FringeNYC 2005 Reviews - Page 12

She Wears a Peacock Crown
reviewed by David Hilder

She Wears a Peacock Crown, from Epic Actors’ Workshop & Choir, is a pair of pieces based on stories by Bengali writers Rabindranath Tagore and Mahasweta Devi, highlighting “the consequences women endure in their struggle for survival and freedom, their potency and courage, sacrifices they make with their body and soul to sustain life on this Earth.” That’s a pretty tall order, certainly a worthy one, and it’s a shame this production fails to satisfy its lofty goals.

“The Journey” focuses on the young caretaker (Taniya Sen, who co-wrote this adaptation) of a bedridden woman (Lilabati Majumdar) who regularly reads the older woman’s diary to her. The tale from the diary highlights the older woman’s unhappy marriage and her close friendship with her young sister-in-law, who ends up in her own unhappy arranged marriage. At the same time, the caretaker is in her own bad relationship, but having fled her parents’ house, she feels trapped. The revelation of another diary provides insights into the older woman’s life that help the caretaker make the next step in her own life. The dramaturgy is not always strong (why does the young woman stop reading one painful story when it has upset the older woman, but then jump directly to reading the woeful story of a stillbirth?), and none of the revelations is particularly surprising. And Sen does not make her character’s emotional outbursts convincing, nor does Majumdar render her active (though nonspeaking) role credibly.

“The Breast Chronicle” fares much better, thanks to a lively, engaging performance by Gargi Mukherjee, who narrates and plays all the characters, nearly a dozen. Jashoda is a Brahmin woman, a devoted wife and mother, who, through a series of events, becomes the wet nurse to all the children of the Haldar family daughters-in-law (there are many). When Jashoda’s husband learns of her employ, he figures that in order to keep her breasts full of milk, he will have to impregnate her every year. And so it is that Jashoda nurses some fifty children over the years, twenty of her own and thirty Haldar grandchildren. But of course, eventually, she can no longer fulfill her duties, and in fact as the Haldars have aged, there is no need for her to do so. Jashoda’s decline is certainly moving—her husband and sons abandon her, as do the Haldars (though she finds her way back into their household), she becomes ill—but it is so protracted in this adaptation that its impact is severely diluted. And yet, throughout, Mukherjee is simply wonderful, finding the essential humanity in every character she plays, and narrating beautifully. She is a tremendous actor.

Bringing these tales to the stage—particularly “The Breast Chronicle”—is an interesting idea. But Sakti Sengupta’s sluggish direction and insufficiently taut adaptations only serve to undermine all the good intentions in the world.

Film Noix
reviewed by Jaime Robert Carrillo

Film Noix is the latest offering from local playwright Ed Malin, who lists among his credits comedies such as Girl = Mass x Anorexia and Judge, Yuri and Executioner. The program points out "noix" is French for nuts, preparing you for an oddball show. If you’re a true fan of puns and ironic jokes, then see this play.

Film Noix is a comedic mystery regarding the Haley’s Comet International Center, two unsatisfied lovers, and alien life forms on Uranus. While at times difficult to follow, the play is replete with numerous comic effects, particularly those dealing with irony. Starting off as a “film noir play” of uncertain time period and setting, Film Noix delves into the lives of two female secret agents both in love with the wily El Condé Nasty. Each thinks she is his only love, because El Condé’s twin brother, the Nasty Prince, and his gangster colleague Madras Ofenian are obscuring the picture. It’s a successful spoof of the film noir style in terms of mood and tone.

Malin’s strengths are utilizing puns and ironic jokes. They’re practically in every line and they are recognizable. Among his memorable jokes are the ones about the Spanish "ñ", and the "Are you Armenian or Irish?" question, to which the reply is "Both, that’s why I can drink a lot and I can dance."

The double-edged sword is that this comedic rhythm risks monotony because every character is essentially following the same formula of pun and ironic joke. That’s in virtually every line of the play with no variation. I suspect it’s intentional on Malin’s part, because the dialogue seems aimed more at cracking up the audience than at creating characters who connect emotionally. The play drags a little in the first two scenes, but refreshes itself in the third scene with Nasty Prince (played by Jack McGowan) and Madras (played by Steve Deighan), a funnier part.

The convincing costumes may be picked out directly from each actor’s wardrobe, yet they all look excellent, especially secret agent Tina’s (played by Elizabeth Shanks) sexy black dress. Each actor displays commitment, particularly Deighan.

The fight choreography is choppy and sound cues for scene transitions pointless. Frequently, the lights are cut off too soon and the audience is left in awkward darkness.

Nevertheless, Malin is to be commended for successfully completing the difficult task of writing a full play from what was originally a five-minute scene written in 48 hours.

Bridezilla Strikes Back!
reviewed by Joe LaRue

Cynthia Silver believed the producers. She believed when she was told that she would be featured in a documentary called “Manhattan Brides,” that it would advance her acting career, and that it would be a way for her to share her bridal experience with other new brides. She was so very wrong. The show was sold to Fox-TV, where it was re-edited and retitled Bridezillas, putting Cynthia on the path to becoming one of the most hated women in America. Her one-woman show, Bridezilla Strikes Back, is a mostly hilarious attempt to find closure from that experience.

Silver takes us through every step of the story, from meeting her future husband, to auditioning for the reality show, through the filming, as well as in and out of several fantasy sequences, most of which take place on Oprah. Bridezilla Strikes Back is most fun when she relaxes into the comedy, looks directly at the audience and really seems to want to explain her case to us. Silver is engaging enough to have us on her side the entire time, anticipating our questions, of which the main one is: “Why did you trust them!?”

What works best about Bridezilla Strikes Back is the structure of the story. On a reality show, we are given small pieces of footage taken out of context, but here Silver provides us with all the context, walking us through the entire filming process. Then, in a jaw-droppingly funny climax, she shows us how such a horrible picture of her was painted by repeating three choice video clips and adding misleading voiceover and dramatic music.

Silver really settles into the performance about halfway into the show. She is at her best when playing herself—affable, funny, and sparkling. We trust her on stage, and as she regales us with her tale of deception and humiliation, we are happy to share in her horror.

The Last Black Cowboy
reviewed by Jaime Robert Carrillo

The Last Black Cowboy, written and directed by Jimonn Cole, evocatively describes itself as a poem “inspired by the experience of child rape, particularly the rape of a little boy by a little girl.” It also claims choreography and “an underscore of pre-war gospel from the 1920’s.” These descriptions in this show’s marketing materials seem to promise an experience of some potency. Unfortunately, that is not the case with this piece.

The play features three nameless characters; all dressed identically, portraying one man's constant torment, pain, and perseverance. This stricken main character (played by Cole) rants about the difficulties he’s encountered, recounting moments with his family, his youth, and relationships. In the show, he mostly faces the audience and delivers his tirade to us, while the other two nameless characters either look on or help set the scene.

The piece begins with Cole on the ground, looking downtrodden; and then he tosses and turns. It’s a silent and effective opening which draws us in for about the first two minutes, but it quickly unravels into non-stop barrage of words. The play continues in this fashion, making it ineffective because it’s confusing. You don’t ever get a clear sense of what’s going on, who this character is, or what he’s ranting about.

The show also features Artesia Balthrop and Amber Jean Koerner in smaller roles, but this show comes off as too much of a solo showcase for writer/director Cole. This is unfortunate because Baltrhop and Koerner provide most of the play's few engaging moments onstage, such as the youthful innocence of a hopscotch pantomime, or an unexpected playground moment with a basketball backboard. Balthrop exhibits good vocal energy.

Lighting designer Amith A. Chandrashaker's work stands out. The overall color scheme and the magnified lighting effect for the main character at the show's end exceed design expectations for a FringeNYC show. The makeup for the three characters is also noteworthy for its dark, dramatic look.

But ultimately I cannot recommend The Last Black Cowboy to you. There is no emotional variation in the main character, which makes us not care about him.  And there’s a moment when he arbitrarily breaks out into song which feels like it's from a completely different play. Cole's Southern cowboy accent drops in and out throughout, although he does have good volume control.

Some of the work's problems might be corrected through collaboration. As it is, there’s too much of the main character deliberately turning downstage to talk to the audience. A director might help him fix this in the future, as well as help establish a time and place for the setting, which is noticeably missing in this production. Ideally, the piece could build on the “Taking granddaddy fishing” monologue and “What are you doing here…You’re not hurt” section, the only two moments where any emotion was visible, to take it beyond its current level of a theatrical experimental along the lines of a graduate thesis or student project.

Widow of Abraham
reviewed by Gregg Bellon

“Widow.” The word itself inspires sympathy, weighed heavily by the archetype of grief and suffering. When personified and given a historical context, say the 9/11 attacks, the widow transcends mythological distance and digs herself deep into your psyche: “I know her,” you say.

David Valdes Greenwood, playwright, knows this, and in Widow of Abraham, the eponymous widow he creates in Sarah (played by the versatile Anne Thibault) carries this grief and suffering in with her as she enters through the audience; when she arrives on stage, where eight black chairs have been arranged randomly, she instantly has our sympathy. Unfortunately, Greenwood's 85-minute-long solo play, with characters ringing true to stereotypes, cannot be sustained by sympathy alone.

Sarah and Abe are a happily married, pseudo-interracial urban couple living the big city romance of Chinese-take-out movie Fridays and walk-up apartments. Until, that is, September 11, 2001, when their world is turned inside out. Abe is a British citizen, the son of a British father and an Afghan mother who, a widow herself, repatriates from the U.K. after her husband dies. A sudden dubious plea from Ibrahim’s mother, feigning illness, draws him to travel to Afghanistan just prior to September 11, and winds him into the worst-case scenario of a War-on-Terror dragnet. While in Afghanistan, Abe re-adopts his given name of Ibrahim as a filial catalyst to his reburgeoning interest in Islam. This family obligation, his metaphorical jihad, splits Abe/Ibrahim, according to Sarah, because his love for her was all that he wanted, but now he’s compelled to stay with the family despite the impending invasion.

The military stampede arrives, trigger-happy artillery sergeants mistake Ibrahim’s family dwelling for an insurgent outpost, and shells rain down, destroying the place. A relative recovers a Kenneth Cole loafer, size 11, that Sarah holds in effigy of her lost soulmate. Alas, some time later, comes a phone call out of the blue. “Your husband is in Cuba,” a thick Middle-Eastern accented voice says over the line. Not dead, but worse, in American custody on the tropical Eastern tip of the beautiful Pearl of the Antilles. Or so “they” say. And so on.

This leads Sarah on a biblical quest to find at least five humans worth saving that would justify her abandoning what she feels is now her mandate: an event so symbolic that it justifies all the destruction it inflicts, a new Sodom, Gomorrah, Rome… the latest Great Fall. Sarah travels the public transportation system, buses in general, in her quest to find those redeemable souls.

Greenwood's writing choice—to reveal the character of Abe/Ibrahim to us in bits and pieces woven in between the conversations with six or seven bus riders that Sarah re-enacts for us in her biblical quest to justify the atrocity she feels a greater source has mandated of her—eventually negates the effect of the injustice. Both Abe/Ibrahim and Sarah suffer the loss of civil liberties and basic human rights, which should scare us all into an awareness of the current stance our government is taking domestically and globally in the name of national security.

But Greenwood is the one taunting us, tempting us to defy his gumption. He allies himself with the biblical Abraham who was called by his God to sacrifice his only son as a show of affection to the only true idol one should have, um, God: in the name of “good” even my atrocities are justified. A faulty premise to begin with, and one which Widow of Abraham fails to re-examine to substantial effect.

Extraordinary
reviewed by Geeta Citygirl

Extraordinary is a show that attempts to go beyond what is ordinary or usual while teaching acceptance of all peoples. Hurrah for this musical that tickles and delights audiences of all ages. When I read that this was part of the “Fringe Jr.” entries, I wasn’t sure what to expect. But as I watched one of my new summer favorite venues, The Mazer Theater, fill up, I noticed the crowd on this afternoon was not just children. Congratulations to Russo Famiglia Productions who in association with Vital Theatre Company present this musical adventure.

The book and lyrics are credited to the director, Dante Russo, who does an impressive job mounting this story (with the catchy music by David F. M. Vaughn) that reminded me of both Alice in Wonderland and The Wizard of Oz. At the beginning of the play, we meet nine-year old Lester, the “King of Everything” (as he belts out in the opening song). Accompanied by his imaginary friend Fred, Lester is being scolded to clean by his mother. The chorus, “I am King… King of Everything” repeats so many times that you inevitably find yourself humming along.

The adventure takes off when Lester meets his deaf cousin Hope. He wants to get back her hearing and recalls mom’s advice. His mother tells him if he doesn’t clean the living room, there might be an entire world of people in that couch. So along with Fred and Hope (who can also see his imaginary friend), Lester dives into the couch to Imaginary Land to find her hearing. Watching the three actors "disappear" into the couch is wonderfully fairy-tale like. They are off to find the Queen who they believe will grant their wish. Along the way, they meet the Girl with Legs of Stone, Peter the Chocolate Eater, Lonely Lucy, and the dynamic Dustmites.

Played with genuine childlike innocence by the tall and handsome Richie Cook, Lester becomes a character we all root for. Maxwell Glick plays Fred with just the right amount of endearing kiddie qualities, and Sandie Rosa does a marvelous job as Hope and her ability to use sign language seems effortless (credit Miriam Morrow for the ASL instruction). Kristen Sergeant is a bit too nagging as the Mother but has fun being Lonely Lucy and the Queen. Mary Theresa Archbold as the Girl with Legs of Stone plays it with the quick pace required for a character who is obsessed with time racing by. The country-bumpkin like qualities brought to Peter the Chocolate Eater by actor Rick Kunzi are amusingly suitable. But my largest applause goes to Archbold and Kunzi for their portrayal of the Dustmites. The physical and vocal energy required for these outrageous characters does not go unnoticed. And the "Dustmite Jive" will get you rocking in your seat.

The proscenium stage is used wonderfully and every little detail is tended to. With a groovy live band conducted by musical director Jad Bernardo and fun dance numbers choreographed by Lindsay Rogan, all the production values get thumbs up. The crew is composed of more than 15 people (a large number of behind-the-scenes talent, especially for a FringeNYC show). Notably exceptional are the costumes by Majorie LeWit, scenic design that has the grace to smoothly change by Nikolaus Webern, props by Mike Horowitz, and lighting by Amith Chandrashaker.

Fucking Ibsen Takes Time
reviewed by Scott Mendelsohn

Fucking Ibsen Takes Time takes a funny conceit—Nora and Torvald Helmer from A Doll’s House and Hedda and George Tesman from Hedda Gabler take up residence in the home of Mrs. Alving and her son Oswald from Ghosts—and strings it into a successful, insightful farce. Playwright Erick Herrscher, director Benjamin Mosse, and their accomplished cast of classically trained actors skewer the excesses of these characters with respect and joy. They achieve the froth and zing of this most demanding of forms, and their ambition is matched by their level of accomplishment. The show deserves to be one of the hot tickets of FringeNYC.

Herrscher provides a steady stream of jokes and gags for the play. But as the plots move and intersect in logical and often funny ways, Herrscher shows real insight. I cared about the characters’ development. Nora Helmer’s flightiness is taken to alcoholic, sex-crazed extremes, but always acutely written, and played by Marnye Young with comedic gusto and precision. Christianna Nelson brings an off-kilter glee to Hedda’s threats and machinations that had me rooting for her when she starts burning manuscripts and the Alvings’ orphanage. Stefani Katarina proves a standout as Hilda-Thea Wangel-Parish-Pixler-Linde-“AlmostSloness”-Elvstead. Playing the dear school chum from the past who so often figures in the exposition of family secrets in Ibsen’s plays, Katarina brings a poise and simplicity to the proceedings that allow the entangled plots to fly by, and the jokes to shine through.

One of Herrscher’s richest inventions is unfortunately foiled by sloppy direction and an unfocused, apparently uninformed performance. During the play, a mysterious Stranger (Jacob Blumer), a la Peer Gynt, comes into the house. Nora, Hedda, and Mrs. Alving all recognize him as a character from their play. This Stranger, however, does not know any of them and manages to wriggle his way through by allowing them all to believe what they choose. This classic gag provides a very effective hook that spans the entire play. He is ultimately revealed, at a turning point in the play, to be Noel Coward—a very funny absurdist touch that manages to seem just right. Unfortunately, this secret has been revealed in the advertising for the play, and in the falsely exaggerated British accent and mugging of the actor. Were the actor to keep his secret and find the deadpan drollery for which Noel Coward is rightly famous, it could imbue the play with a deep sense of mystery, menace even, with a much greater comedic payoff.

The second act is too long, and there is an unnecessary and pretentious coda that has little to do with what has gone before. There may also be moments—even in the title—that display a crudeness for its own sake. But overall, this play and production gleams with the wit of a Charles Ludlam, and ultimately does justice to the greatness in Ibsen’s plays.

The Lizards
reviewed by David DelGrosso

eXposed Brick Productions is presenting the world premiere of the late downtown playwright Alan Bowne’s very dark comedy The Lizards, directed by Damon W. Arrington. Bowne, who died in 1989, is probably best known for his play Beirut, and eXposed Brick has become a frequent home to his work.

The Lizards takes place in the hot summer of 1983 in the East Village apartment of Maurice, an aging queen who has become the “mark” and mother figure to a few young hustlers in the neighborhood. He is particularly close to Kip, whom he shelters, and Kip has repaid Maurice’s trust by using his apartment as a hiding place for 25 grams of stolen heroin. On the day the drugs are to be sold they come up missing and Kip puts the blame on Maurice. Complicating the search is Maurice’s fixation with keeping and compiling piles and piles of old newspapers and magazines, giving the panicked small-time drug thieves a lot to tear through.

Most of the play's action follows the pattern of any crime story with a missing bag of drugs or money—there are accusations, power games, betrayals, and plenty of beatings and torture. As a play, The Lizards does not seem to have much of a point that it is getting at, but the journey itself is a sweaty, muscular 90 minutes of criminals behaving badly. For all but the squeamish, it is a compelling, guilty pleasure such as you might find in the hopelessness of ‘70s crime films, or the tireless aggression and invective of Tarantino’s Reservoir Dogs.

I am not sure how to explain why we can enjoy such a dark spectacle—perhaps it is a kind of catharsis, or—whatever the opposite of vicariousness is—call it “God, I’m glad I’m not in the middle of that!” But, however I justify it, I know I was entertained. Perhaps if Bowne could have seen this bold first production, it would have given him the chance to know where else to take his characters, as the play feels unfinished, but unfortunately that is not possible. Still, eXposed Brick Productions (the only company I know that has the word “seedy” in its mission statement) has given The Lizards an exuberantly over the top premiere which allows the play's larger-than-life characters to chew, tear, and overturn the scenery with aplomb.

As Maurice, Greg Mehrten provides a center to the play, giving this character dignity and strength as he tries to stand up to this attack on his small home. As 3-Yard, Kip’s boss on the street and the self-proclaimed alpha of the situation, Sean Twomey is by turns explosive, dangerous, and pathetic, and always interesting to watch. I would also like to give special mention to fight director Michael G. Chin, his two credited assistants Marius Hanford and Maggie Macdonald, as well as the whole cast for creating some of the most brutal and believable stage violence I have seen in a long time. As you may have guessed, the violence in the play is pervasive and important to the story, and everyone involved in this production has committed to it and it shows. Commitment is the final word that I will give to director Arrington—this production succeeds because it does not feel afraid of the darkness or boldness of the material; he went for it and succeeded.

Byzantium: A New Musical
reviewed by Gyda Arber

Byzantium is an ambitious new musical, brought to us by Theatre Collide of Houston Texas. The show tells the true story of Justinian, the last great Roman emperor, and his wife, the actress Theodora, whose marriage caused quite a scandal due to their differences in class. The Nika revolt of AD532 provides the conflict for the story, creating a Les Miserables-like backdrop for the events on stage. Unfortunately the show never quite rises to its aspirations.

The source of most of the problems of Byzantium is John Kaiser’s book, which tries to do too much, and therefore does little at all. I wasn’t sure if this was supposed to be a love story, a tale of moral and religious conflict, or a political statement, lampooning the current administration. All three themes are introduced and then quickly abandoned, leaving the audience at a loss. A stronger hand by director Cailín Heffernan might help to make the theme clearer.

Even the most serious musicals I know (Phantom and Les Miz included!) incorporate humor, but there is a complete lack of comedy here, which is actually jarring for anyone familiar with the musical theatre genre (commonly referred to as musical comedy for a reason). The character development also requires the actors to take huge leaps and bounds, most notably in the character of Sophie (played by Danielle Huben), wife of one of Justianian’s advisors. She starts out as a shy virgin, in the next scene sings a sexy song about Theodora à la Jane Krakowski, then becomes a political schemer (because she loves her husband?), but quickly falls in love with a monk who supports Justinian. Poor Huban can do little to justify this character’s rapid change of heart.

Steven Jamail’s music however, is everything the book is not. He deftly combines a melodic, contemporary musical theatre sound (more Webber than Sondheim) with Middle-Eastern themes that inform, but do not overwhelm, the music. Troy Scheid’s lyrics are serviceable, but mostly forgettable. The cast is almost uniformly excellent, many with Broadway credits. Standouts include Huben, Bram Heidinger, Mark Light-Orr, Janet Dacal, and Michael J. Ross. Unfortunately there is little they can do to solve the problems of Byzantium.

Letter from Poland
reviewed by Lauren Marks

Letter from Poland is not at all what I expected. The very idea of letters from Poland seems to immediately conjure, unbidden, images of death-camps, barbed-wire buildings, and shrunken, starved rows of men. And a letter? I can only imagine before seeing this show, the letter is the last relic someone has of a relative, a victim or a survivor of Nazi internment. So I can’t help thinking directly before I step down into the theatre, “Can I really handle a letter from Poland right now?”

Turns out, Letter From Poland, is not about Nazis or any kind of human atrocities. It is, in fact, a comedy of sorts. It is a one-man show, in which author/performer Michael Doyle details his experience traveling to Poland, on a grant in order to study experimental theater, specifically the legacy of legendary Polish artist Jerzy Grotowski. Unfortunately, things do not go as planned for Michael, and he ends up trapped in a hostel with a broken ankle and behind a wall of snow, isolated from the town. But Michael’s real problem is that his grant money is going to run out while he is in the hostel, before he’s had a chance to study the theatre he came to write about.

Michael puts himself in the hot seat as he re-enacts for the audience the combination of panic bordering on hysteria over losing his grant and his starved-for-companionship cabin fever. It is then that a visiting group of nuns visit the hostel and soon ask Michael to direct them in an adaptation of the Good Samaritan story from the Gospels. He speaks as little Polish as they do English, but he sees the play as his last chance to create something that might persuade the foundation to keep funding him. Naturally, things get lost in translation, and occasional wackiness ensues.

The acting and staging might have done more to reflect Grotowski’s work, considering how often he's referenced in the play. This play is not in the genre of Grotowski’s “poor theatre,” a theatre of intense physical expression and of objects which constantly transmute into new objects, depending upon how the performer approaches them. However, it certainly possesses its own language of theatricality. And, with the audience awareness that this is a true story, there is the natural voyeuristic interest in seeing Michael Doyle perform scenes from his own life.

By the end of his time with traveling nuns, and the strangely fated production of "The Good Samaritan," Michael seems dejected, sure he is bound to lose his grant without being witness to any of the essential works, being done so nearby. It is then that a nun, whom he is clearly enamored with, leaves a letter with him to send to his foundation. It asks that they please not revoke his funding and says that he has done a group of nuns a great service as their director. It is especially poignant when she says that the production he directed in Poland will travel to Africa, to be part of the missionaries’ work to help curb the spread of AIDS. The message hits Michael as it hits the audience—we do not always have the presence of mind to see when we are part of something essential.

The Monster Under My Bed Drank My Vodka
reviewed by Jaime Robert Carrillo

There’s a rather humorous sign that sits onstage at the beginning of The Monster Under My Bed Drank My Vodka. It’s two different photographs side by side, with one labeled “Good Boyfriend” and the other photo “Bad Boyfriend.” It’s funny because it’s the same man in each picture.

The Monster Under My Bed Drank My Vodka is a one-woman performance written by and starring Lisa David Dean. It’s told in the fashion of stand-up comedy. Dean plays herself and takes us through a light-hearted account of rather traumatic hardships growing up in New York, such as: enduring her parent’s divorce, her stubborn penchant for superstitious rituals, a habitual eating disorder, her evident alcoholism and Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, an engagement, a number of break-ups, and being uprooted to the West Coast. These situations are anchored by the recurring comical theme of how she wishes to be a bona fide witch because that way she would be able to control the misadventures. The story is presented like a one-on-one conversation with the audience through different characters, such as her eight-year-old cousin, and acting out different scenes from her past, including revelations she has alone in her bedroom. If you’re a fan of watching comediennes and/or of silliness, you’ll enjoy the show.

It’s a well-constructed piece in terms of the order of the scenes, and how one misadventure leads to another. We’re never lost at any point, the material is easy to empathize with, and Dean draws in the laughs. She’s comfortable on stage, even when she reveals information that many of us would consider private. At one point, she likens an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting to being like a dance club; another time, she  describes the tricky affair of breaking up with an acting teacher, and then attacks the “Bad Boyfriend” photo. Dean pulls off a presentable narrative of silly adventures, despite their serious nature.

When she portrays herself, Dean’s acting tends to presentational, if peppy. In contrast, her characterization of her sweetheart of a cousin, who appears throughout Lisa’s crises and demonstrates convincing concern while still remaining funny, proves that Dean can balance conveying believable emotions along with her comedy. Perhaps she and her director Anthony Rich can capitalize on this in future iterations of The Monster Under My Bed Drank My Vodka.

Gift
reviewed by Sharon Fogarty

Perhaps the perfect plot is one that we don’t notice going by but rather keeps us in a constant state of suspense. In Mark Schultz's one-act play Gift, a man buys a birthday present for his friend who cannot bring herself to accept it. It’s too beautiful and she might break it, so she somewhat regretfully asks that the gift be returned. The simplicity of this plot is what perhaps allows the actors the complex and tender revelations in every moment.

The gift is an inexperienced hustler named Chris, who has been purchased, tied up, and blindfolded by the coarse and jaded Larry as a birthday present for soon-to-appear Sylvie. Like smoke, violence and sexuality are breathed between the characters Chris and Larry. The effect is riveting and although we don’t know what is to come for quite some time, the language is funny, terrifying, and wonderfully specific.

Chris Kipiniak has the energy and timing of a psycho-killer in the role of Larry. His cold eyes and quickness set the pace of his scenes. Although he seems cruel, it becomes clear what has driven him to this hostility, as his nightmare is about to make her entrance. The hustler, Chris, is depicted so vulnerably by Denis Butkas that it becomes difficult not to jump up to rescue him. Butkas handles a smooth character transgression as Chris evolves from his innocence to share a poetic and affectionate fantasy when finally alone with Sylvie.

Well worth the wait is the entrance of Sylvie, a hypersensitive pre-op transsexual with the affects of an angel whose sadness, magnified exponentially by her birthday, uncovers a most pathetic, humorous, and real creature. The embodiment of insecurity, she sees herself as a monster, too old or grotesque to ever feel the warmth of another’s touch. Spencer Aste’s endearing and bravely intimate performance is remarkably impressive. With a shaved head, wearing nothing more than an oddly patterned faded bathrobe and Joan Crawford makeup, Aste captivates with his honesty and depth. In counterpart to Kipiniak’s muscled frustration, Aste finds the polarity of a kind of painful, feminine strength.

Under the direction of Daniel Talbott, assistant direction of Julie Kline, and lighting design by Brian Roff (which was a bit like finding the perfect lipstick), gift after gift comes through in Schultz’s perfect short play, well-wrapped, presented, and worth every moment.