nytheatre Archive
2001-02 Theatre Season Reviews

2for1 is a slightly-more-than-an-hour-long series of sketches, skits, and bits intended to do nothing more than tickle the funny bone. Its perpetrators are three Clown College graduates named Ambrose Martos, Mark Gindick, and Matthew Morgan who together call themselves Happy Hour; they are skilled at doing enough different silly things that pretty much anybody's funny bone will get tickled at least some of the time during the proceedings.

Ambrose is the gangly one with unruly curly hair: he does a cleverly-conceived audience participation bit involving balloons, party hats, Kool & the Gang's "Celebration" and, as the press release aptly puts it, "one of those shiny countertop bells you ring when you're looking for someone to help you." Mark is the short one: energetic, funny, and very engaging. His running gag is to put on a leather jacket and becoming a BadAss, at one point swallowing a boxful of Red Hots down with a swig of coke to prove it. Matthew is the tall, naughty, bald one, who flirts outrageously with some of the ladies in the audience and executes some mean acrobatic jumps and bounces in the show's most memorable spot.

They work alone and they also work together. Matthew and Mark team up for a funny parody of Latin dancing; all three team up to goof around childishly with a whoopee cushion. For their finale they perform a bathrobe ballet unlike anything you're likely to have seen before.

Most of the bits go on too long; 2for1 would feel more professional if gags stopped right after they landed. More material would be helpful, too: this is a show that would benefit from being more anarchic than it already is. It's nevertheless a diverting and fun evening, providing audiences with some innocent, good-natured giggles. 

An artist's life isn't a strictly scripted drama; it's a cabaret. That's the view, anyway, of the folks at Great Small Works, who have created A Mammal's Notebook: The Erik Satie Cabaret to explore and reveal some of what one artist did and thought. I suspect that familiarity with the Satie oeuvre will enhance your appreciation of this eclectic soufflé of musical and theatrical esoterica. But whether you know much about its subject or not, you will undoubtedly be entertained and enlightened, and delighted, I think, to find a person's story told with such originality and panache.

A Mammal's Notebook consists of sixteen scenes, or acts, in which aspects of Erik Satie's life are either recreated or commented on or both. Like the explosively creative world in which Satie lived–Paris, at the turn of the twentieth century–this Cabaret is filled with remarkable variety: bunraku, ballet, piano interludes, a miniature opera bouffe, even a full-fledged (though short) three-act opera for shadow puppets. Surrounding the sketches is narration that places Satie's life story in historical context; and surrounding that is amusing but entirely serious analysis of Satie's place in the history of modern art and culture. An opening slide projection, culled from a scholarly text, indicates that he's missing from it; this show fills in that gap, which is what A Mammal's Notebook is finally about.

Examples of Satie's work reveal a composer pioneering in minimalist forms, as we discover in several pieces, beautifully played by pianist Margaret Leng Tan. We also find social/political satire that anticipates Brecht and Weill in the puppet opera "Genevieve de Brabant," and a fusion of lowbrow pop culture with high art that anticipates pretty much all of the second half of the twentieth century in the witty "Je te Veux."

Presentationally, the Great Small Works troupe sets Satie's music and thoughts and biography to a panoply of styles. His love affair with artist Suzanne Valdon is staged as a bunraku play, with gorgeously evocative puppets by Stephen Kaplin standing in for the composer and the painter. To the strains of "Caresse," "Bonjour Biqui," and "Danses de Travers I," the puppet Satie plays his toy piano while the puppet Valdon draws him on her sketchpad. For me, this was the emotional and theatrical highpoint of A Mammal's Notebook: simply stunning.

Satie's arrival in Montmartre in the 1880s is depicted as a lively backstage melodrama at the Chat Noir Cabaret; and his self-imposed exile to the Parisian suburb of Arcueil years later takes the form of an artful masked pantomime. In between, there's a moody sepia film set to John Cage's "In a Landscape" and something called a "Rosicrucian Ritual" set to Satie's "Aire du Grand Prieur" that I didn't understand at all.

Which, I think, is par for the course for A Mammal's Notebook: it seemed to me that individual dishes from this arty smorgasbord pleased different people in the audience–this show honestly does have something for everyone in it, though few will perhaps take to all of it. It's certainly made me hungry to find out more about Satie, and to see the next display of theatrical inventiveness from Great Small Works, who have given us a true feast for the senses in this unusual biographical cabaret.

This 45-minute solo show by Joseph Langham is funny, wise, touching, and enormously entertaining. It’s about a budding singer-songwriter named Harburg Harrisbrandt who is trying to do a set of his own original songs in a low-rent New York club. The trouble is, Harburg has Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD), and as a result he’s unable to focus long enough to get through even one song.

Now this might sound like an obviously low comic ploy to get some cheap laughs; or like a disrespectful and mean-spirited joke at the expense of the disabled. The wonderful thing about Harburg is that it’s neither. Langham embraces his character’s condition and humanizes it and him; he also uses it to canny advantage, turning a would-be cabaret turn into a riveting and revealing look inside a loving, sad, sensitive and troubled soul with gratifying naturalness, compassion, and good humor.

We learn a fair amount of Harburg’s biography as his mind races from topic to topic. He tells us often about his mother, a frustrated singer who moved herself and her young son from Texas to New York after her husband (as she put it) ran away from home. Harburg’s recollections of his mother contain a painful mixture of love and anger: he acknowledges that he was a difficult kid to raise, but shrinks at the memories of his mother, ill-equipped to deal with a hyperactive child, locking him in a closet or ridiculing him by calling him Har Har.

He tells us, too, about his best friend at school, a tough kid named Billy whose sensitive side is only hinted at; and about his buddy from work, a fellow named John with whom he eats dinner at McDonald’s. (John and Harburg work the night shift as data entry clerks; Harburg can type an amazing 110 words per minute.) Most importantly, he speaks of Amy, with whom he is clearly and unrequitedly in love; much of the emotion that fuels An Evening with Harburg Harrisbrandt stems from his disappointment that she hasn’t come down to the theatre to watch his show.

So Langham and his director, Richard Hinojosa, give us not just the expected comic monologue but a real one-act play, filled with wit, poignancy, and humanity. Langham the actor is every bit as skillful as Langham the writer, creating a character marked by intelligence and profound sadness who is nevertheless engaging, optimistic, and enormously appealing; Harburg’s a survivor, and he’s also a fun guy, not least because of the un-self-conscious yet self-deprecating way that he treats his ADD.

Like the works of his mentor James Joyce, Samuel Beckett’s plays and prose aren’t to everyone’s taste. The combination of vaudeville comedy and ontological enigma is certainly unique and, if done well, can be a good existential joke for those with a biting sense of humor. On the other hand, Beckett is the pinnacle of frustrating abstruseness for those who feel that art should clear up the mysteries of life rather than clouding them. And for those who have no experience whatsoever with the work of Samuel Beckett, …and then you go on, now at HERE Arts Center, provides a quick and entertaining introduction to his work.

Stitched together with cunning and intelligence from excerpts of 13 plays, poems, and novels by the Irish modernist, …and then you go on is an hour-long monologue about birth, life, and inevitable death told by a smart, confused, down-on-his-luck everyman. In collecting from the works from Beckett’s 60-year career, Bob Jaffe has remained faithful to Beckett’s introspective, sardonic humor. His performance matches this, as his character tells his rambling stories with the comedy that only comes when one has lost all hope. “In hell, we’ll think about the good old days when we wished we were dead!” he points out.

As happens with both one-man shows and Beckett’s work, …and then you go on can’t always sustain the audience’s focus. Jaffe engages them fully when he gives them a narrative to follow, as when his everyman relates how he’d been pushed around by a cop for loitering with his bicycle. He also takes a crack at some of the more labyrinthine monologues in Beckett’s canon, such as a speech in Waiting For Godot that begins as a half-remembered lecture on God and ends in a babble of half-forgotten memories about stones and skulls. That Jaffe keeps these abstract speeches both intelligible and entertaining is commendable, but he and the director, Peter Wallace, often rely on unrelated pieces of stage business to keep Jaffe occupied while he’s talking. These bits distract as often as they provide something to watch.

But fortunately, Jaffe’s uses his gangly body as much for its own evocative weirdness as for counting pebbles into his hat. The abstract nature of the work also allows Jaffe to gesture with a similar irreality; his movement, especially in his arms, approaches the abstract beauty of dance, albeit a spastic St. Vitus-like dance. Holly Ratafia’s lighting, all from the side and back, emphasizes Jaffe’s spindly physicality by creating deep shadows on his face and on Jeremy Woodward’s sparse stage. The entire production works in concert to explore Beckett’s work with faithful, though not necessarily revelatory accuracy.

Still, audiences may feel a queasy sense of recognition at Beckett’s philosophy. He does clear up life’s mysteries for viewers willing to follow his stream-of-conscious theatrics, but his answers provide the comfort of laughter-through-pessimism rather than of escapism. “I can’t go on!” cries Jaffe’s everyman at the close of the evening, but then, “I’ll go on.” Walking out into the cool nighttime spring of Lower Manhattan, the viewer may recall thinking those very words a half a year ago. …and then you go on, like all of Beckett’s works, is not for all audiences. But for those viewers with a taste for intellectual humor and dour metaphysics, …and then you go on provides a welcome evening with a master.

Dear Reader: If your name is Dave Gorman, or you know someone whose name is Dave Gorman, please step forward. Now. Dave Gorman–the one whose extremely funny solo show has just opened at Westbeth Theatre Center–wants to meet you.

Scratch that: He NEEDS to meet you. What began as a weekend goof set off by a fluky coincidence has now evolved into an obsession, a performance art masterpiece, and–if Gorman is lucky–a full-fledged pop culture phenomenon. The thing is, Gorman is so doggedly ingratiating, and his show, Are You Dave Gorman?, is so much fun, that it's hard to do anything but yield to this foolish and unreasonable onslaught. Go to the show; laugh; and find Dave some more Gormans.

The set-up  really says it all. Are You Dave Gorman? is a one-man show in which Dave Gorman recounts, for about an hour and a half, his various adventures in locating and meeting several dozen other Dave Gormans. Because he wants to make sure we believe him, he supplements his monologue with proof–lots of it–ranging from photos of himself with the other Daves, to boarding passes from the various flights he's made to exotic ports of call to find his quarry. The twisted, anal-retentive mind that hatched this magnificent obsession is also responsible for the detailed maps and graphs that punctuate the narrative, hilariously.

Gorman tells us about trips to Scotland, France, Italy, and New York City, all of which yielded Dave Gormans in varying quantities and qualities. He introduces us to a gay Dave, a Jewish Dave, young Daves, old Daves–even a fictitious one in the show's most uproarious segment.

The amazing thing is: this weird, audacious show works beautifully. Gorman is sharp and smart and very funny; he's also vibrantly alive on stage, responding to audience members as if they actually are people in the same room he's in. Are You Dave Gorman? is perhaps ten or fifteen minutes longer than it absolutely needs to be. But it's terrifically entertaining as is: if you're looking for pure diversionary laughter–not a bad idea, these days–this is the show for you.

It’s difficult to evaluate Blue Grassy Knoll. While their technical proficiency may be unquestionable, their enthusiasm infectious, there’s something so unassailable about their mission, something so quintessentially un-New York about them, I felt almost guilty enjoying myself. Their very existence, it would seem, is predicated on the need to ensure that people are having a good time. It’s almost unheard of in our society, a band/performance group so selfless, so grounded in the delight of their audience, that you can’t help but find yourself swept up in their unabashed cheerfulness. By attaching their folksy tunage to such classic fare as Buster Keaton’s underappreciated masterpiece Sherlock Jr. and the lesser-known short One Week in a time of paranoia, fear, and constant vigilance, the Knoll achieves something close to nirvana.

First of all, there’s the band itself: five strapping blokes from Melbourne who have reportedly made quite a name for themselves Down Under. Their resume boasts countless festival appearances in both Australia and Europe, with praise heaped upon them by the bucketful in places like Edinburgh, Sydney, and Cape Town. It is with some excitement, therefore, that the Knoll makes its stateside (or "homeland," as we are now wont to say) debut within the jewel box-like confines of 42^nd Street’s New Victory Theater. Its M.O., it would seem, is simple: introducing children worldwide to the genius of Buster Keaton. Or, for those fortunate enough to have experienced Keaton’s work, to reinvigorate their perception with new sounds, new harmonies. Blue Grassy Knoll’s the name, scoring’s their game.

The films, of course, need not be reviewed; their reputation is secure. One Week (1921) concerns a married couple’s attempt to build their dream house, which is foiled when a romantic rival switches the numbers on their do-it-yourself home building kit. Sherlock Jr. (1924) posits Keaton as a starry-eyed film projectionist/hack detective framed for theft by a rival for his sweetheart’s affections. Seeking escape from his predicament, Keaton literally projects himself into the film he’s showing, becoming the titular gumshoe, and in the process providing his wallflower character with a well-needed shot in the arm. Woody Allen may have appropriated Keaton’s idea years later in The Purple Rose of Cairo, but Keaton did it first, and without the use of special effects. So convincing were Keaton’s stunts, we are told, that in one particular take in Sherlock, the master funnyman snapped a vertebrae in his neck–and only realized it years later during a routine doctor’s appointment.

As the films barrel forward (they are exemplary in their pacing), the Knoll churns out its good-time sound with precision timing. So beautifully attuned is this six-piece group to the films’ individual moments, tone changes, and characters, one begins to wonder if they actually beamed in from the Twenties. Befitting the first two-thirds of the group’s moniker, a fiddle, banjo, accordion, harmonica, and double bass are utilized to maximum effect–as are various foley effects that allow us to "hear" some of the film’s chunkier sounds. Throughout, emcee Simon Barfoot, whose shock of bright red hair calls to mind an Aussie Johnny Rotten, encourages the audience (about 75% kids at the performance I caught) to "feel free to spontaneously erupt with joy." He needn’t make the request: given the combination of Keaton onscreen and the Knoll’s uplifting brand of film scoring stage right, one cannot help but erupt, often, and at considerable volume.

Bread and Puppet Theatre’s newest Public Participation Uprising, The Insurrection Mass with Funeral March for a Rotten Idea: A Special Mass for the Aftermath of the Events of September 11, is self-described as a “nonreligious service in the presence of paper mâché gods.” Complete with founder Peter Schumann’s famous fiddle sermon, Insurrection Mass seeks to further Bread and Puppet’s 38-year mission to address social, political and environmental issues through the use of theatre, spectacle and puppetry. Post-September 11, however, Schumann and his gang of puppeteers are in what seems to be a shrinking minority, as many even would-be pacifists are opting for war and may not want to hear what Bread and Puppet has to offer. Needless to say, the company utilizes the present situation to unapologetically assert its anti-war voice with gorgeous puppets and a myriad of odd, homespun instruments–all to create allegorical stories with clarity, humor and unpretentiousness. 

Bread and Puppet begins its evening with a re-enactment of the recent controversial events that occurred at the G8 Summit in Genoa, Italy, where a protester was killed by police. Larger-than-life paper-mâché puppets (or sculptures, to be more precise) become faceless, unsuspecting bodies in complete darkness except for a spotlight controlled by Schumann. Possibly the protesters in Genoa or the victims of September 11 or the civilian victims in Afghanistan, the bodies are first symbolized by the puppeteers as being animated and full of life, but are then laid down flat in a symbolic death on the bare stage floor. Schumann’s eerie requiem for recent events in Italy, New York and Afghanistan, all leading to the same outcome of innocent victims lost in political upheaval, is the first of many strong messages in this evening of peaceful protest.

The second part of the evening, the actual secular Insurrection Mass, is presided over by a series of tiny paper-mâché gods made from garbage and placed in a row in front of the audience. The Goddess of Concrete is present, as well as the Goddess of Theatre for the New City Light Bulbs, the Blue Goddess of 8:50 p.m., all of which are named on the spot, I think, just as we tend to name our own gods in various difficult situations as we need them. The mass is celebrated in ten movements, including the introduction of the gods, an opening prayer, scripture reading, etc–all leading up to the day’s Rotten Idea, which is taken from the mouth of (the also paper-mâché) hell and subsequently given a proper burial.

As you may have guessed, this particular show’s Rotten Idea centers around the conflict in Afghanistan, and Bread and Puppet’s opposition to the killing of innocent civilians in Afghanistan, who share in the same tragic fate as the WTC victims. They go further to cite evidence that the extent of civilian deaths in Afghanistan is not being reported and is, in fact, purposely being kept from the American public. Full knowledge of these tragedies abroad, Bread and Puppet declare, is crucial for the mourning process of the WTC victims in New York.

What makes the evening so powerful is its understated beauty and clarity. Bread and Puppet miraculously accomplishes its mission without an ounce of post-modern vagueness–the only dancing around subjects happening with this company are the celebratory ones pertaining to the puppets themselves. And yet, for the most part, they refrain from preaching, although I did find myself fidgeting during Schumann’s fiddle speech, which is probably what I was supposed to be doing anyway.

There is something for everyone here. If you agree with them, then you can find solace and strength in their stories, and if you don’t, you can simply watch the puppeteers at work or–better yet–wait around 'til it’s over so you can taste some of Schumann’s famous sourdough bread. If you’re up for the challenge, you can appear a half hour early for rehearsal and take part in the mass, and they also invite you to sing along with them during hymn time.

Bread and Puppet’s pageant spectacle left me with thoughts of the undeniable similarities of any two groups of opposing sides fighting for justice, and how subjective that term really can be in mouth of whoever utters it. It’s an evening that shouldn’t be missed.

Regular readers of nytheatre.com know that dance isn't my usual beat. But I like to stretch whenever possible, and the New Victory Theatre—which hosts an eclectic season of all kinds of performance, ostensibly for kids but almost always ideal for all ages—makes it easy for me to do just that. So here I am, reviewing the current show from Donald Byrd/The Group, a company I was unfamiliar with until I showed up at the theatre, in a production that I liked a good deal.

The program consists of five dance pieces, in between which postmodern-minimalism magician Steven Cuiffo performs pretty illusions. The dances are arranged in a sort of reverse chronology, by which I mean that they chart, roughly, a sequence in time from the current state of dance, theatre, and music backwards through the heyday of the director-choreographer (think Jerome Robbins and Bob Fosse) to the early years of the 20th century (represented by dances choreographed to music of Duke Ellington and Louis Armstrong).

The opening, the contemporary piece "Drastic Cuts," serves as an excellent introduction to the company, showcasing the dancers' muscular, athletic moves and Byrd's quirky, modern style. I love the moments when the dancers are each doing a specific, individual step, apparently out of synch with the others, yet creating a unified, beautiful whole.

The next two pieces are "Jazz 1" (that's the one that reminded me of Fosse and Robbins) and "A Folk Dance," a series of four solo turns to a percussive score by Mio Morales. The final two pieces on the bill are the most traditional—"Not the Shack," done to Ellington music and offering a brief, witty look at what we used to call social dancing; and "Burlesque" (a New York premiere, to Armstrong recordings), which offers a spirited, smart microcosm of life in Harlem at the time of the Cotton Club, for better and worse.

 Donald Byrd/The Group's show is ninety minutes long without an intermission, and the many children in the audience seemed to enjoy it with little detectable fidgeting. As I said, it's absolutely appropriate for all ages, and, from where I sit anyway, a welcome respite from the more traditional "theatre" fare that's playing elsewhere in Times Square.

In some ways, the history of Downtown theatre is a search for Virginia Woolf’s room of one’s own. Given the centuries old space crunch in Manhattan, a theatre that is cutting-edge in form or politicized in content has most often found itself in tiny basements, living spaces, storefronts or coffee houses. It’s not surprising then that the solo form has been a mainstay of theatre below Fourteenth Street for decades. For the women of Screaming Venus, Woolf’s famous dictum is a directive to put up posters of their favorite rock stars on the walls, dance around the bed to a groove-ilicious pop song (contemporary or vintage), make a really big mess–physical, emotional or both–and invite some intimate strangers to witness it all. How engaging or self-indulgent the audience finds the results depends a lot on the individual skills of the performer, as well as how welcome we’re made to feel while spending time in their psychic space.

I saw Series A and B of the company’s Eve’s Apple festival of one-person shows, and either through design or happenstance, the works in Series A took more risks in playing with the limits and possibilities of the solo form. Series B, dramaturgically much more conventional, featured a stronger overall lineup of performers. Either one is worth the time of an adventurous theatregoer.

From Series B, the strongest work by far was John Hanshe’s Midnight Ruby, sensitively performed by Erin Walls. Walls has the kind of lips described in pulp noir as “bruised,” and this battered persona is completely right for Hanshe’s tale of a white woman who goes to work for a black pimp to save her brother from being killed over a gambling debt. Walls plays both the prostitute and her “master,” and the obviousness of the racial power inversion is mitigated when we see the very thin, fragile-looking Walls create the much larger, hulking Cognac Jones. Hanshe has an imaginative ear for Cognac’s street braggadocio and takes a rap star’s delight in creatively stringing together expletives into hilarious and scary rage riffs. However Ruby’s high falutin’ ruminations on her situation ring a tad too grad school poetical given her class and education, and Cognac’s self-aggrandizement tips the believability scale when he starts comparing himself to God. Ultimately, Hanshe’s rummaging through the white trash for Tennessee Williams’s and Jay Z’s leftovers serves up a familiar story with some creative garnishes.

By the end of the piece, it appears that Ruby is on her way to becoming a serial killer. Jennifer Dee’s Just Jersey also showcases a white trash woman who becomes a prostitute and then a killer, although this time the downward spiral is played for laughs. Dee’s Dolores Bizzanti can be found in the sketch comedy textbook under Characters Guaranteed to Make New Yorkers Laugh: loud, stupid, self-involved and from New Jersey. Dee’s a skilled enough comedian to surprise us with some off-the-wall moments (the reaction to banging her head on the obviously wooden “bed” on the set was priceless), but such a relentlessly condescending performance is best relegated to five minute on "Saturday Night Live." Twenty-five minutes in the theatre becomes interminable. Together Again, featuring yet another fine performance, this time by Melissa Miles, centers on an office temp haunted by the ghost of her dead father. Miles’s script circles and circles yet again around some hinted-at trauma, but the reason for the woman’s obsession is never made clear, and I lost interest long before the final fade-out.

If the furnishings in Series B are the comfortable, if slightly worn, overstuffed couches of American psychological realism, the contents of the room in Series A tend more toward the lean lines of trendy Italian-designed chairs. The trade-off for a higher level of theatrical savvy, though, is that the audience has to work a lot harder to feel at home. In Autopsy Lisa D’Amour uses the device of additive repeating text to slowly build her enigmatic story of a woman, who may or may not be dead, fixated on the trope of the femme fatale. This is all murky in a fashionably postmodernist way, and Monica Sirignano’s blank, affectless performance adds little to the audience’s understanding (but she looks great in Alastar Brown’s photos). To misquote Arthur Miller, “This woman’s got a secret—and she’s gonna keep it.” Dana Lang’s Is This Burning?, featuring Alyssa Simon as a woman with a urine fetish, raises the intriguing point that women risk losing their relationships when they share certain pleasures with their male partners. The woman’s boyfriend pesters her to pee on him. When she finally relents, she does so with gusto and finds herself single. The complicated power relations in this bodily fluid exchange add complexity to what on first glance seems designed to merely titillate.

The most intriguingly enjoyable piece (and best performance) out of the six is Something Miniscule. Katherine Hinchey, looking like a cross between Guilietta Masina and Judy Garland, plays a scientist presenting her new invention to a boss who spews clichés with every puff of his cigar. The machine, which we see Hinchey construct out of pieces of the set, theoretically has the ability to mold metal solely using magnetic force. Only problem is she’s having trouble getting it to work and isn’t even quite sure that it can work. The boss is offended that the little lady would even presume to tackle what is obviously a man’s job. Playwright and director Alison Solomon tackles big issues of institutionalized workplace sexism, women’s place in science and the limitations of language with a circus bag of tricks. Hinchey, on the other hand, effortlessly switches between the slightly kooky scientist and her cigar-chomping boss. A bit of business involving a feather, her machine and the stage lights was worth the whole evening. Hinchey and Solomon have created something fun, fresh and subtly political–everything one can hope for in Downtown theatre. I’ll hang out in their room any day.

****

The second edition of Eve's Apple, Screaming Venus's festival of one-person shows, again provides a showcase for adventurous work by artists from the frontlines of contemporary theatre. I caught Series C, which includes solo shows by Monica Sirignano, Maggie Cino, and Marena Lobosco. If the evening as a whole is uneven and a little unsatisfying, it provides nevertheless a necessary laboratory for these intelligent, striving young playwrights—along with their collaborators Dov Weinstein, Amanda Selwyn and Nicole Higgins—to stretch and hone their craft.

The most impressive work of the evening is Cino's Ascending Bodily, which is directed by Weinstein. In perhaps twenty deft, fleeting minutes, Cino covers a remarkable amount of ground with this portrait of a sad, lonely, pixilated lady who collects handbags to store her memories in and aches, particularly, for a man named Bob whom she lost  long ago when he ascended into the sky following a freakish disaster. Ascending Bodily is beautifully written, filled with marvelous, precise language that defines character and conjures wondrous mental imagery. Consistently enchanting and funny, it creates a blissfully quirky world for its eminently sympathetic heroine, and then moves to a stunningly transcendent place in its final moments that leaves you breathless. Cino performs the piece brilliantly; we need to see more of her work on New York stages.

Sirginano's Eat Rice! opens the program. It's an abstract collage of movement, video, projections, music, sound, and words, performed with precision and acuity by the always fine Nicole Higgins. I know enough about Sirginano and Higgins to feel very sure that every meticulous moment in this piece carries intention and weight. Unfortunately, meaning isn't much communicated in this piece: though a movement or line or stage picture occasionally resonates within Eat Rice!, the piece as a whole doesn't add up. I want to know what Sirignano and Higgins are trying to say here; with some tightening—at 45 minutes or so in length, Eat Rice! taxes the audience's concentration badly—and some sharpening of focus, I suspect they'll be able to clarify things.              

The evening concludes with Marena Lobosco's The Art of Unknowing, directed by Amanda Selwyn. This, too, is a collage of forms and styles, featuring Lobosco in a danced prologue and then in a series of stream-of-consciousness monologues, mostly on the subject of contemporary problems of women and humans in general, loosely organized around the notion of a collection of hats that serves as both prop and anchor throughout the piece. The text, which seemed to me to owe a debt to the work of Julia Lee Barclay and Kia Corthron, among others, is consistently interesting and often provocative; the movement and other production trappings sometimes feel less original and organic. I've not seen Lobosco's work before; I'd certainly want to see where she goes with this piece or others in the future.

Eve's Apple is comprised of nine solo shows in all (see below for reviews of the other two series). Screaming Venus should be commended for its commitment to providing a forum for artists who attempt to stretch and mold the one-person show format to give voice to issues and experiences that concern them. Even when the work is still formative, it deserves an audience to react to it.

Flicker marks my introduction to the work of Caden Manson and his company Big Art Group. I don't care for the piece per se, but I've got to tell you that Manson and his colleagues are on to something: the technique and the underlying concept of what Manson calls "real-time film" bear the mark of genius.

Let me tell you what real-time film looks like. Running across the front of the stage is a blank screen, rigged to three video cameras in such a way that whatever those cameras "see" projects onto the screen panels; think hip, low-tech Cinerama. Behind the screen is an elevated platform where the actors do their stuff with the cameras trained on them: we can see some, but not all, of what they're doing (because they are obscured by both the screen and the cameras themselves); and we can see what the cameras "see" on the screen.

The creative leap that Manson has made–the insight that makes him an artist worth keeping an eye on–is to juxtapose the video on screen and the videotaping on stage as a single event. From the audience, we simultaneously experience video and live performance, sometimes in synch and sometimes weirdly disordered: very different sense events with very different effects, whose co-mingling feels at once enriching and disorienting.

Manson sets up "shots" that are dazzling in their complexity: movement is never fluid but is instead broken down into component fragments, with different actors playing the same character at discrete moments of time and space. Call it quantum drama.

What's missing from Flicker is the "why." Big Art Group is indisputably developing here an exciting and original way to tell theatre stories. But in this case at least they've got no story to tell. Flicker's script (credited to Manson, Jemma Nelson, and Rebecca Sumner Burgos) consists of a pair of juvenile slasher parodies that sate us with numbing (though apparently crowd-pleasing) gore and perversity. It's loaded with the kind of smug grossness that one hopes has been rendered irrelevant in post-September 11 New York City. More to the point, it's entirely pointless: nothing that happens in Flicker is enriched by its innovative presentation. Technique for its own sake borders on gimmickry, no matter how cool it is. Real-time film remains, for now, a potential rather than realized artistic breakthrough.

Manson's company executes the requisite detailed movement and split-second timing with astonishing proficiency–no mean feat, that. They're less assured at developing character and tension in  traditional ways; too often, these performers come across more as exhibitionists than actors.

Manson's real-time film concept deserves something meaty and substantive to sink its teeth into. I hope Big Art Group's next theatre excursion provides just that.

Fred Garbo Inflatable Theater Co. is absolutely delightful. I had a ball. After weeks of Crucibles and Goats and Necessary Targets, I was totally ready for a blissful hour-and-a-half of theatre, and that's exactly what Garbo and his co-star Daielma Santos (she's the "Co.") serve up. My niece Julie, whose reviews sometimes grace these pages, remarked after we saw the show that she couldn't imagine anyone not having a good time, and I completely agree. Garbo is playing at the New Victory Theatre, known for children's fare, but this is appropriate for every age group. The small fry and the old timers in the audience were all having a blast.

Now I have to try to explain why. The closest analog I can come up with is Bill Irwin and David Shiner's Fool Moon. Like that sublimely merry show, Fred Garbo Inflatable Theater Co. blends classic vaudeville shtick with wondrous new inventions to surprise, engage, amuse, and beguile us; more important, both shows share a sprightly innocence that brings out the child in all of us. When you're an adult, it's nice to know that the kid inside can still clap his hands in wonder and delight when something genuinely magical happens on stage.

That feeling recurs again and again during Fred Garbo Inflatable Theater Co. Enormous, colorful beach balls and inner tubes cavort whimsically and dance together. A huge bouncing cube sprouts arms and legs and finds that it can walk upright and even turn cartwheels. A pretty ballerina does the can-can and then, to our amazement and to hers, her bubblegum pink skirt starts growing and growing until it swallows her up.

A fellow named Fred Zeppelin shows up near the end of the show (see photo, above): an ingratiatingly clumsy but cool character whose suit seems to be filled entirely with hot air, he nevertheless executes a wicked dance routine to "Do Ya Love Me?" from The Blues Brothers. When Zeppelin tries to sit on a bright red bridge chair, he topples onto his bottom and almost floats above it: all of Garbo's extraordinary inventions, crafted literally from only cloth and air, send our spirits soaring every time they lift off.

Fred Zeppelin is of course Fred Garbo in a custom-made suit: Fred Garbo Inflatable Theater Co. is a dazzling, dizzying showcase for the remarkable talents of this man, which include, in addition to the aforementioned, juggling (rings and flaming torches), mime, effortless acrobatic dancing, and corny, warm-hearted comedy. His partner in crime is Brazilian-born Daielma Santos, who is a lovely and graceful dancer and creates gloriously beautiful stage pictures with accessories like a red fan, a length of colored ribbon, or a stack of filmy pastel handkerchieves.

Neither Garbo nor Santos take themselves the least bit seriously—indeed, a high point of the show comes when they each parody each other's act. But don't be misled: this is art of the highest order—it wouldn't be so effervescently joyful if it weren't.

The show is about ninety minutes long with an intermission in the middle of it; at the performance reviewed, Garbo and Santos offered no fewer than three encores to the wildly applauding crowd. And after those, believe it or not, came the biggest and best surprise of all. (I won't tell you what—I'll just tell you not to rush to the exits after the curtain call.)

Fred Garbo Inflatable Theater Co. is at the New Victory for three more weeks. Grab the family and get over there: we all deserve to be this happy for at least a little while.

In my favorite segment of Frogz, the new family show at the New Victory Theatre, five human-size penguins play a silly game of musical chairs that eventually spills into the audience. The penguins—dignified yet awkward, sober yet childish—are the cleverest of the anthropomorphic creations of Imago Theatre's Carol Triffle and Jerry Mouawad, the folks responsible for this engaging but somewhat inconsistent show. They're also the most popular, at least at the performance I attended, winning over parents and kids alike with their gentle but high-spirited antics.

Other segments are nearly as much fun. There's an oversized bodybuilder named Oskar with a detachable head that he tosses into the audience, much to the delight of the small fry. And the pair of sketches that close the evening's two acts are inventive and amusing—"Sloth Circus" features a parade of dimwitted sloths trying to announce the intermission, while "Paper" unmasks the five skillful performers with playful charm.

Elsewhere, though, Frogz feels a little too "arty" for its own good, especially if the target audience really is the 6-10 crowd that predominated at the theatre when I was there. The title piece, which opens the show, features a coy trio of frogs who do very little but test the limits of comic timing. Two blacklight pieces—"Strings" and "Fish"—are very pretty but don't seem to go anywhere. "Orbs," in which big colorful balls bounce and roll across the stage to deft choreography, and "Windbags," a similar sketch involving three giant ocarinas, feel too much like similar pieces in the repertoire of Fred Garbo's Inflatable Theatre Co (but Garbo's are funnier).

In the end, I wasn't entirely sure whether Frogz wants to be a free-for-all for kiddies or Serious Art for adults. The inconsistency weakens the show: there are long stretches between the lively bits.

There are a couple of places in the show where children in the audience rush toward the stage, sensing an invitation from the performers to interact. Each time, ushers raced down the center aisle and urged the youngsters back to their seats. I'm not sure whether its the folks at New Victory or the folks at Imago Theatre who have decided on the crowd control. But there's some kind of disconnect happening here: children understand boundaries, and their enthusiastic attempts to participate felt entirely reasonable to me.

Lisa Jolley is an attractive, engaging performer, and her entirely improvised one-woman show Jolley on the Spot is a delightful, fun entertainment. Jolley interacts casually with audience members, getting them to open up and talk honestly about mundane topics like their job or what they did today. She then uses this data to create off-the-cuff songs or, in one case, an elaborate one-act musical comedy, about the lives of these people. It's interactivity with a low risk/high enjoyment quotient: to quote one of the songs from The Elephant Man-The Musical, "Everybody Wants Their Life to be a Musical."

Jolley's made-up tunes (with music by the accomplished accompanist Frank Spitznagel) are pleasantly low-key, filled with good-natured jokes and usually building to a punchy, clever finish. She's at her best building a surprisingly substantial musical from a few minutes' chatting with the folks out front; a nice touch is the way she uses actual items collected from the participants (a watch, a pen, and so on) to "stand in" for the various characters she portrays during this opus. Like the best improv, Jolley's gags land a little better than half the time; what's impressive is how well she keeps track of trivial details and loose ends, tying her impromptu creations together with wit and agility.

The show's finale has Jolley doing a more traditional improv game, "Song Styles." An audience member suggests a topic and a specific musical genre, and then Jolley creates a quick ditty on the spot per specification. Thanks to me, for example, we got a bouncy Lawrence Welk-type polka about the friendliness of Philadelphians: slight, but charming.

Jolley on the Spot puts a new twist on the standard improv show; it makes for a pleasant, diverting hour's entertainment. 

I like to say that I go to the theatre to find out what I think about things. With Marc Salem's shows, it's a bit simpler: I go to find out what I'm thinking.

The astonishing, incredible, reality-defying fact is that Marc Salem actually knows what I'm thinking, a lot of the time; and not just me, mind you, but all of the patrons in the theatre. At the performance I attended of his new show Mind Games, Too!, he knew at one point that I was thinking of the number 35... that a lady in the audience named Fernanda was thinking about someone named Sean... that a man a few rows behind me named Carl had been on a trip to Pakistan... that the lady who identified herself as Elisa actually had another name... that a random set of four people in the audience would say "Las Vegas," "November," "25th," and "chocolate" when asked specific but non-leading questions.

Salem can "read" out the serial number of a dollar bill while blindfolded. Also while blindfolded, he can divine not only what an object being held near his fingers is, but uncanny details about it: this tie is yellow and from France, that crumpled up piece of paper has "Marc Salem" written on it, misspelled.

He also, to the consternation of my companion, psyched me out of keeping an envelope containing a $100 bill. (I ended up with a buck–no danger of bribery or other improprieties!)

How does he do it? I have no idea. But unlike others who practice various forms of prestidigitation or illusory arts, Salem says everything he does is genuine–no tricks, just know-how. I totally believe him.

Mind Games, Too! is ninety minutes of awesome demonstration of this man's extraordinary skills. It's 100% participatory: if you sit on an aisle or near the front, there's a good chance you'll be asked to do something, either from your seat or on stage. And if you're sitting somewhere else, don't feel blue: there's still an excellent chance that you'll find yourself somehow in the show, too.

If you've seen one of Salem's previous shows (he's appeared twice before in New York City in the past few years), you'll see some old favorites along with some astonishing new material. Whether you've seen Salem before or not, you should see Mind Games, Too! this holiday season: it's the most entertaining, wonder-filled theatre experience I know of. (Plus there are prizes: at every show, someone gets a shot at that hundred dollars I let slip through my fingers.)

Mrs. Shakespeare and Mrs. Behn is a double bill of one-woman plays about two intriguing characters from the world of seventeenth century English theatre. Mrs. Shakespeare: Will's First & Last Love, written, compiled, and performed by Yvonne Hudson, tells the story of Anne Hathaway, wife of the famous playwright, using mostly his words, culled from the sonnets and eighteen of the plays. Historians know almost nothing of Hathaway's life, and Hudson doesn't do much here to fill in the gaps; instead, she spins a tantalizing but finally unsatisfying tale of a faithful but neglected wife, enlivened by frequent familiar passages from the likes of The Taming of the Shrew and Twelfth Night.

Far more successful is the accompanying piece, Karen Eterovich's Love Arm'd: Aphra Behn & Her Pen. I didn't know a lot about Behn (1640-1689), who is generally cited as England's first professional female writer; Eterovich's engaging show made me want to learn much more.

Love Arm'd benefits immeasurably from having a genuinely interesting story to tell. Behn was the daughter of a British civil servant who died on a trip across the Atlantic to Surinam. In the New World, Behn became acquainted with the Indian natives and with the abominable slave trade, both of which she wrote about in her novel Oroonoko. Back in England, she became a spy for King Charles II, spent some time in debtor's prison, and then eventually supported herself as a playwright, producing works such as The Feign'd Courtesans and The Rover.

Eterovich depicts Behn as a lusty, passionate, supremely independent woman, one who refuses to bow down to the mores of her time and instead remains resolutely her own person. Passages from Behn's work entice us to read them or, better, see them performed (and indeed The Queen's Company is doing The Feign'd Courtesans in repertory with Mrs. Shakespeare and Mrs. Behn right now). Passages from Italian and French poetry are less rewarding.

Eterovich is a spirited and commanding presence as Behn. She's solved the traditional one-person show problem rather neatly by having Behn talk to an offstage lover throughout the show. The performance is rather busier than it needs to be, however; director Robert Edward Burns needs to trust us to be engaged by the material and not need distractions like a fitful slide show or a good deal of extraneous movement.

"The Culture Project @ 45 Bleecker presents Steven Berkoff in One Man. Written, Adapted, Directed and Performed by Steven Berkoff." That's how the cover of the program reads, and it gives you plenty of insight into what to expect from this solo show. One Man is, supremely, a showcase of ego; Berkoff doesn't act, he ACTS, in over-the-top, self-indulgent style, displaying rather relentlessly his dexterity and skill without ever engaging us with a convincing story or a compelling character. Berkoff's performances in the three monologues that comprise One Man are mannered, calculated, and occasionally even a bit grotesque. There is little to savor here, and less to learn; I found it a thoroughly unpleasant evening.

One Man begins with Berkoff's rendering of Poe's classic horror story "The Tell-Tale Heart." He portrays the narrator, who protests throughout that he is not mad, as a veritable loony-tune, equipped with enough twisted postures and eccentric voices for a monster jamboree. Berkoff relates the story straightforwardly, providing visual and sound effects throughout, most of which are designed to call attention to themselves without regard for their sense in the narrative. For example, Berkoff executes an impressive tap dance—machine-gun steps spiraling in on themselves claustrophobically—to simulate descending a winding staircase. It's dazzling stuff, but what does it have to do with Poe?

Interestingly, he's more respectful of his own material. His short monologue "Actor" details the travails of a short-tempered monomaniacal actor whose inability to get a job turns him into a scarred and impotent victim. The writing is vivid, but Berkoff undercuts it by playing the entire piece—20 minutes or so in length—running in place.  The problem is that Berkoff substitutes this stunt for an actual characterization: we never understand why this man is the way he is, or why we're supposed to care about him. All we know is that he's on a treadmill, and that the sixty-ish Berkoff must be remarkably fit to pull off this rigorous workout.

The final piece, "Dog," is a coarse, malevolent sketch about a loutish brute and his pet pit bull. The dog comes off more sympathetically, but just barely. "Dog" is pitched toward the lowest common denominator, resorting to sick toilet humor for laughs and ridiculing easy targets aggressively and stupidly. (Is this the best time to make rude and offensive  jokes about "Paki's"?)

"Dog" might be tolerable if Berkoff provided insight into the sadly screwed-up character he portrays. He does not. In the end, this monologue—even more than the pair that proceed it—is only about a mean-spirited (albeit very skillful) old actor slumming shamelessly for laughs and applause.

Come on, admit it. You're curious.

I know I was.

The surprising thing is, I actually kind of liked Puppetry of the Penis. At least I have a healthy respect for it: it's a show that delivers precisely what it promises: if you're in the mood to watch two grown men play with their penises and testicles and scrotums, manipulating them into various unexpected and silly shapes, then by all means, this is the show for you.

Now I have to admit that, in many decades of life on this planet equipped with those very organs, it has never once occurred to me to try to make them look like, say, a hamburger. But David Friend and Simon Morley, the Australian "penis puppeteers" who created and star in this harmlessly silly show, not only thought of it, they figured out how to do it--along with a couple of dozen other "installations," including the Eiffel Tower, a windsurfer, and, most memorably, a sea anemone. Their craft, or art, is pretty much the same as that of a contortionist, or a fire eater, or a stiltwalker; to wit, they've learned how to do something that almost no one else can do. And they're confident and unembarrassed enough to do it, not just in public but on stage in front of a paying audience. I say: more power to them.

Puppetry of the Penis begins with about fifteen minutes of stand-up from British comedienne Wendy Vousden; it's actually the bluest part of the evening, treating sexual subjects of all descriptions that would have been taboo even fifteen years ago. Next comes a short visit from Priapus, "God of the Penis," who basically sets the ground rules for what's to come; he's played by Morley's brother Justin and also works the video camera, providing live feeds of the puppeteers' endeavors on a giant screen behind them on stage.

Finally, the two stars appear, and after some introductory banter they disrobe, revealing the real stars of the evening, which prove to be startlingly pliable and versatile. The thing is, once Morley and Friend get naked (or nearly so--they keep their shoes and socks on), there's nothing sexy or naughty or even vaguely dangerous about the show: they're so comfortable performing au naturel (as indeed they must be) that even us uptight Americans relax with them and pay attention to their show.

What follows, for about 45 minutes, are bizarre little set pieces, punctuated by ample, generally clever patter. Most of the creations are silly; a few are genuinely witty. All astonish in their way: these guys have definitely been practicing.

The audience mostly howls with approval (though I noticed a few men leave the theatre in the middle of the show).

The only thing sillier than Puppetry of the Penis is pretending there's anything wrong with it. For consenting adults in search of absolutely unadult fun, this is an entirely respectable diversion. Now don't see this show if the thought of two men contorting their genitalia publicly turns you off. But if you think that might be your cup of tea, I don't think you'll be disappointed.

The acclaimed downtown performer/singer/actor Ann Magnuson turned to California’s rave scene rather late in life.  It was 1999, and while most women her age were dropping their kids off at Raves in abandoned roller rinks in California–a disturbing image in itself–Ann Magnuson was already inside, waiting with glow stick in hand. Hence, she became known in “the scene” as Rave Mom.

In that same time period she also tried Ecstasy for the first time at a Marilyn Manson concert in Las Vegas. She fell in love with a whacked-out dot-com millionaire who had a suitcase full of drugs and money, and ended the whole tumultuous year at the legendary Burning Man festival in the Nevada desert. 1999 was a year of regret and redemption for Ms. Magnuson. She wasn’t a real mom, but she wished she was. She wasn’t in love, but was looking for it. She had watched for years those she loved succumb to AIDS–including the most recent death of her brother. She was, I’d guess, in her mid-forties and she was painfully still feeling life’s ironies of loss and love.

What unfolds in the course of the 80-minute evening is the autobiographical journey of a woman coming to terms with a world that suddenly doesn’t make sense anymore (the show is subtitled One Woman’s Mid-Life Crisis in the Last Year of the 20^th Century). Life’s unforeseen circumstances have forced her to seek out something new, something else. She takes comfort in the arms of the “Peace, Love, Unity and Respect “ (PLUR) scene in the rave new world, and much of the material she delivers comes from those ethereal experiences. I don’t find “guess what happened to me the first time I did drugs” stories to be compelling theatre, but Magnuson infuses her anecdotes with her customary sense of humor, and director David Schweizer’s subtle touch keeps the evening moving along.

In many ways, Magnuson’s career is an artist’s dream. The Virginia-born performer started it all in the London punk scene, which brought her to the New York punk scene, which paved the way for a career in music (she has five albums with the acclaimed group Bongwater and one solo album), film (The Hunger, Making Mr. Right, The Caveman’s Valentine), and back to trying-to-make-sense-of-it-all one person shows. She has successfully walked the tightrope of doing what she wants and doing it in front of enough people to almost make her a household name–in the really hip households, that is.  Rave Mom takes Magnuson back to her roots in downtown New York, espousing stories about her roller-coaster lifestyle of being the Hollywood underdog darling, a title she both hates and loves. She craves the Prada-clad LA scene and yet feels the bottomed-out emptiness after she’s been in the midst of it too long.

Magnuson’s in-depth analysis of the dot-com thrill-seeker, represented by a golden carrot suspended in mid-air, is often hilarious, and is by far the most successful aspect of Rave Mom. What should have been equally successful is the underlying emotional life that ties the show together. Magnuson’s referrals to her brother’s death, her seeming regret at not having children, and her LA high-life reflections don’t mesh together enough to take Rave Mom out of the realm of drug-reminiscing and predictable anecdotes about chasing dreams in an unfriendly business. The attempt to move the piece beyond that was awkward and underdeveloped. As for her performance, Magnuson is both engaging and disappointing–she is without a doubt a talented performer with unusual charm and humor, but ultimately fails at transporting Rave Mom to a level beyond mid-life crisis musings.

Magnuson concludes the evening with a personal epiphany and subsequent redemption at the Burning Man festival in the Nevada desert. She enters an art installation there called the Temple of Sad Stories, and we suddenly realize that Magnuson has been standing all along in that temple, thanks to Andrew Lieberman’s set design, and telling us her sad stories. The problem is that they haven’t been that sad, thus her final moments of coming to terms with her brother’s untimely death seem oddly out of place.

Reno takes on the World Trade Center attack in her new solo show, Rebel Without a Pause, now playing at The Club at La Mama. Given the immense spectrum of that topic, Reno finds ample room to hit on a series of hot-button sub-topics like President Bush (whom she is convinced got elected because of his frat-boy congeniality), Mayor Giuliani (“I’m gonna try to change Democracy a little bit, but you try to get back to normal!”), and everyone else she suspects of trying to impede America’s civil liberties for their own self-interests in the name of Freedom (like Congress and the C.I.A.). She also offers thoughts on long-lost friends who called her after the attack (“Hi, I thought you hated me!” “Yeah, I just wanted to see if you were dead!”), and Osama Bin Laden himself (“Every time I see him I think, ‘Wow, is that my yoga teacher?’”). In case you hadn’t figured it out yet, Rebel Without a Pause does not award the events of September 11th with the grave reverence that the media has bestowed upon them over the past month. But it doesn’t lack seriousness, either. Rebel Without a Pause is some serious comedy.

Reno is a very engaging performer. Having made a career out of doing what she calls “heavily-improvised topical monologues with incredible wit and no small amount of political consciousness and common sense,” she knows how to hold an audience’s attention. And, she knows how to put an audience at ease as well. The informal atmosphere of The Club (which is, indeed, set up like a nightclub) coupled with Reno’s entrance (accompanied by her dog, Lucy, whom she immediately let loose in the audience) is just the thing the audience needs in order to feel like the fourth wall is down, and that all the regular rules of audience decorum no longer apply. Reno welcomes audience interaction, and, at times, Rebel Without a Pause resembles an orderly town meeting.

Reno is also a staunch believer in the need for a counterculture, and she flaunts her distrust of the U.S. government proudly. Her skepticism is one of her strong suits, but, unfortunately, it’s also the thing that turned me right off of Rebel Without a Pause. I appreciate her wanting to give us an alternative to the country’s unapologetic patriotism, and her desire to have us view the current political landscape through more objective eyes, but I just didn’t want to hear it. Now, don’t get me wrong: I’m a conspiracy theorist skeptic from way back, and intellectually I agree with everything she says. But, emotionally, I just can’t listen to someone tell me that I shouldn’t trust the government right at the precise moment when I need to trust them more than I ever have. Rebel Without a Pause has value, and I have no one to blame but myself for not enjoying it.

The rest of the audience seemed to be on Reno’s wavelength, however. They laughed and applauded in agreement, and had a great time. The press release’s boast that she “reflects the audience’s suspicion’s and thoughts,” held true on the night I attended (coincidentally, the same day the U.S. and British military started bombing Afghanistan).

Under any other circumstances, I would be cheering Reno on with the rest of the crowd. However, I’ve decided to handle the current situation with a little less irreverence. Those who feel like I do might do well to avoid Rebel Without a Pause. But, for those of you who wish to gouge out the eyes of the U.S. government, it ought to be just what the doctor ordered.

As the title suggests, the premise of Jeffrey Solomon's funny, slightly subversive one-man show Santa Claus is Coming Out is that Old St. Nick has finally decided to tell the world the truth about his sexuality. Seems that Santa is shacked up with an Italian toymaker named Giovanni Gepeddo; Mrs. Claus is a beard; heck, even a couple of the reindeer are Out and Proud. Using TV shows like VH-1's "Behind the Music" and Anna Deavere Smith plays like Fires in the Mirror as his model, Solomon has fashioned a "mockumentary" theatre piece about "Santa-gate," the explosive scandal that followed the above revelations.

What he's come up with is an entertaining, sometimes outrageous comedy that pokes gentle fun at the genres he's satirizing. Far less gentle are the jabs at a host of expected targets, from a homophobic rapper (a la Eminem) to a self-appointed spokeswoman for family values. Audiences who deplore these narrow-minded types are going to find plenty to cheer in Solomon's show, as he gleefully parodies the hate-filled hot air that these folks spew, and then giddily makes each of them choke on his or her own bile.

The trouble is, Solomon is preaching to the converted: the people who really need to see Santa Claus is Coming Out almost certainly never will, and these nastily smug sequences are one of the reasons why. The other reason is the relentless parade of in-jokes that are obviously intended for the gay audience. (An anatomically correct male performing artist doll is the most obvious example.) Solomon essentially marginalizes his show by playing so baldly to his core constituency, which wouldn't matter so much if he didn't have such an important message to impart.

But the fact is that Santa Claus is Coming Out contains, at its center, something significant and urgent and heartfelt. The story that begins the show is about a little boy who likes to play with Barbies instead of baseballs--a youngster who is misunderstood by his parents and ridiculed by his schoolmates and, initially, shunned even by Santa, who brings him a toy truck for Christmas instead of the doll he asked for. This kid should resonate with children, and parents of children, who are different in all sorts of ways from their peers, not just those who are discovering their nascent homosexuality. Santa Claus is Coming Out is all about tolerance, and compassion, and caring, and love for others--even when they aren't like us, or the way we wish they were.

The message shines through, even though the little boy's story is largely set aside for most of the show's running time as Solomon bogs down to indulge in crowd-pleasing homophobe-bashing. Its potency--and Solomon's evident earnest belief in it--distinguishes Santa Claus is Coming Out from more frivolous fare. I just wish that it were more accessible to the people who might actually learn something from it.

Solomon is a fine performer, moving effortlessly among the many characters and caricatures that inhabit his show: I loved his Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer best, I think. As an actor and as a writer he's got style, intelligence, wit, and a good deal of heart. I'd like to see him exorcise some of the knee-jerk vitriol that weakens this piece so that he can educate all kinds of audiences with compassion and good humor.

On television, a long time ago--I don't remember exactly when or what show it was--I saw Charles Nelson Reilly do a musical number in which he recreated moments from his three Broadway hits (Bye Bye Birdie, How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying, and Hello, Dolly!). I remember it was virtuosic, thrilling, and startling, because I knew Reilly as the eccentric misfit with the funny laugh from "The Ghost and Mrs. Muir" and "The Match Game," not a song-and-dance man. The number ended with Reilly braying in his inimitable voice, "Ethel Merman, eat your heart out!"

This is the Charles Nelson Reilly I came to see, decades later, in the autobiographical one-man show Save It for the Stage: The Life of Reilly. Happily, he doesn't disappoint. For just about three hours, the seventy-year-old veteran of stage, screen, and TV holds forth about his life, his parents, his inspirations, his teachers, his work, and his dearest friends. The cast of characters includes the likes of Uta Hagen, Jason Robards and Julie Harris; the stories are variously amusing and surprising and almost always punctuated with well-timed mock rage and the trademark laugh.

The first act details the rise of Reilly, starting with his mostly unhappy youth, spent in a family so dysfunctional, he says, that Eugene O'Neill wouldn't have gone near them. Some of the reminiscences are genuinely touching, especially the true tragic tale of a favorite aunt; all are peppered with humorous exaggerations that make the childhood he dubs Bergmanesque feel more like early Woody Allen.

Act Two covers the last fifty years, sketchily, from his early successes off and on Broadway through his recent triumphs as a theatre director. He spends very little time on the stuff we know best: a brief nod to "Hollywood Squares" and a nice mention of Hope Lange are the only acknowledgements of the decade when he was one of the most familiar faces on television sitcoms and game shows.

Instead, there's gently gossipy banter about some of the famous people he's become friends with, from Burt Reynolds to Roberta Peters. There's a long, outrageous anecdote about the time he visited the White House and met the Queen of England; and there are some too-brief heartfelt accounts of his work as a director and an acting teacher. His recollections of Mae West are the show's highlight, capped by the best (and funniest) impersonation of that spectacular lady that I've ever seen.

The show falters with its name-dropping, unfortunately; and the second act is about 30 minutes longer than it ought to be. And throughout I had a palpable sense of Reilly holding back: for all the intimate revelations--including a couple of backhanded allusions to his own homosexuality--the real story of this man's life is not being disclosed here.

What's good about Save It for the Stage is its breadth: Reilly obviously enjoys being able to do his thing in front of an audience after so many years behind the scenes. As I understood so many years ago when I saw that tour-de-force musical number, Charles Nelson Reilly can do just about anything he puts his mind to. It's a pleasure to have the chance to see him prove that, so effortlessly, all over again.

I have four things to tell you about Seven Seconds:

1. It's must-see theatre.
2. It's an experiment, maybe even a work-in-progress. But it's an experiment that's cooking. When it's finished, it's likely to be mind-blowingly terrific.
3. It's got its own set of rules. Open your mind, unlock all of your sensory receptors, follow directions, and pay attention.
4. It's a surprise. I honestly can't tell you much more without giving important stuff away.

I can tell you this: Seven Seconds is a breathtakingly original, invigoratingly adventurous exploration of the final moments of a man's life. It takes us on a journey through his dying brain, where we witness and experience the shutdown of consciousness: first he can't see, then he can't communicate without the outside world, finally he ceases to exist at all. And, yes, his life flashes before his--our--eyes--repeatedly and weirdly, and in different ways as the various elements comprising this extraordinary piece unfold.

I say "piece" because I don't know exactly what else to call Seven Seconds: it defies categorization with its liberal and innovative use of traditional and interactive theatrical forms, film, sound, and visual art and artifact. I'm going to appropriate the old '60s term "happening" because Seven Seconds is an event that happens to you. It starts happening as soon as you get there and it doesn't stop until, at least in my case, hours after you've left. It's an experience about experience: it plays with, tests, and examines how (and why) we go to the theatre as much as it plays with, tests, and examines those final instants of life from which it takes its title. Parts of Seven Seconds are only seen, while other parts are only heard; it's a jumble of sense and nonsense that can only be entirely put together after it's been played out. Which is just the way that life operates, right?

The creators of Seven Seconds, Brian Snapp and Emanuel Bocchieri, warn us that their work is still in development; there are clearly some things that they will want to do to make this roller coaster ride more of a rush and less of a goof; I wonder if they can also make things a bit less murky without destroying the piece's overall integrity. What they absolutely must do is keep at it: Seven Seconds is so refreshing, so vital, so awe-inspiringly original that it must be brought to fruition.

For now, hurry to the Trilogy Theatre and let Seven Seconds happen to you. You're in for a rich and rewarding evening of theatre unlike anything you've ever experienced.

Shoes, Tim Douglas Jensen's fine solo show at The Duplex, is a funny, touching, and entertaining evening. This collection of five monologues is, first and foremost, a showcase for Jensen's considerable talents as writer and actor. With ease and panache, Jensen transforms himself into five characters who are vivid, three-dimensional, intensely human and enormously different. Aided only by a wig or hat, a prop or two, and the appropriate footgear (hence the title) Jensen brings these intriguing individuals to life and lets us discover, briefly, what it's like to walk in their shoes.

The show opens with Clark (Gable; his mother chose the name as a lark), an exuberant but disturbed young gay man whose life took an unexpectedly tragic turn after the death of his mother. Clark loves the movies and amuses himself (and us) by recreating great moments from the silver screen, impersonating divas old and new with spectacular flair and accuracy. Jensen's Clark is a remarkably gifted mimic, nailing Streisand's mannerisms, Monroe's baby-doll sexiness, and Hepburn's New England stiff upper lip with aplomb (delivering, I might add, letter-perfect renditions of material from Funny Girl, All About Eve, and On Golden Pond that earn giant laughs of recognition). What's best about this scene, though, is the way Jensen balances Clark's outrageousness with honest humanity; it's something we'll see again and again in Shoes.

Vignette number two takes us to Tennessee, where housewife Jolene muses about her life. Coming right after our experience with Clark, we might expect Jensen to do over-the-top drag as stereotyped country girl Jolene, but he plays it straight, so to speak, and creates another nuanced, focused portrait here. The details of Jolene's story–replete with a shotgun marriage, a distant and unloving mother, and a  gang of raucous pre-schoolers–is too familiar; but her account of a visit to New York to see her younger sister in Cats feels fresher and gives the piece some needed emotional heft.

Next on the agenda is Floyd, a young man with learning disabilities who is preparing hopefully for the day when he will be able to live on his own. Jensen imbues Floyd with a good-natured charm that is downright infectious; it's impossible not to fall in love with this bona fide cockeyed optimist. He's also about as different as it's possible to be from Jensen's next character, a Martha Stewart-ish cooking show host named Harriet whose discovery of telltale lipstick stains on her husband's clothing leads to dramatic and unexpected results.

Jensen concludes the evening on a high note with the tale of Sal, a band singer from the heyday of Sinatra who never quite made it. We meet Sal at a retirement home: he's a spry, spirited octogenarian who uses a cane to get around. As Sal talks to us about his past–especially his stormy relationship with a band singer whom he loved and lost–he lights up, at times reliving the memories; at these moments, decades melt away as if by magic and Jensen (as Sal) wields the cane as if it were a microphone, singing an old standard in a mellow baritone. This piece is a sweet, wistful look at the regrets of youth and old age, beautifully written and performed.

All five segments, along with the transitions between them, are seamlessly and skillfully staged by Courtney Patrick Mitchell.

If Shoes has a weakness, it's a lack of cohesion: Clark, Jolene, Floyd, Harriet, and Sal are all interesting people that we're glad to get to know, but there's nothing linking their stories together. This doesn't make the show any the less entertaining, but it keeps Shoes from being a real play. Don't let this minor quibble keep you away, though: Tim Douglas Jensen's talents are myriad and estimable; Shoes is a delightful evening of theatre.

Karen Finley’s Shut Up and Love Me, now playing at Westbeth Theatre Center, is a good old-fashioned one woman burlesque show. "Burlesque" in this case signifying "comedy" as much as "sex." Finley has thankfully graduated from the realm of mere political theatre (a province best left to mere politicians) and now elects primarily to make us laugh. A natural ham, she essays a large number of characters and voices during the telling of her tales, commenting on them all through sarcastic performance in a way that would have done Brecht proud. Her performance is like that of the two-year-old before the family in the living room--uninhibited, out there, unapologetically clownish, and often deadly accurate. She is the perfect John Waters actor, which may be--perversely--why Waters has never used her.

She’ll do anything for a laugh: froth at the mouth, scrunch up her spare flesh and play with it like pizza dough, and, yes, roll around naked in honey. As always, this stuff is done is such a buffoonish spirit that only the sickest of minds would find it sick. A topless dance to Barry White music kicks off the show, but something about her spirit prevents us from regarding her as a sex object. Perhaps it is the Jerry Lewis-like faces she is making. Conservatives, probably all of whom condemned her shows without ever seeing one, always missed that point.

The body of Shut Up and Love Me is a succession of monologues--mostly about female lust. The characters run the gamut from something like Glenn Close’s rendering of Sunny Von Bulow, to a whining Midwestern teenager, to a growling mad dog. The material is all over the place and sometimes tough to follow, though always fascinating to watch. Her best, clearest and most outrageous bit has her, on the advice of her therapist, begging her father to have sex with her. “You’re not my type,” he says.

Finley is in a weird place in her career now. On the one hand, she has retained her downtown rawness, not only by including nudity, profanity and taboo subject matter in her show, but also by overtly rejecting so-called professional polish. The piece is full of fits and starts, re-dos, flubbed lines, misplaced props, and referral to a nearby script. As with the best jugglers, who always drop a ball to keep you interested, it is impossible to know the degree to which these bumps are intentional (though they lend the show a folkish charm). On the other hand, she has gotten so famous that (as with the Ridiculous Theatre in its later years) the audience now contains a rather large contingent of elderly people, i.e., mainstream ticket buyers who normally haunt Broadway. To see them rubbing elbows with the punks and queers at a Karen Finley show was, needless to say, delicious. The lady in front of me with a particularly tall hairdo was like a magnet for Finley, who attempted to rest her breasts there. The woman hollered and recoiled--but she stayed long enough to get honey all over her glasses at the show’s climax. Is it that hippies are getting old, or that old people are getting hip? Time will tell.

Is there hope for the future of humanity?

Attend a performance of Slanguage, the rousing and remarkable new performance work by Universes, and you'll know that the answer is a resounding yes. This collection of poems, songs, and stories, all to a Hip-Hop beat, feels and looks a little like five young artists having a goof; but keep your eyes, your ears, your mind, and your heart wide open: what we're witnessing here is the unmistakable birth of new art for a new generation. It's a generation that blurs traditional boundaries of race and ethnicity; a generation that disowns the barriers that separate and victimize; a generation that embraces life with joy and faith and hope.

"We are change."  So begins the final scene of Slanguage: but change is in the air all the way through the show. How do I describe it to you? What it most resembles, at least superficially, is Ntozake Shange's choreopoem for colored girls who have considered suicide/when the rainbow is enuf. Like that landmark work, Slanguage uses various storytelling forms--some traditionally of the theatre, others not--to evoke community for an audience. Slanguage's community is the contemporary urban spaces of the South Bronx, where Spanish and English and Ebonics meld and merge and morph together; where violence and TV and Hip-Hop are cultural institutions as significant as family, school, and church. In Slanguage, we get sound bites from this world--character sketches and vignettes in schoolrooms and bodegas and subway trains and on the street. We learn the talk and we watch the walk.

And we discover, thanks to these five extraordinary writer-performers, what's in the hearts of these young people. We hear a fable, a la Dr. Seuss, about two street gangs who unite to save their signature identities from appropriation by a tycoon called Bill McDollars. We see a young black man explain, to himself and his friends, why his identification with Bruce Lee (rather than an African-American role model) feels right. And we witness, through Universes' somehow still innocent eyes, an older generation searching gallantly but fruitlessly for the easy answer, the quick fix, the number to--at long last--hit.

Resonant, vivid images, these; punctuated by bursts of rhythm and energy that signify the new order Universes will build. That new order is not, by the way, only in the so-called real world; Slanguage is a harbinger of theatrical forms to come, as well. Director Jo Bonney, set designer Scott Pask, lighting designer James Vermeulen, sound designer Darron L. West, and projections designer Batwin + Robin have all contributed enormously to the surprising and original shape of this show. Their work defies easy categorization but bespeaks talent and theatre know-how.

Now let me tell you about these five astonishingly creative young people who created and perform Slanguage. Gamel Abdel Chasten is a poet and monologist who weaves dazzling webs of words about iconic figures like Bruce Lee and Mohammed Ali. Lemon is a Hip-Hop storyteller, bringing wit and edge to a traditional form (as in that Dr. Seuss tale I mentioned earlier). Flaco Navaja is the jokester, his Nuyorican heritage informing his poems and scenes. Steven Sapp is the sophisticate, connecting this band of revolutionaries with those of an earlier time--Kerouac, Beckett, Hughes. Mildred Ruiz, the sole female member, is the dynamo singer, possessed of a voice of gospel-styled potency and the sweetness of an angel.

Terrific as they are solo, they blaze when they work together. Slanguage is about teamwork, and whether they take all the roles in what amounts to a modern-day version of Street Scene, or perform complicated five-part harmony (percussion and voice) on a rousing a capella song, Universes is never less than superb. These performers belong on the stage; let's hope they're able to stay there for years to come.

Slanguage isn't perfect: it's not all of a piece, for one thing, and some of the material is overlong or out-of-place. But it's still one of the most exciting works of theatre in town right now, and a thrilling portent of amazing--and important--things to come.

Everyone I know who has seen Sound of the Sun has formed an entirely different impression of what it is. This confirms my own view of the piece, which is that it is very abstract and very good: it engages all of your senses and manages to get under your skin. There's plenty that you won't respond to here, but there's equally plenty that you will adore.

Creator/director Arthur Maximillian Adair calls it a "theatrical installation" and I'm not sure I can find a better descriptor. The Club space upstairs at La MaMa has been transformed into a mammoth, free-wheeling playing area—stage at both ends plus runways along the side walls, with the show's central property, a guitar case filled with dirt, smack in the middle of the floor. Rows of benches are provided for the audience to sit on, but almost as an afterthought: we exist amidst this theatre event quite palpably, with actors, dancers, and musicians never more than a foot or two away from us (and sometimes closer than that).

Sound of the Sun is ninety continuous minutes of performance. Six actors costumed as clowns mime the birth of mankind; a six-member chorus, shrouded in white, loom as spirits (ghosts?), commenting visually and aurally though without traditional language; six dancers channel energy in the form of ritualized movement drawn, I believe, from various cultures and historical moments around the globe.

Soloists include the remarkable Federico Restrepo, who is commandingly potent as "The Wind"; Saria Young, a contemporary tapper who circumnavigates the space impressively more than once; Eugene the Poogene, arresting as "The Sun"; and Denise Greber and Evealeena Dann, both magnificently costumed and visually interesting as "The Woman" and "The Moon."

I know that Sound of the Sun has a narrative, but I have to tell you that it didn't signify much to me. What I loved about the piece was the connection of actors with audience and contemporary theatre with traditional ritual. The company hails from nearly a dozen different countries, and at least that many are represented in the music and dance that drives this show. Sound of the Sun reminded me that the rhythms of Native American, Near Eastern, South Asian, Japanese, and many other cultures live on in today's hip-hop. Here's a show that teaches us what we too often forget, that the humans who share this planet have an awful lot in common.

See The Six Characters Cometh before they goeth. This cutting-edge troupe keeps on getting better and better; their current show suggests that they're just about ready to take their place alongside The Kids in the Hall and Monty Python in the pantheon of smart, anarchic sketch comedy. Seems to me that savvy television producers should be making a beeline to the Connelly Theatre to catch their show and snap them up.

Meantime, be happy The Six Characters are back in the downtown theatre world where they launched themselves, just two years ago, in a FringeNYC diversion called Six Characters in Search of a Working Title. That show featured a three-minute pantomimed history of the Middle Ages; this one, whose stated theme is nothing less than "What is Existence, What is Society, What is Reason, What is Art, and so on," includes a dramatization of the Old Testament (and some of the New) to the overture to The Barber of Seville. (Biggest laugh: Pharoah succumbing to the Ten Plagues and then the wrath of God himself when he parts the Red Sea. Most irreverent moment: the Virgin Mary getting impregnated by a turkey baster.)

The Six Characters hold very little sacred beyond making the audience laugh. To that end, The Six Characters Cometh is a marathon of tomfoolery of every stripe, from its wryly comic opening featuring a pack of lame June Taylor-esque dancers who never quite manage to make a single serviceable geometric shape, to the trademark finale in which a hapless audience member is taunted by pie-wielding cast members. There's a surreal live action/video sequence in which three bumblers track down a dowager's missing ring (the largest cubic zirconium in existence), a broadly silly elevator sequence whose big comic idea is someone letting loose a giant fart (we laugh in spite of ourselves), a cooking show hosted by Napoleon, and a chaotic interactive interlude in which cast members force feed Oreos to folks in the front rows.

It wouldn't seem so inordinately funny if the Six Characters, of whom there are actually seven these days, weren't so inordinately talented. Their names are Kym Bernazky, Jim Ford, Alexandra Gray, Katharine Houston, Alan Ostroff, Seth Trucks, and Sarah Wilson, and they are all remarkably skilled mimes, dancers, clowns, and physical comics. They take on and cast off characters as diverse as Satan, Superman, Amelia Earhart, Moses, and even God Himself with astonishing ease, at lightning-fast speeds. (They can also sing, or at least cluck, in mean harmony.)

If you've seen a Six Characters show before, you'll be impressed, I think, at how far they've come. Working with Fractured Atlas Productions and director Suchan Vodoor, they've acquired real polish, though thankfully neither slickness nor gloss. Even when they're mining the hoariest of comic cliches, they have a freshness and originality that bespeaks their good-natured vitality. When the show is over, we still want more.

The Solomon Grundy Circus, or The Cardboard Celebration Circus, or (my own special name) The ABC’s of Socialism for Kids Under 12, is Bread and Puppet Theatre’s holiday treat for “not totally conservative” families. Unlike the company’s for-adults-only Insurrection Mass with Funeral March For a Rotten Idea, this very special circus is for children of all ages, especially those whose parents are a bit left-of-center.

The event offers five versions of the famous Solomon Grundy nursery rhyme. In case you need a refresher, Mr. Grundy was born on Monday, christened on Tuesday, married on Wednesday, took ill on Thursday, got worse on Friday, died on Saturday and is then buried on Sunday. In Bread and Puppet’s version, however, Solomon’s life is given a few new twists–he shops, parties, works too hard and then as a result, dies. Or he isn’t allowed to live in peace on his land, takes matters into his own hands, and is executed. I don’t want to give all of Mr. Grundy’s stories away, but you get the gist.

The “Damnation Army Band” provides music for the evening, and the variety of the Bread and Puppet’s signature puppets offers spectacular entertainment for children, and oozes political satire for adults. Well, I’d be remiss to state that the political spoofs are not used as learning tools for the younger audience as well–the company’s first vignette attempts to explain to kids what the economy is by symbolizing it as a large pink elephant. The population (a tiny gaggle of cardboard people) is placed on the back of the pink elephant/economy, which, of course topples to the ground under the population–get the idea? There’s also an ironic happy computer family, a “pursuit of happiness” cardboard puppet dance, a cockfight between Corporate America #1 and Corporate America #2, and many, many other imaginative visuals that certainly kept me on my toes and the full house of children smiling.

Bread and Puppet founder Peter Schumann acts as the ringleader and storyteller, and he works hard to make the circus inclusive and enjoyable. And the puppets themselves, in case I haven’t made it clear enough, are mesmerizing. Giant horses, lions, blackbirds, and Santa himself all make an appearance, and the only thing that I’ll mention about the final surprise ending is that I’ve never seen anything close so tall and looming on stage without a net.

Children being the recipients of Bread and Puppet’s political satire jarred me, especially at the beginning, until I realized that I’d prefer them learning about the underbelly of America’s foreign policy issues through graceful, larger-than-life puppets rather than watching, well, most anything on television. The children were entranced by the company’s puppet masterpieces regardless of what they were able to infer from the political ridicule–although I’m sure the event sparked some great discussions on the train ride home.

Schumann and his gang offer The Solomon Grundy Circus as an alternative–or deterrent–to holiday shopping. They hope that you don’t forget not to equate the month of December with Macy’s and Barnes and Noble, but in case you have, they’d like to remind you and your family about the art of (secular) celebrating without giving into the consumer craze of the season. I, for one, welcome the change.

Christopher Eaves describes Truemyth as a "demonstration" which is as apt a description as any for this unusual theatre work. Eaves, who is Truemyth's writer and director, has created this piece from the writings and life of David Wojnariwicz. Wojnarowicz was a poet, artist, and AIDS activist who died at the age of 38 in the early '90s. I'm not familiar with his work, but it appears that Truemyth provides a glimpse at his sensibility and concerns. Examples of his art are displayed in the lobby just outside the theatre.

Here's what we glean from Truemyth: Wojnarowicz was a born outsider, victim of an apparently intolerant and abusive upbringing from which he could not wait to escape. A dangerous adolescence and early adulthood seem to have been spent on the road; a beat poet aesthetic got spawned, making him intellectual and artistic heir to the likes of Ginsburg and Kerouac. His work seems to have been about the seamy underside of urban America: hookers and hustlers, tricking in bathrooms and bushes. Later, after he became ill with AIDS, Wojnarowicz's social conscience seems to have blossomed into political activism: we see his art and his writings ablaze with the helpless anger of the honestly oppressed.

Such is the narrative thread of Truemyth, vital to a literalist like me but probably beside the point to the show's creator, who has blended text, movement, gesture, sound, and stillness to create his "demonstration." Five actors--Wyatt Batty, Gabriela Fernandez-Coffey, Marni Penning, Eric Rasmussen, and Thom Sibbitt-- narrate and embody Wojnarowicz's thoughts, evoking mood (or, more accurately, levels of tension) and often suggesting specific times and places in Wojnarowicz's story. A sixth silent character, acted by Matt Chapman, comments gesturally on a platform above the action. I'd be lying if I said I understood the significance of all (or even half) of what was going on in the theatre, but it's all performed with assurance and precision and it creates a kind of kaleidoscopic pageant of ideas, events, and images about its subject.

I would have liked more distinction between Wojnarowicz's own life and those of his subjects: it's only about halfway through the show that it becomes clear that some parts of Truemyth evoke the artist while other parts evoke the art. But Eaves is undeniably successful in conjuring (and honoring) the spirit of this man he so admires and respects.

I wonder what someone who wandered into Vienna: Lusthaus (revisited) without knowing what it was would make of it. Would the frequent cold-hearted images of (often naked) women  being beaten and/or sexually abused and defiled be upsetting? Would the pointedly anti-Semitic dialogue arouse anger?

The program explains: "Vienna Lusthaus (revisited), like a dream, explores the unconscious world of Vienna at the beginning of the twentieth century—in music and movement and texts—fragments of a lost, shattered world, taken from the paintings of Egon Schiele and Gustav Klimt, from the casebooks of Sigmund Freud, from the dreams of his patients, from letters and journals and diaries: the unconscious world from which our tormented, waking world springs eternally."

100% accurate, to the extent that anyone still living can know what the "unconscious" world was like a hundred years ago. Creator Martha Clarke and her collaborators Charles L. Mee and Richard Peaslee want to show us the ugliness at the core of the rot of contemporary western civilization, but they want to show it Beautifully, which is to say Artistically and Abstractly, which is to say Pretentiously. I found nothing of beauty in this show, nor anything that illuminated a theme that, as far as I'm concerned, has been done to death.

What I did find was, consistently, the offensive objectification of women and the dangerous repetition of incendiary ideas (presumably quoted material). I know that the idea is to remind us of the brutish underside of our collective history, but if you didn't read that blurb in your program would you have sufficient context within Clarke's show to understand that? I fear not. And even if you do "get" it: what's the difference between a half-naked woman being ridden like a horse on the stage of the New York Theatre Workshop and a pornographic film showing something nearly equivalent? Throughout the show, I kept thinking: should an artist (a woman!) exploit women to make a point that's been made over and over again about the exploitation of women a century ago?

Within Outer Spaces, the  performance work from the San Francisco-based company Capacitor now playing at HERE, bills itself as a fusion of dance, martial arts, and circus arts. It's dance-centric, I'd say, with a fair amount of gymnastic-type acrobatics thrown in, along with the occasional juggling and walking around wearing a headdress of flaming gas jets. There are near-continuous on-screen projections of scientific-looking images such as celestial bodies, dividing cells, and rows of 1s and 0s. And there's a soundtrack consisting of new age music interrupted, at times, by noises both familiar and unidentifiable.

It's absolutely a multi-sensory experience: plenty to hear and see (though it appears that practically all views are obstructed, at least a little); even stuff to smell and feel (the woman dancing with the fire on her head gets close enough so we can both feel the heat and smell the gas). Indeed, Within Outer Spaces, with its relentless abstract movement, filmed backdrop, and soundscape, often feels more like sensory assault than sensory enhancement.

 It's not thrilling or sexy the way De La Guarda is; it's not breathlessly hip like Criss Angel Mindfreak; it's not beauty for beauty's sake like, say, Swan Lake. It's just resolutely Serious.

Suffice to say that whatever Within Outer Spaces is, it's definitely not my bag. There's no question that a lot of time and effort has gone into creating this show, and so I hope someone gets something out of it. But I have to admit that I won't be lining up for the next Capacitor show, should there be one.