d'Arcy James (Burrs), and Taye Diggs (Black) sing and act their roles stirringly and convincingly; if they're overshadowed by the extraordinary Idina Menzel, it's not their fault but rather hers. Seventy years ago, a very young, very brassy Ethel Merman strode onto the stage of the Alvin Theatre and bellowed "Delilah was a floozy" in Girl Crazy and instantly became a star; Menzel bursts through Queenie's apartment door and blasts out the words "I was born in a ditch": presto! history repeats itself. Menzel is a phenomenon, and a force of nature: you can't take your eyes off her. Her rendition of the Act Two opener "The Life of the Party" tells you everything you need to know about her character, Kate, and also about the milieu she exists in: in a way, everything else that follows is anticlimactic because this number is so strong. (Interesting sidelight: Merman's character was named Kate, too.)

Equally magnetic is Lawrence Keigwin, who plays the mute Jackie and dances the role with unparalleled grace and power. Alix Korey (as Madelaine True), Raymond Jaramillo McLeod (as Eddie), Charles Dillon and Kevin Cahoon (as the d'Armano Brothers), and especially Jennifer Cody (as Mae) all make the most of their roles, as well.

There's another Wild Party on its way to Broadway; it will be interesting to see how it compares to this one. The story today, though, is that this Wild Party is that rarest of creatures: a new American musical of genuine quality: great songs, great dancing, great cast, great show. Trust me, no matter what else you might see or hear about it, you don't want to miss this. It's the real thing.

On some level, the story Splendora attempts to tell is probably untellable: its fairy tale union of the repressed Brother Leggett and Timothy John/Jessica is, prima facie, a bit hard to swallow. But you have to respect the show's creators for even attempting to put this extraordinary show on, confronting, as it does--thoughtfully and purposefully--genuine hot button issues of sexuality, tolerance, individualism, self-actualization, and religious dogma with authentic wit and intelligence.

What's more, the stuff that works well in Splendora is glorious: they're the reason why I am so enamored of this musical, flaws and all. Objectively the show doesn't work-- it falls apart during its second act and never recovers; but Splendora is, nevertheless, one of the most bewitching, articulate, and original new American musicals of the past decade.

Splendora's creators, Peter Webb (book), Stephen Hoffman (music), and Mark Campbell (lyrics), put both Jessica and Timothy John on stage, allowing the inner and outer selves of this oddly conflicted loner to express their thoughts and feelings. It's a very effective device (and the moment when you come to understand how it works is a nifty coup de theatre). Fine, too are Splendora's warm and humorous portraits of small town women, reminiscent of the "Pick-a-little, Talk a-little" ladies from The Music Man. 

Hoffman and Campbell's score is uneven but, at times, astonishingly good. There is, for example, a song called "Small and Simple Ways," which is sung by Leggett when we first meet him, midway through Act One. It serves its purpose well, introducing us to this man whose honest desire to stay true to his calling conflicts with some undefined yearning that sears his spirit. But it does much more: with its gorgeous soaring melody and its clear, conversational lyric, it defines Leggett as no dialogue or prose could: to hear him sing this song of wistful longing--especially in Tod Mason's impeccable rendition-- is to comprehend the fullness of Leggett's innate goodness. I think "Small and Simple Ways" ranks among the finest theatre songs ever written.

And there are other moments to savor in Splendora's score. The chorus of townswomen have a terrific number called "Pretty Boy" in which they sing about Timothy John's youth in Splendora: it's staged and performed beautifully here, evoking precisely the environment that drove this young man out of town and toward the life of illusion and deception that he found himself drawn to. A very funny (and, wisely, brief) specialty called "A Man Named Dewey" pokes fun at small-town innocence even while providing what is surely the only musical tribute to library science in the annals of American theatre. And a rousing soliloquy called "What Is, Ain't," in which town busybody/would-be sheriff Sue Ella Lightfoot works through the puzzle of Jessica/Timothy John's identity, becomes a  bona fide show-stopper in the oh-so-capable hands of Kristine Zbornik, whose voice and earthy good humor recall Ethel Merman's.

The four townswomen who serve as Splendora's chorus are expertly played by Shannon Carson, Culver Casson, Susan Roberts, and Carol Tammen. Mark Cortale is a sympathetic Timothy John, and Teri Hansen is a lovely, radiant Jessica. Tod Mason is perfect as the full-hearted young preacher. Zbornik steals the show, though, in a brassily appealing turn as Sue Ella that should bring agents and producers to her doorstep in droves.

It's disappointing that Splendora doesn't finally turn out to be the wonderful musical it feels like it might be. I suspect that its problems are fundamental and unsolvable: the theatrical concept at its heart (a living, breathing Jessica portrayed by a beautiful woman) undercuts the theme in ways that are difficult to work around. But, that said, there is much magic in Splendora. This is a show that, if it fails to completely satisfy its audience, nevertheless touches the heart and mind with its originality and honesty.

The family at the center of Escape from Happiness--the author doesn't tell us their last name--are deeply, deeply troubled people; and they know they are; and yet somehow they find within themselves an off-kilter resourcefulness that keeps them going. They're like the anti-Cleavers, offering up a resolute refutation of what we think we know about "family values": Tom, the father, is a mean-tempered ex-cop who has returned home ten years after trying to burn the house down (with his family still in it); Nora, the mother, is a prattling nut; Elizabeth, the eldest daughter, is a lesbian (or possibly bisexual) attorney with a scary violent streak; Mary Ann, the middle daughter, is a dithery, self-absorbed basket case; Gail, the youngest daughter, is a street-smart, tough- and single-minded young mother; and Junior, Gail's husband, is accommodating but a long way from being the brightest bulb on the tree. And yet these six, none of whom seems particularly well-equipped to survive in what we think of as civilized society, manage to prevail over a dangerous cadre of Organized Criminals and possibly corrupt cops, proving, perhaps, that these days our institutions are at least as dysfunctional as our families.

Which is not to say that Walker's play--particularly Armesto's take on it--is overtly political. This is domestic satire: even while waiting for Escape from Happiness to get underway, the recorded renditions of old TV sitcom theme songs on the P.A. system make that abundantly clear. Armesto has set the play in the family's kitchen, in a TV version of Brooklyn or Queens: we could be in the Bunker house, for example (except that Edith was a whole lot neater than Nora). Here, the play's improbable but somehow plausible plot spins out--beginning with Nora and Gail's discovery of Junior's badly beaten body on the kitchen floor, continuing through questioning and investigation by the police and the sudden appearance of a father-son team of small-time hoods, and culminating in Elizabeth's capture and torture of a hostage, eventually leading to her unraveling the complicated interwoven schemes that have beset her unwitting family. Like a Donald Westlake mystery with John Waters's sensibility, Escape from Happiness chronicles the misfortunes of a family born to--and constantly in search of--trouble: people so caught up in the crisis of living from day to day that real catastrophe can't really touch them.

Armesto and his cast wisely play most of the play's complicated exposition for laughs; interestingly, they play the climax and denouement more realistically, with mixed results: the second act of this Escape from Happiness is not as broadly comic as it could be, but it's not as tragic either, leaving its characters pretty much where they were at the beginning of the play, safer perhaps, but neither sadder nor wiser.

This is the best-acted production I've yet seen at T. Schreiber Studio, with all of the actors turning in good performances. The standouts are Annie Murray, who gives us a Nora of surprising strength and resourcefulness; Caroline Luft, as a Mary Ann whose pre-occupied self-involvement is truly astronomical; and Jerry Rago, as a stalwart but tough cop who may be the only sane character in the play. Joseph Furnari and Walter Hyman turn in broadly comic, ornately physical performances as the father-son criminals, bearing the brunt of most of the play's cartoonish but frequent violence. Gameela Wright goes way over the top as the play's other cop, but even though it's highly pitched, her portrayal seems to work. As usual, the Schreiber's technical team has done a fine job transforming the small Gloria Maddox Theatre playing space into a very authentic, very effective environment.

So even if the rest of New York theatre has thus far failed to bite, we've been treated to two very different, very credible stagings of Escape from Happiness this season. Unfortunately, you've only got one more week to see this one; if you're in the market for a dastardly perverse piece of work, you'll certainly want to see this dysfunctional family comedy, deftly mounted and performed by Armesto and his collaborators.

(Please note, by the way, that Kallisti consists of two programs of one-act plays. I caught Program B, described in detail below; but there's no reason to doubt that Program A will be equally worthwhile.)

The evening begins with Horsburgh's Fate. It lasts less than fifteen minutes, but this playful mystery-romance has more theatrical impact than half-a-dozen full-length thrillers and more honest-to-goodness laughs than a dozen full-length comedies. It begins with a woman, a man, and a letter. She is waiting on a street corner, holding the letter; he walks by, with a roll of toilet paper in his hand that he has just bought from the store. She importunes: is this letter yours? He denies it, but he's intrigued, especially after she shows it to him: it is, apparently, a stunning missive, one that instantly captivates the man's lonely poetic soul--much as it has obviously captivated hers. Soon they find themselves longing to be the writer and/or intended recipient of this golden document; and it's not long before they are in the throes of a chaotic romance. 

Fate is the sharpest writing I've come across in a long time; Horsburgh has done a masterful job sketching characters and defining situation with deft precision and economy. Both man and woman are presented as dreamy romantics whose egos are matched only by their imaginations: they are clearly made for each other, which inevitability makes this little love story all the more intoxicating. Under Jan E. Murphy's letter-perfect direction (pun intended; sorry!), Mick Hilgers and Erin Walls embody these two star-crossed loonies flawlessly. We never do find out who actually wrote the Fate-ful letter, of course: we'd feel cheated if we did. And anyway, Horsburgh says in her program bio that she's still trying to find out herself.

Elizabeth Rheinfrank's Bird of Prey follows. Also about fifteen minutes long, it tells a tantalizing Twilight Zone tale of a young woman who long ago committed a thoughtless deed and a mysterious stranger who turns up years later who seems to know too much about it. Bird of Prey turns on a single telling clue, so you'll have to see it for yourself to find out more about it. Suffice to say that Rheinbeck gets the atmosphere exactly right and the eye-opening surprise nearly so: this is a tricky genre, and this taut, intriguing little playlet works pretty well. Keith Thomson and Maureen Hennigan comprise the cast, under Margaret Cino's direction.

Rounding out the evening is the longest piece, Julia Barclay's Word to Your Mama. She describes it in the program notes as "channel surfing through a turn of the Millennium mind" and I'm not sure I can do any better than that. Word to Your Mama is a stream-of-consciousness journey through the intellectual and theatrical zeitgeist; an abstract presentation of--and meditation on--the state of culture, politics, religion, and other topics, circa 2000. Barclay covers an enormous amount of ground here in this piece, which I imagine we can call meta-performance art: it's as much about itself and about its myriad theatrical influences as it is about the numerous subjects it considers. I know I didn't get all the references, but I feel safe in saying that just about all of the usual suspects--from Beckett and Brecht to Wilson and Foreman--are in here somewhere. What's great about Word to Your Mama is the way that it playfully deflates and--dare I say it--deconstructs hallowed theatrical paradigms even as it acknowledges and celebrates their respective contributions to our collective cultural wisdom.

But what's truly exciting about this piece--which is, remarkably, Barclay's first text for the stage--is its inspired language. Barclay may think like a theoretician, but she writes like a poet, and some of the passages that drift past us in Word to Your Mama are glorious. She's also a genuine wit: she captures, in succinct, canny images, a good deal of what characterizes contemporary American life, good and ill. She conjures, for example, an ad campaign for would-be altruistic Baby Boomers: "We're gonna drive a Volvo to the Rainforest, and we're gonna save that Rainforest's ass."

Barclay is well-served by the three actresses who perform Word to Your Mama: Nicole Higgins, Monica Sirignano, and Kate Ward are first-rate in the work's three intensely demanding roles. Sirignano, incidentally, is the artistic director of Screaming Venus, and she should be proud not just of her work here but, indeed, of all of the pieces that make up Kallisti. They're exceedingly well-produced and they portend a bright future for her company and for the three new authors whose works are showcased so effectively in this truly festive festival of one-act plays.

It begins with a brief, wordless, eloquent prologue that unfurls even as the audience is taking their seats. On stage is most of a grungy apartment--a living room, a tiny kitchen, a day bed tucked away in a corner--that suggests the grittiness and the raw macho slovenliness that we associate with Bukowski: it looks like the kind of place that a B-movie private eye would live in. Dominating the space is a rickety desk with a portable typewriter; next to that, center stage, is an ashtray on a stand, filled to overflowing with cigarette butts. Seated at the desk is the writer Bukowski himself, played--no, embodied--by the actor Stephen Payne, hunched over the machine and rapidly tapping out a story that has obviously taken control of his mind at the moment. While the audience files in, Bukowski types, unaware of our presence. He finishes just as the lights come down, removes the page from the typewriter, pulls away from the desk, stands, makes quick preparations to go out for some air (and, it turns out, some more booze). Just before he leaves the room, he pulls an old handkerchief out of his pocket, which he spreads carefully across typewriter keyboard. It's clear what this man values in this room: it's a splendid moment, one that we will remember and refer to as Farley and Powers take us in and out of Bukowski's fevered, inspired imaginings throughout this play.

For that's just what follows: stories that Bukowski has to write, brought to life with raw, visceral brilliance by Farley and Powers (who, I should add, also co-direct South of No North). In a few of them, Bukowski himself takes part, albeit in the person of alter ego Henry Chinaski, a melancholy, womanizing, boozehound poet not unlike the writer we have come to know. In most of them, however, he observes the seamy goings-on from the sidelines, watching as these desperate characters from inside his psyche drift inevitably and inexorably through their shadowy, lonely lives. Some of the tales are broadly comic (to the point of burlesque, almost: the raunchy tale of the Old West titled "Stop Staring at My Tits, Mister" feels like a bad reader's letter to Penthouse magazine). And some are shockingly violent: the piece "Loneliness," about a man who advertises for a woman on a billboard and then tries to rape the lady who responds to it, is starkly, jarringly cold.

But they all reflect the world view of their author, something made shatteringly clear by the last two pieces, smartly juxtaposed by Farley and Powers for maximum revelatory impact. The penultimate scene in South of No North is "Hit Man," a noir-ish vignette in which we see a man get hired by two other men to kill someone and then we watch him carry out the murder. There's never an indication of who or why: in its calculated cold-bloodedness, this story encapsulates the pessimistic abyss at the seat of Bukowski's soul. And then, even before "Hit Man"'s wallop has fully registered, we find ourselves at a prize fight, long ago, in which our hero Bukowksi-as-Chinaski takes on--and defeats--the world champ Papa Hemingway with a quick and decisive blow. The psychology isn't hard to figure out: this piece, "Class," comes at us from out of the blue and packs an even stronger punch than "Hit Man."

South of No North is a remarkable play, perfectly realized by its authors in this sterling production at 29th Street Rep. Stephen Payne, as I've already suggested, is unaccountably excellent as Bukowski: he shows us the morose drunk, the profane brute, and the unfettered poet, all with amazing clarity. The six actors with whom he shares the stage each play several parts throughout the proceedings, almost always with enormous grace and assurance. Standouts include Tim Corcoran as a sad-sack loser who falls in love with a mannequin, Charles Willey as Chinaski's drunken, besotted pal Marty, and Paula Ewin as various floozies and tarts in five of the pieces. Ewin has a moment in "Hit Man" that I loved: she plays the barmaid at the dive where the hit is being arranged, and when one of the three guys makes a typically offensive remark she shoots him (and us) a smart, knowing look that defuses the play's unremitting machismo in a brief, wonderful, withering moment.

The world of South of No North is for the most part dark and bitter and profane: this is not a show for the skittish or the very young. But I don't know of a more evocative glimpse into the soul of an artist than this play offers: this extraordinary journey that Farley and Powers take us on, though often discomfiting, is rewarding and thought-provoking.

It happens that her daughter is played by Linda Lavin, who admittedly milks this laugh with a pained ironical expression, but the howls from at least some sectors of the audience are large and genuine even before Lavin does her shtick. And now you know everything you need to know in order to decide whether The Tale of the Allergist's Wife is for you. If jokes about suppositories and "B.M.s," and the prospect of seeing three middle-aged actors toy with the idea of having a menage a trois appeal to you, you'll probably have a good time. If, however, you value characters who resemble actual people (as opposed to outlandish sitcom caricatures), or a story that makes a modicum of sense, or, for that matter, a playwright who's bothered to figure out what he's writing about and then stuck to it, then I think you'll be as disappointed in this Tale as I was. This is a very bad play, and not even the valiant efforts of its enormously talented leads (Lavin's co-stars are Tony Roberts and Michele Lee) can save it.

It begins with a viable, even good, idea: Marjorie Taub (Lavin) is an upper-middle class, middle-aged housewife whose grown children have moved away and who is now suffering from, as she so eloquently puts it, perdu. Her dissatisfaction with her life is deep and gnawing and all-consuming, and has rendered her virtually inert: we meet her lounging unhappily in a frowsy bathrobe, going through the motions of fretting over the new chandelier that her doorman is installing in her living room, but clearly not caring one whit for it. Marjorie is in a rut, and there doesn't seem to be anything that her husband--a retired but very busy allergist who is attentive but emotionally distant--or her mother--the whiny, rather ubiquitous little old lady I mentioned in the first paragraph--can do to help her.

Enter Lee Green, nee Lillian Greenwald, a former childhood friend of Marjorie's who accidentally and serendipitously arrives on Marjorie's doorstep after something like 40 years. Lee has lived the life that Marjorie wishes for: gourmet cook, world traveler, political activist, friend and inspiration to the great and near-great. She regales Marjorie with stories from her whirlwind past: the days in Greenwich Village hanging out with Andy Warhol, who admired the way she stacked her empty soup cans; the dinners with Princess Diana, at one of which Lee casually made reference to the landmine crisis; and so on--you get the idea. Lee really does seem to be too good to be true, and indeed Marjorie's family becomes concerned about this mysterious stranger even as Marjorie herself is transformed into a new woman.

This set-up definitely has the makings of an interesting play; if only Charles Busch had actually written one. Instead, after accomplishing (rather well, I might add) all of this worthy exposition, Busch seems to have no idea what to do with it. Act Two of Allergist's Wife veers off ludicrously in all manner of improbable directions, none of which has anything to do with what transpires in Act One. The characters, who we think we have a handle on, degenerate into sitcom stick figures; indeed, the only difference between Marjorie's mother Freida and Sophia on The Golden Girls is that Freida gets to say "fuck" a lot because her dialogue isn't being broadcast on prime time TV.

Busch is especially sloppy in delineating Marjorie; it's as if he's never actually known any well-to-do middle class women with intellectual aspirations. Is she one of the "Ladies Who Lunch" that Elaine Stritch once sang about so eloquently in Company, or is she (as Freida, probably accurately, assesses) simply a woman whose raison d'etre--kids, a working husband--has run out, leaving her sadly unfulfilled? Busch never seems able to decide. Instead, he has Marjorie maniacally call her mother's doctor to complain about the colonoscopy he has prescribed, saying: "she's had more things up her rectum than a gay porn star." Does Busch honestly think that such dialogue rings remotely true?

It really is alarming that writing this awful actually gets produced by a company of the caliber of Manhattan Theatre Club: shame on them--especially artistic director Lynne Meadow, who is also the director of this play--for allowing their playwright to get away with such shoddy craftsmanship. While I'm at it, shame on the complacent audience members who sit passively and happily through The Tale of the Allergist's Wife as if it were a Designing Women rerun instead of a new American play at forty bucks a pop; and shame on the reviewers who emphasize the laughs--which are, to be sure, plentiful--and ignore the shameful, shallow, implausible vacuity of this enterprise. Keep this up, and we will indeed wind up with the theatre we deserve.

Lavin tries vainly to make Marjorie into a believable woman, but it's an impossible feat and she doesn't pull it off. Likewise Michele Lee, who looks glamorous enough, can't get even a toehold on the utterly improbable and ultimately unfathomable Lee, who is either the brilliantly worldly sophisticate she says she is or a pathological liar--or a grotesque sex fiend, or a terrorist mastermind...arrggh! Tony Roberts, blessed with a role that is reasonably consistent, fares best as Dr. Taub. Shirl Bernheim is annoying and shrill as Freida; Anil Kumar is fine as the colorless doorman Mohammed. Santo Loquasto's sets, Ann Roth's costumes, and Christopher Akerlind's lighting are all fine, too. 

Bondi, Holt, and their collaborators get the trappings exactly right: portentous music; background stills that are vaguely arty and vaguely relevant; strident, fitfully useful narration (perfectly voiced by Lora Chio). Best of all are the "interviews." The show begins with Bondi and Holt assuming a variety of poses and voices, announcing--in rapid cross-cut, as it were--the ten chairs that will be the subjects of this documentary: "Queen Anne." "Boston rocker." "Daddy's chair." As Armchair America progresses, we eventually meet the ten people who own these chairs--people, it turns out, who are as cross-sectional, humanity-wise, as it's possible to be. Their simulated on-camera interviews are executed with such authenticity that you can almost sense the grainy film and jerky movements of the hand-held minicam.

Among the decidedly eccentric lot that we meet are Ted, a self-satisfied misogynist who tells us that relaxing in an armchair is beyond the capability of any woman; Chadwick, a wealthy gay man dying of AIDS who plans to leave his favorite chair, an heirloom that's been in his family for generations, to a young Mexican he's been supporting for the past six years; Dom, who has achieved his dream of becoming head cashier at a supermarket and likes to relax in the comfy easy chair he inherited from his grandmother; and Marcy, a "chairologist" who applies her twin expertises of psychology and astrology to help clients find furniture that suits their personalities. All are portrayed wittily and insightfully by Bondi and Holt; at their best--Dom, in particular--they are fully-formed, compelling individuals.

They're here to tell us, ostensibly, about their attitudes about their favorite chairs, but they wind up revealing a good deal more. Indeed, what's most interesting about this show is the way that Bondi and Holt move beyond the obvious exploitation of a formula to investigate how it can be applied in the service of artful story-telling. Like The Race of the Ark Tattoo, Armchair America takes pop culture artifacts--in this case, filmed documentary interviews--and transforms them into compelling drama. Revelation of seemingly random detail is used to create and develop characters and stories: when it works, as it does in a couple of cases here, it's thrilling.

Armchair America is billed as a work-in-progress, and while it could use a bit of trimming here and a dab of clarifying there, it's in extremely good shape. The writing is sharp and clever, taking advantage of the inherent ludicrousness of the evening's premise without diminishing the humanity or dignity of any of the characters. And the acting is superb: without benefit of costume or makeup, Bondi and Holt truly inhabit every one of these people with the thoughtful comic assurance of a Whoopi Goldberg or Eric Bogosian. These guys are definitely onto something: we should be hearing more of them and their subtly subversive work in the near future.

Let me start by telling you about the story. It begins in a sitting room in a country home outside London, around 100 years ago. Present are a number of elegantly dressed ladies: Lady Julia Farrant, whose home this is, her friend Frances Trebell, a beautiful younger woman named Amy O'Connell, an even younger girl named Lucy Davenport, and the elderly grande dame Countess Mortimer. Who are they? They look like the stately standard-issue society dames of an Oscar Wilde comedy of manners. But these ladies are not engaged in idle gossip: their conversation is all about the upcoming election and the formation of the next Cabinet. These ladies are the powers behind the throne, as it were, and their unbridled enthusiasm for things political is only the first surprise that Barker has for his audience.

The gathering disperses; Amy dawdles and remains behind. Enter Henry Trebell, an independent-minded politician of whom we have just heard a bit: it seems that Lady Julia is most eager for the next Prime Minister, Cyril Horsham, to include Trebell in his Cabinet, despite his outspokenness and his reputation as a maverick. At the moment, however, politics are not on Henry's mind, nor are they on Amy's: Waste's first act ends in a cool but impassioned love scene. It's clear that both of these two strong-willed, grown-up people desire one another, and it's equally clear that of one them is, additionally, in love.

In Act Two, we find ourselves in Trebell's house several months later. He has been abroad for a few months; having returned, he is completing preparations to launch a controversial bill in Parliament that will disestablish the Church of England as the official religion of the United Kingdom. Horsham is going to support the bill and put Trebell in the Cabinet if Trebell can ensure its passage; for his part Trebell is wooing a powerful conservative politician named Lord Charles Cantilupe to the cause. Things seem to be going well, until Mrs. O'Connell appears suddenly (did I mention that Amy is married, though estranged from her husband, who resides in Ireland?). You can surely guess the news she has for Trebell: she is expecting a child. She wants to get rid of it, and despite his protestations and offers of substantial, though untraceable, financial support, he is finally unable to dissuade her.

Barker has masterfully set up the conflict that propels his third act: when we return from our intermission, we find ourselves in Cyril Horsham's house, where the PM and his inner circle are trying to figure out what to do about the incipient Trebell-O'Connell scandal. I don't want to tell you too much about what happens from here on out: suffice to say that the party faces significant embarrassment and Trebell utter ruin unless things are handled expeditiously. In Horsham, Barker has devised a brilliant political tactician who checks both cynicism and idealism with a clear-eyed pragmatism and an almost stunning ruthlessness; and so Waste moves swiftly to an inevitable, calculatedly terrible conclusion.

But wait, Barker's not through with us: there's a final act, back at Trebell's house, where the implications of the heartless maneuverings are allowed to settle in the consciences of Barker's characters and the audience. We're no longer concerned with matters of state or intellect; we've entered the realm of the soul, specifically Trebell's, as he ponders which is the greater waste: a gift for accomplishment stifled by foolish gossip, or a talent for passion squandered on mere ideas rather than another human being.

As this synopsis suggests, Barker moves from the epigram-filled drawing rooms of Wilde and Shaw to the raw emotional terrain of Strindberg and Chekhov in this play, which is one of the reasons that it is so extraordinary. His insights are unfailingly intelligent and original, and his subjects--separation of church and state, abortion, political cover-up--remarkably contemporary and provocative. It's easy to understand why Waste was censored in 1906, when it was first written. But--as I said at the beginning--it's shocking that so much time elapsed before its reclamation.

TFANA's production, directed with assurance by Bartlett Sher, is by and large a success. The spare but elegant sets by John Arnone, the tasteful costumes by Martin Pakledinaz, and the accommodating lighting by Christopher Akerlind all serve the production beautifully. (Arnone's setting for the fourth act, which toys with our perspective, is especially illuminating.) The company is mostly exemplary, particularly the sharply-cast supporting roles: Evelyn Page (Countess Mortimer), Pamela Nyberg (Lady Julia), Michael Tisdale (Walter Kent, Trebell's assistant), Jordan Charney (Blackborough, a politician opposed to Trebell's bill), and Graeme Malcolm (O'Connell) are superb; and Ross Bickell, as the magisterial PM-to-be Horsham is better than that, inhabiting the role with a quiet confidence and authority that telegraphs, with incredible efficacy, why this man is first among equals. Kristin Flanders is extremely effective as Mrs. O'Connell, fighting panic with resolved composure as her world starts falling apart following the unwanted pregnancy.

We are let down only by Byron Jennings and Brenda Wehle who, alas, have the pivotal roles of Henry Trebell and his sister Frances. Wehle doesn't show us the inner strength of character that Frances must surely have; and Jennings never gives us the fire in the belly that certainly drives the maverick Trebell. Waste suffers a bit for these deficiencies; I'd like to see a more charismatic Trebell, especially, to propel the play more substantially from start to finish.

That said, as I know of no immediate plans for another production of Waste, do not be deterred from seeing this one. Barker's play is a treasure, and TFANA is to be commended for presenting it to us.

So they take off after each other straight into an endless black prairie. The sun is just comin' down and they can feel the night on their backs. What they don't know is that each one of 'em is afraid, see. Each one separately thinks that he's the only one that's afraid. And they keep ridin' like that straight into the night. Not knowing. And the one who's chasin' doesn't know where the other one is taking him. And the one who's being chased doesn't know where he's going.

This surprisingly eloquent speech is spoken by Lee, a petty thief and a drifter who has come to his mother's house in Southern California to crash for an indeterminate amount of time. His brother Austin is there, too, minding the house while the mother is on vacation in Alaska. Austin's the respectable one--a screenwriter, married, with kids, living in a nice house in the suburbs somewhere.

Lee says what he says because he's telling Austin the story of a screenplay that he has devised, one that he has also managed to sell to Austin's producer Saul, much to Austin's consternation. Neither Lee nor Austin is remotely self-aware enough to realize how apt a metaphor for their lives Lee has crafted, but make no mistake: they are caught irredeemably in the grips of an eternal struggle of brother versus brother, and they can't avoid it any more than they can understand it.

But we can understand it, especially given the twenty years that have elapsed since this explosive play debuted, allowing us distance and perspective. So why have director Matthew Warchus and his stars Philip Seymour Hoffman and John C. Reilly failed so baldly in their interpretation of True West? This production seems to have no motor: there's nothing at the core of Lee and Austin to ignite the conflagration that the second half of this play is supposed to be. It's like Sam Shepard Lite, or more accurately True West: The Sitcom: a string of coarse, raw jokes, most no more shocking than what is actually broadcast on TV these days, oversold by Hoffman and Reilly in performances that are as shallow and empty as they are crowd-pleasingly hyperactive. We get punchlines here, but no punch; Shepard's heightened (some might say epic) theatricality dwindles into the comfortable familiarity of a movie of the week.

For the record, at the performance I saw, Hoffman played Lee and Reilly played Austin. They are alternating in these roles--a neat gimmick that helps reinforce the illusion of tour de force; some credible sources have told me that the other casting is better, and that may be true. But the soullessness of Warchus's staging is bound to permeate this production whichever way the stars are aligned within it, so I'm inclined to predict that finally it's not going to matter very much who plays who.

There is a definitive production of True West available on video, one that captures the electrifying work of John Malkovich (as Lee) and Gary Sinise (as Austin). I've seen it fairly recently (though before the first announcement of this revival), and it's certainly possible that the indelible work of those two actors is coloring my reaction to the present production. Possible, but not likely: this staging is just too easy, too facile, to get to the heart of its author's intention.

Robert LuPone turns in the best performance of the evening as the oily Hollywood producer Saul: the excellent actress Celia Weston is entirely at sea, oddly, as Lee and Austin's mother. The Village Voice's Michael Feingold pointed out in his review that Weston's costume is utterly incongruous; he's absolutely right. And the vaguely heavy metal music by Claire van Kampen and the busy, too-loud sound design by Jim van Bergen provide further impairment to the production (van Bergen needs to get lessons in offstage cricket noise from Richard Woodbury, who is doing the effect masterfully in A Moon for the Misbegotten). 

Heckart plays Gladys Green, a woman in her eighties who runs a modest little art gallery in Greenwich Village. When she was younger, Gladys was, evidently, really something: a talented lawyer and an energetic supporter of any number of good causes; also a caring and giving (if, perhaps, difficult and opinionated) wife, mother and grandmother: an enthusiastic, friendly, very social woman; articulate, vibrant, and generous with her time and conversation.

We see all of these qualities in the Gladys before us, but just in half-light, for The Waverly Gallery is the touching and sad story of her relentless decline as she surrenders her mind and, eventually, her spirit to the unyielding darkness of Alzheimer's Disease. The play covers the last two years of Gladys's life, during which time she is transformed by this awful illness from a spry, cantankerous woman who is occasionally forgetful to a helpless invalid who is barely able to recognize or understand her surroundings. Gladys's intrinsic dynamism makes it impossible for her to retreat gently into dementia: the pain, confusion, and--especially--waste of this deteriorating individual are conveyed to heartbreaking effect in Heckart's masterful portrayal.

The play is narrated by Gladys's grandson Daniel (who serves as stand-in for the playwright); her decline is told through his young-ish eyes. This may be a bit of a mistake,  because it shifts our perspective (if not our focus) to that of the character least able to make sense of what is happening. One of the things that troubles me about The Waverly Gallery is that Daniel--and by extension Lonergan--seems to view the gallery itself as a kind of panacea for Gladys's sickness: it seems that Gladys's landlord wants to evict her so that he can open a trendy cafe in place of the genteel but shabby art gallery; there's a fairly well-developed subplot in which Daniel and his mother and step-father try to convince the landlord not to, the idea being that as long as Gladys has something to occupy her time she will somehow be okay.

But Gladys is not the victim of a callous, greedy landlord; she's the victim of a little understood, incurable disease. Society's not to blame; neither is Gladys's family. Yet I detect strong undercurrents of fear and guilt running through this play, manifestations, I think, of Daniel's naiveté. Lonergan doesn't give us enough information about the family dynamic to allow us to fully appreciate the effects that Gladys's illness is having on her daughter and son-in-law; but he lets us see the grandson fall apart helplessly and then ramble fairly incoherently at the end of the play about how attention must be paid to Gladys's condition. A personal catharsis it may be, but it's a weak ending to a play that deserves a better one.

Nevertheless, The Waverly Gallery is a worthy achievement, bringing us as it does face-to-face with a circumstance we'd rather not think about. Lonergan has certainly written a grand part for Heckart, and she inhabits Gladys with assurance and artistry. Watch, for example, the opening scene of Act Two, in which the gallery hosts its final opening: as the artist and Gladys's grandson chat about various matters, Gladys busies herself preparing refreshments for a crowd that will never materialize, carefully measuring the amounts of wine in each paper cup, meticulously folding and arranging the paper napkins. This is stage business, plain and simple, but it is also a key into Gladys's character: Heckart makes us smile and weep and fall apart just a little inside with each carefully modulated action.

The others in the cast are, more or less inevitably, overshadowed by Heckart's brilliance, but they do manage to hold their own, especially Mark Blum as her loving son-in-love and Josh Hamilton as the scared, confused grandson. Scott Ellis's direction is clear and unobtrusive. Sets, costumes, lighting, and music all contribute to the ambience of the piece without calling attention to themselves.

The story--an intricate knot of deception and intrigue worthy of an international terrorist organization--centers on the desired union between Mirabell and his lady love Millamant. This match is opposed by Millamant's aunt, Lady Wishfort, who is angry with Mirabell because he had started off wooing her in an effort to get to his actual intended (i.e., Millamant). Mirabell concocts a scheme to divert Lady Wishfort's attention, whereby his manservant Waitwell will, disguised as Mirabell's wealthy uncle Sir Roland, court the Lady, who above all else is desperate to wed. Mirabell's plans are thwarted, however, by his presumed friend Fainall, who, with his lover Mrs. Marwood, exposes Waitwell and reveals Mirabell's plot to Lady Wishfort. But Fainall's wife, who is Lady Wishfort's niece, eventually helps to save the day for Mirabell, and by the end of the play the lovers are finally united.

That's a rather simplified explanation of what actually happens in The Way of the World: this comedy has enough plot for ten plays, all of it--remarkably--quite necessary. And note this, please: in the foregoing I referred to Fainall and Marwood and Mirabell and Millamant as lovers, but that term is almost beside the point, for The Way of the World is first and foremost about matters of economy (and secondarily about matters of style; love barely enters into it at all). 

That said, Mirabell and Millamant do have a wonderful quarrelsome scene, in which they set forth the terms for their proposed nuptials, that's worthy of their more star-crossed Shakespearean prototypes Benedick and Beatrice. Elsewhere, if there's no impassioned love poetry to touch our hearts there is more than enough dexterous wit to tickle our fancies, including one of the single funniest lines ever uttered on stage, to wit, Waitwell's observation, upon meeting the eager Lady Wishfort, that that lady is "the antidote to desire."

This Way of the World is sharply cast and shrewdly acted. Joanne Camp is an intoxicatingly mirthful and spirited Millamant, and Dan Daily is very much her match as a clever, confident Mirabell (though I wish he displayed a bit more panache in the role). Jay Russell and Robin Leslie Brown are delectably slippery as the villainous Fainall and Marwood, while Carol Schultz, powdered and costumed and periwigged like a grotesque Marie Antoinette wannabe, almost steals the show as vain, slow-witted Lady Wishfort (watch as she tries out a variety of ill-considered poses to greet Sir Roland--hilarious physical comedy, entirely in character). John Wylie and Dominick Cuskern offer sure comic support as, respectively, Wishfort's ill-mannered country nephew and his impossibly foppish half-brother. And veteran actors Robert Hock and Mikel Sarah Lambert are flawless and very, very funny as the hapless Waitwell and his bride, Wishfort's maidservant Foible.

Beowulf Boritt has devised a simple set of sliding panels that frame the action neatly while providing sufficient places for the more devious characters to hide and/or eavesdrop. Barbara A. Bell's costumes are gorgeous and appropriate, especially Lady Wishfort's outlandishly youthful get-up and Millamant's spectacular, yet somehow understated, golden gown (see the photos at the top of the page).

I started out by saying that no one does Restoration comedy better than the folks at the Pearl; let me conclude by saying that likewise the Pearl does nothing better than Restoration comedy. With The Way of the World, we're seeing one of New York's premier nonprofit theatre companies at its best. Don't miss it.

And so: welcome to the world of Miss Lulu Bett, a middle American landscape of tyrannical, emotionally distant husbands and subservient wives, and of grasping, climbing, nouveau riche hypocrisy. It's a milieu worthy of Sinclair Lewis, who was a contemporary of playwright Zona Gale; indeed, in the original programs for Miss Lulu Bett, audiences were told the following about the play's setting: "The Time - The Present; The Place -- The Middle Class." Dwight Deacon, the principal male character in Miss Lulu Bett, may not be as artfully realized as Babbitt, but in broad outline he's much the same fellow: Gale's play, more a sly comedy of manners than the weepie women's melodrama it at first seems to be, is a fairly scathing expose of Deacon and men of his ilk.

This surprises us, because as I said Miss Lulu Bett looks, on the surface, like an old-fashioned Cinderella story. Lulu Bett is a thirty-something spinster who lives rather forlornly in her sister's home, serving as cook, maid, and nanny to earn her keep. Lulu's sister Ina is as selfish and lazy as any wicked step-sister; while Deacon himself is manipulative and cruel enough to stand in for the wicked step-mother. The story gets going when Deacon's brother Ninian arrives and, feeling sorry for Lulu (or perhaps feeling some genuine affection; it's never really clear which), invites her to join the family for a night on the town. But before they even get to the ball (so to speak), Ninian and Lulu find themselves jokingly reciting wedding vows to one another.

This turns out to be pivotal, because Deacon, a justice of the peace, now insists that as the vows were said in his presence, Ninian and Lulu are legally married. Curtain; end of Act One.

Act Two begins with the news that Ninian is already married to someone else. Lulu returns home, disgraced but also utterly transformed by her experience. Here's where Gale reveals that she has more on her mind than, say, Now, Voyager: the focus turns sharply away from Lulu and squarely on the small-minded, short-tempered Deacon, as we learn to what depths he is willing to resort in order to (a) avert a scandal on account of his brother's bigamous act, and (b) keep Lulu submerged in domestic slavery for his own comfort and convenience.

Vivid as Gale's depiction of the magisterially boorish Deacon is, what emerges as the most revealing aspect of Miss Lulu Bett is what happened to its ending. Gale's original--and dramatically satisfying--ending has been happily restored by the Mint for this production; but in 1920, audiences objected to a heroine who had lived in sin (as it were) with a man who was not her husband: such women needed to repent or die to satisfy the moral order of the day, but Lulu does neither. Gale appeased her audience by having Ninian return at the eleventh hour, suddenly a widower--a fitting coda, I think, to Miss Lulu Bett's message about middle class hypocrisy.

By the standards of its day, Miss Lulu Bett is a competent piece of theatre craftsmanship, cardboard characterizations and contrived situations included. O'Neill had only just written Beyond the Horizon the season before: American drama was still very much in its infancy in 1920. I mention this because I think it's important to manage expectations about this play: yes, it's very old-fashioned and flimsy by modern standards. But I hope I've suggested to you here how engaging and articulate a piece of social history Miss Lulu Bett nevertheless turns out to be.

In any event, the Mint Theater has done a splendid job with it. Under the direction of James B. Nicola, the time and the place are flawlessly evoked; the set (Vicki R. Davis) and the costumes (Marianne Powell-Parker) give the piece the precise but picturesque context that it requires. The cast couldn't be better, with sharply-etched performances turned in by all. Ed Sala is excellent as Dwight Deacon, here complacently jolly, there brutishly severe. Eleven-year-old Melissa O'Malley is terrific as the Deacons' youngest daughter Monona, imbuing this spoiled brat with enough sympathy to keep her from being entirely repulsive, and at the same time avoiding preciousness or cloyingness. Billie Lou Watt is sly and ingratiating as Lulu's forgetful old mother, while Angela Reed gets both the melancholy and the inner strength of Lulu just right.

Miss Lulu Bett marks only the latest in the Mint's informal series of fine recreations of forgotten American dramas (Uncle Tom's Cabin and Alison's House are some recent predecessors). Like those productions, this one is invaluable in allowing us a glimpse at how our grandparents and great-grandparents saw the world; we can learn much about where we've been and we're headed from such information. I'm immensely grateful for these journeys back through our collective cultural past; and I always find I've been bountifully entertained each time as well.