Thursday, June 15, 2017

MY EYES WENT DARK Premieres at 59E59 Theaters

L-R: Declan Conlon and Thusitha Jayasundera in MY EYES WENT DARK.  Photo by Carol Rosegg.
Declan Conlon and Thusitha Jayasundera deliver two of the most outstanding performances in any of the several plays that comprise this year’s Brits Off Broadway program at 59E59 Theaters on East 59th Street in midtown Manhattan.  As Nikolai Koslov, a Russian architect who is driven obsessively to wreak vengeance upon Thomas Olsen, the air traffic controller whom he holds responsible for the death of his wife and children in an avoidable plane crash, Conlon performs with a cold, single-minded intensity that effectively succeeds in blurring the distinction between madness and sanity.  And in the role of Nikloai’s wife, Marya Koslov, as well as in the demanding roles of a whole host of other female characters who interact with Nikolai – including Katya (an eight year old girl), Dr. Geisinger (a trained psychiatrist), Helena (Thomas Olsen’s widow), Ms Weitner (an executive with Skyways, the air traffic control company that employed Olsen), and Yana (a woman who also lost her son in the plane crash) – Jayasundera displays an absolutely extraordinary range of acting talent.

My Eyes Went Dark, written and directed by Matthew Wilkinson, is an ambitious two-hander, inspired by true events, that played to sold-out audiences in London and Edinburgh and is currently enjoying its US premiere at 59E59 Theaters.  It is the tale of Nikolai Koslov, whose family died in a plane crash while en route to visit him in Nice.  As the facts emerge, it appears that the crash was not the result of terrorism nor mechanical failure nor pilot error, but rather was the consequence of misfeasance by Thomas Olsen, an air traffic controller with Skyways.  Clearly, Olsen and Skyways were at fault and should be held responsible, but are they morally or legally culpable as well for what was surely an honest mistake?

For Koslov the answer is an unequivocal “Yes!” and when Olsen is acquitted of criminal liability, Koslov is pushed to the breaking point.  Ultimately, he avenges the deaths of his wife and children by killing Olsen – but without premeditation and with no subsequent recollection of the event.  Which leads us to ask: if Olsen is not morally or legally responsible for the deaths he caused without premeditation and through honest human error, should Koslov be held morally or legally responsible for Olsen’s death which he caused without premeditation and, indeed, without even any memory of the event?

The playwright alludes to these questions but never resolves them and doesn’t even really pursue them with any persistence.  Similarly, he suggests that Koslov’s intense animosity toward Olsen might have been motivated as much by his own guilt feelings at having created a situation in which his family had to fly to visit him in Nice in the first place as it was by a truly objective indictment of Olsen’s behavior.  He raises the issue of whether Koslov was sane or insane when he killed Olsen and what difference that might make in determining his guilt or innocence.  And he alludes to all the standard PC issues re forgiveness, acceptance, and getting on with one’s life.

Wilkinson touches on all those matters but never really seriously addresses them and that is the play’s weakness.  My Eyes Went Dark turns out not to be particularly intellectually challenging, despite the questions it raises, because once raising them it doesn’t really do anything more with them.  The premise of the play is a valid one but the play itself could use a lot more editing and fleshing out.

And so my bottom line is this: the play itself is somewhat disappointing but the actors’ performances are phenomenal and those performances alone are justification enough for your seeing this one.



Wednesday, June 14, 2017

INVINCIBLE by Torben Betts Premieres at 59E59 Theaters

L-R: Emily Bowker, Graeme Brookes, Elizabeth Boag, and Alastair Whatley in INVINCIBLE.  Photo by Manuel Harlan. 
Emily (Emily Bowker) is a pretentious ultra-left-wing artsy socialist who advocates that all things be communal – not only businesses and the banks but also housing, healthcare, public utilities, public transport and even the raising of children.  Indeed, if she were an American, rather than a Brit, she’d probably consider Bernie Sanders and Elizabeth Warren to be little better than reactionary Neanderthals.  She is opposed to all wars (she was raised by Quakers). She is opposed to the institution of marriage.  She is opposed to private school education.  She is opposed to inherited wealth.  In fact, there’s not much that she isn’t opposed to.  In short, she’s rather insufferable (and Emily Bowker portrays her brilliantly).

Her “partner,” Oliver (Alastair Whatley), with whom she has cohabited happily for years and who is the father of her children, is a much more realistic progressive: he is pragmatic enough to have re-joined the Labour Party since he realizes that, notwithstanding its shortcomings, it represents the only real means to take down the Conservatives.  And he is not at all averse to sending his children to private school if that’s what it will take to provide them with a proper education.  Emily considers him a sell-out.

Oliver and Emily are not married because Emily considers the institution of marriage to be nothing more than a medieval exercise and it offends her sensibilities.  Oliver does not have strong feelings on the subject but would like them to marry for his widowed mother’s sake.  She has but a few months to live and would very much like to see Oliver and Emily formally wed (even if not in a church) both for their and for her grandchildren’s sakes.  Emily will have none of it.

Oliver entered the Civil Service in an editorial capacity shortly after graduating from university and had been comfortably ensconced there ever since while residing (most recently with Emily) in London.  But due to the recession and England’s austerity program, he has been fired from his job which means that he and Emily can no longer afford to live in London.  (Of course they might have continued to live there had they been willing to rely on Oliver’s wealthy mother to subsidize them but Emily would have none of that either.  She is, after all, fiercely independent and certainly wouldn’t accept such ill-gotten gains as resulted from Oliver’s father’s banking career.)  So, instead, Oliver and Emily relinquished their London lodgings and relocated to a small town in northern England where housing costs are much lower than in London.  (Even there, they have chosen to rent, rather than buy, because of Emily’s disdain of property ownership.)  To be sure, they made the right economic decision - but it certainly was not the right social, personal, political or emotional one.

When we first encounter Oliver and Emily, they are settling into their new quarters and, in an effort to assimilate in their new environment, they have invited their married neighbors Alan (Graeme Brookes) and Dawn (Elizabeth Boag) to visit.  Emily is tidying up their home in anticipation of the arrival of her guests – which includes placing a copy of Karl Marx’s Das Kapital prominently on their coffee table and avoiding discussing the problem of their own sex life (or lack of it) with Oliver - a discussion which he is eager to pursue and she refuses to address.  The only breaks in her routine occur when she reacts (frequently) to imagined sounds from the baby monitor (which shares prominence with Marx on the coffee table) and insists that Oliver immediately check on their two-and-a half year old child who, as it turns out, invariably is sleeping soundly in the other room.

When Dawn arrives, she comes across as a bored, physically well-endowed, relatively uneducated, lower-class, part-time receptionist, exuding sexuality, flirting outrageously with Oliver, and rather dismissive of her own husband.  Alan shows up somewhat later since he didn’t want to miss the end of the football game on the telly.  (After all, England was playing!)  He is a cheerful, overweight, garrulous, beer-swigging postman and football aficionado whose “best mate” is his cat, Vince (named after the HMS Invincible which was the ship on which he served out his military duty).  He also is evidently much more in love with his wife than she is with him and can’t get over the fact that “a big fat slob” like him managed to land “a spectacular-looking woman like her.”

And so the scene is set.  Alan and Dawn are flag-waving patriots whereas Emily thinks that patriotism is “mindless.”  Alan lives for football and takes pride in the fact that he has traveled all over Europe to watch England play while Oliver has no real interest in the game and much prefers cricket.  And Emily’s antipathy to football is much greater than Oliver’s: she pontificates that

“…highly popular sports like football are nowadays merely a means of keeping people pacified, of keeping people stupid. The more time, money and energy a man spends watching football, for example, the less time, money and energy he has to read important books and to educate himself and to question this hideous economic system and therefore, one hopes, to realize he’s being taken for a fool every single day of his life.”

Alan’s “best bloody mate” is his cat; Emily hates the cat which she considers a threat to her children and their pets.  Emily paints Jackson Pollock-like abstracts to which she attaches such pretentious names as The Reunification of the Body and the Soul in a Time of Grieving; Alan paints realistic but not very good portraits of his cat to which he attaches such mundane titles as Vince Staring Out the Window and Vince With A Rat in His Mouth.

Unsurprisingly, the evening does not go well.  The cultural gap between Oliver and Emily on one side and Alan and Dawn on the other is just too great an abyss to cross.  But it does provide the material for a wonderfully entertaining first act.

It is in the second act of Invincible by Torben Betts, now making its US premiere as part of the Brits Off Broadway program at 59E59 Theaters on East 59th Street in midtown Manhattan, however, that everything comes together and that all the loose ends are tied up.  Only then do we learn why Emily is so compulsively focused on her baby monitor, why Alan and Dawn have nothing to say about their son other than that he is “away,” how it was that a “fat slob” like Alan ended up with a “spectacular-looking woman” like Dawn, why Dawn is so dismissive of Alan and yet abides him, whether Oliver will ever develop enough backbone to stand up to Emily and whether that would make any difference in their sex life.  Vince disappears and it his disappearance, which eventually is explained, that in one way or another ultimately triggers all the revelations.

By play’s end, we have also re-discovered deeper truths.  First impressions can be misleading and we learn that there is more both to Dawn and Oliver than initially meets the eye.  Elizabeth Boag does an excellent job of revealing the dreams and aspirations that the lower-class poorly educated Dawn still harbors in her soul.  And Alastair Whatley does a similarly fine job in exhibiting Oliver’s growth over time.

But perhaps the most important lesson to take away from the play is that it is absurdly arrogant for liberal elitists to label those who do not share their most pretentious values as nothing more than (in Hillary Clinton's words) “irredeemable deplorables.”  Graeme Brookes, who virtually steals the show as Alan, makes that abundantly clear.  When push comes to shove, it is Alan – the overweight, talkative, postman who doesn’t know Karl Marx from Groucho - who proves to have far more “class” than his “betters” when it really matters.

Friday, June 2, 2017

Red Bull Theater's Revival of Gogol's THE GOVERNMENT INSPECTOR at Duke Theater

L-R: Mary Testa, Michael McGrath, Michael Urie, and Talene Monahon in THE GOVERNMENT INSPECTOR.  Photo by Carol Rosegg.
Nikolai Gogol’s penned his satiric masterpiece, The Government Inspector, a comedic but scathing indictment of virtually all elements of Imperial Russian society in 1834 but its publication was greeted with such animosity by all those whom it lampooned – dissolute masters and their buffoonish servants, prevaricating medical practitioners, incompetent postal workers, corrupt judges, crooked bureaucrats, dishonest academics, and adulterous wives and their hypocritical daughters – that it required the personal intervention of Tsar Nicholas I even to get the play staged for the first time in 1836.  We’ve come a long way since then (haven’t we?) and this is the United States in 2017, not Imperial Russia, but corruption, bribery, misfeasance, stupidity and hypocrisy still run rampant in all too many of our institutions (a fact to which anyone who has had to deal with the IRS or the DMV or the medical or educational establishments might readily attest).  Which is why Gogol’s play remains one for the ages. 

Jeffrey Hatcher’s rollicking adaptation of The Government Inspector for Red Bull Theater is currently premiering at The Duke on West 42nd Street in midtown Manhattan.  It is the latest of that company’s string of classic revivals of which Red Bull may be justifiably proud. 
When the leading citizens of a small provincial town in Russia – including Anton Antonovich (Michael McGrath), the town’s corrupt Mayor;  the Judge (Tom Alan Robbins); the School Principal (David Manis); the Hospital Director (Stephen DeRosa); and the Police Chief (Luis Moreno) – learn that a government inspector, traveling incognito, is coming to their village to root out their corruption, all hell breaks loose.  They determine to pay him whatever bribes, or do whatever else it might take, to protect themselves from his wrath.  But first they have to find out who he is. 

The entire play then revolves around a case of mistaken identity.  Ivan Alexandreyevich Hlestakov (Michael Urie), is a dissolute, impoverished, narcissistic civil servant from St. Petersburg but he does have a vivid imagination.  When he and Osip (Arnie Burton), his servant, arrive in town, Hlestakov is mistaken for the dreaded government inspector, bribes and “loans” (never meant to be repaid) are thrust upon him.  Both Anna (Mary Testa), the mayor’s wife, and Marya (Talene Monohon), their daughter, throw themselves upon him as well and, for his part, he is quite as willing to accept their advances as he is to accept the bribes he receives.

Both Michael Urie and Michael McGrath are outstanding in their starring roles as Hlestakov and the Mayor, respectively.  Both Alexis Distler’s Set Design and Tilly Grimes Costume Design also deserve positive mention; they provide the perfect backdrop for this exuberant production.

Thursday, May 25, 2017

Olivier Award Winning ROTTERDAM by Jon Brittain Premieres at 59E59 Theaters

L-R: Anna Martine Freeman and Alice McCarthy in ROTTERDAM.   Photo by Hunter Canning.
When her boyfriend, Josh (Ed Eales-White), introduces Alice (Alice McCarthy) to his gay kid sister Fiona (Anna Martine Freeman), Alice can no longer remain in denial of the truth she has known but refused to admit even to herself since she was nine years old: Alice “likes” Fiona and doesn’t really “like” Josh in the same way.  In fact, Alice has always “liked” girls rather than boys.  In fact, Alice is a lesbian.

Fiona has been out of the closet for years but Alice still is not – and doesn’t come out fully even after they become lovers.  Oh, a few people know - including Josh, of course, with whom Alice remains close friends and Lelani (Ellie Morris), Alice’s young, gay, ditzy co-worker - but her parents don’t know and Alice is reluctant to tell them.  Indeed, the reason Alice has remained in Rotterdam for the past seven years has been to avoid returning home to England where she’d be forced to tell them.

And then, when Alice finally summons up the courage to e-mail her parents with the truth but before she manages to hit “send,” Fiona discloses that she has an even more momentous announcement to make: Fiona is transgender; she has always known that she is really a man and, while she may or may not ultimately opt to undergo transsexual surgical procedures, from now on she wants to live as one; her - or rather his - new man’s name is Adrian.

Alice and Fiona – I mean Adrian (or do I?) – are truly in love.  But how can that be?  If Alice is in love with Adrian and Adrian is a man, does that mean that Alice really isn’t a lesbian after all?  If Fiona was a woman (at least in Alice’s eyes) and Adrian is a man, are Fiona and Adrian really the same person?  Might Alice have been in love with Fiona and not now be in love with Adrian?  But how can that be if Adrian doesn’t really believe that he is changing but is only belatedly admitting to himself and others who and what he always has been?

And what of Josh and Adrian?  If Josh only lost Alice to Fiona because Alice was a lesbian and Fiona was a woman but Alice is no longer a lesbian and Fiona is now a man, does that mean that Josh has a second shot at wooing Alice?  And if Alice is still a lesbian and Adrian truly loves her, is he prepared to go back to being Fiona for her sake?

Rotterdam by Jon Brittain is a beautifully written play, not only heart-wrenching but highly entertaining, simultaneously dramatic, comedic, and thought-provoking.  It is a plea for greater understanding of the pain endured by many in the LGBTQ world but, even more than that, it is an exploration into the very nature of “identity.”

Is “identity” the core that is left when we peel away all the outer layers of race, sex, sexual orientation, ethnicity, and whatever biological or cultural traits we may express – what many might see as our fundamental selves, our essences, our spirits or our souls?  Or is it quite the opposite: is there no such core at all, is the idea of a “self” or a “soul” a mere illusion, and is it the sum total of all those outer layers – our race, sex, sexual orientation, ethnicity, and whatever other biological or cultural traits we may express – that constitute our true identities?

In Rotterdam, Jon Brittain may not answer all those questions – no one really could, certainly not to everyone’s satisfaction anyway – but he gives us lots to think about and that’s more than enough.
 
Ed Eales-White, in his role as Josh, conveys  warmth and sensitivity in his relationships both with his lost love, Alice, and with his kid sister, Fiona (now his kid brother, Adrian).  Ellie Morris as Lelni adds just the right comedic touch to this otherwise heartbreaking production as a gay naïf, all firecrackers and silver lame, who somehow manages to evade the advances of her boss – a married man twice her age and her father’s best friend – while yet benefiting from living rent-free with him and his family.  Alice McCarthy plays Alice with the perfect balance of propriety, loyalty, vulnerability, and uncertainty that the role demands.  And Anna Martine Freeman pulls off the toughest role of all: she is both lesbian Fiona and transgender Adrian – and she forces us to believe it.

Ellan Parry’s set design on a small stage that lesser designers might have found limiting also deserves recognition.  It is all primary colors and larger than life murals with doors leading in and out of unseen corridors, capturing the intensity of the emotional roller-coaster on stage.   And a cleverly concealed closet for coming in and out – both literally and figuratively.

Having played to sold-out audiences in London (where it won the prestigious Olivier Award), Rotterdam currently is making its US premiere as part of this year’s Brits Off Broadway program at 59E59 Theaters on East 59th Street in Manhattan.  I urge you to see it.



Friday, May 19, 2017

Mint Theater Revives THE LUCKY ONE by A. A. Milne

L-R: Robert David Grant and Ari Brand in THE LUCKY ONE.  Photo by Richard Termine.
A. A. Milne is best remembered as the author of Winnie-the-Pooh and The House at Pooh Corner but he really was more than just a writer of children’s books.  He also wrote essays, light verse, short stories and novels; he contributed to and was an assistant editor of Punch; and he was a playwright of considerable renown, in England and in the US, with several successes both on Broadway and in London’s West End.

The Lucky One, however, was not one of Milne’s more successful works nor, sad to say, ought it to have been.  It is a rather tired treatment of the age-old conflict between brothers – the golden boy and his less-favored sibling - a story as old as that of Cain and Abel and of Jacob and Esau.  There is also the overlay that perhaps things are not quite what they seem and we really ought to try to see things from the other guy’s perspective, shouldn’t we?  It should come as no surprise then that when The Lucky One was first produced on Broadway in 1922, it closed after only 40 performances.
 
Now the Mint Theater Company, justifiably acclaimed as one of the finest off-Broadway theater companies in the city, has chosen to stage the first ever revival of this play at the Beckett Theater at Theatre Row on West 42nd Street in midtown Manhattan.  Since its founding in 1995, the Mint has been dedicated to the mission of unearthing and producing lost or neglected but worthwhile plays of the past and infusing them with new vitality and over the past two decades, it has staged superb revivals of seldom seen works by playwrights as diverse as Edith Wharton, Thomas Wolfe, D.H. Lawrence, John Galsworthy, Leo Tolstoy, Ernest Hemingway, and Arnold Bennett.
  
Now, from a theatrical standpoint, the Mint has scored another success with its revival of The Lucky One.  The performances, the direction, the set – all are exemplary as we have come to expect from the Mint.  It is only the play itself that is wanting.

The play is the tale of two brothers: Gerald Farrington (Robert David Grant) who is the golden boy, working in the Foreign Service and engaged to be married to the lovely Pamela Carey (Paton Ashbrook) and his older and less-favored sibling, Bob Farrington (Ari Brand) who works as a broker in The City and who is Pamela’s close friend.  The underlying animosity between the brothers only emerges when Bob finds himself in legal trouble and Gerald fails to save him.

The ultimate confrontation between the two has been described in the play’s promotional material as being “as stirring as it is surprising,” but I found it to be neither.  Indeed, I found it all to be much too predictable.

In Twice Times, a children’s poem, Milne wrote about

… Two Little Bears who lived in a Wood,
And one of them was Bad and the other was Good….

…And then quite suddenly (just like Us)
One got Better and the other got Wuss….

…There may be a Moral, though some say not;
I think there's a moral, though I don't know what.
But if one gets better, as the other gets wuss,
These Two Little Bears are just like Us…
.
And in Winnie-the-Pooh, Milne wrote:

On Wednesday, when the sky is blue, 
And I have nothing else to do, 
I sometimes wonder if it's true 
That who is what and what is who.

For my money, these scraps of children’s verse say it all – and in simpler and much more entertaining fashion than does the play.

Which, of course, is not intended to take anything away from the play’s cast.  Both Robert David Grant and Ari Brand were excellent in their roles as the ill-starred brothers as was Paton Ashbrook as Pamela.  And the rest of the company, including Wynn Harmon and Deanne Lorette as the parents; Cynthia Harris as the great-aunt; Peggy J. Scott as Gerald’s old nurse; and Michael Frederic, Andrew Fallaize, and Mia Hutchinson-Shaw as family friends certainly brought as much to their roles as the play’s limitations would allow.

In particular, I would single out for praise Andrew Fallaize, who provided much of the play’s comic relief in his role as Thomas Todd, Gerald’s golf-obsessed friend.

And so my bottom line is this: I really don’t think this play was worth reviving in the first place.  But given that it was, the Mint Theater Company did a fine job of it.


Monday, May 15, 2017

Sophie Melville Soars in IPHIGENIA IN SPLOTT

Sophie Melville in IPHIGENIA IN SPLOTT.  Photo by Mark Douet.
In Greek mythology, Iphigenia was sacrificed by her father, King Agamemnon, in order to placate the goddess Artemis, so that she would allow his ships to sail to Troy.  And it is that myth which inspired Gary Owen to write Iphigenia in Splott – the British play that scored such a resounding success in Cardiff and Edinburgh before opening to rave reviews and playing to sold-out audiences in London’s National Theatre.  Now the play has crossed the pond, debuting at 59E59 Theatres on East 59th Street in midtown Manhattan as part of this year’s Brits Off Broadway program and I have little doubt that American audiences will embrace it just as enthusiastically.

This is an extraordinary one-woman show, starring Sophie Melville as Effie, an irrepressible potty-mouthed “stupid slag” and “nasty skank” (to use her own words) who, often as not, can be found wandering the streets of Splott in Cardiff, with an “in-your-face” confrontational attitude toward everyone she meets.  In an incredibly powerful monologue, she lets us know in no uncertain terms that she is an alcoholic and a drug-user; that she is irresponsibly promiscuous; that she is dependent for her survival, at least in part, on her grandmother’s charity – and that she feels a sense of victimization at the hands of society about it all.

When Effie hooks up with Lee, a wounded war veteran who lost his legs to an IED in Afghanistan, she envisions her life changing dramatically.  But things don’t always turn out as one expects and the night Effie spent shagging Lee was just one of those things.  Yes, it affected her life deeply – just not as she imagined it would.

As a theatrical performance, Ms Melville leaves nothing to be desired.  She is physically as lithe as a feral cat and exhibits a comparable animal spirit.  Hers is a performance that truly deserves five stars.

But as to the play itself, and the message it seeks to convey, that is an entirely different matter.  It appears to me that Gary Owen is championing a world in which a sense of entitlement justifies individual irresponsibility and a reliance on “society” to fix everything and, since “society” didn’t fix everything for Effie, she was just as much a sacrificial victim as was Iphigenia. But the analogy is a false one.  Iphigenia was sacrificed by her father for his own failing (it was he who accidentally killed a deer in a grove sacred to Artemis for which he sought absolution, not through his own sacrifice but through that of his daughter).  But Effie has brought all her troubles on herself: “society” did not force her to drink or do drugs or engage in unprotected sex with strangers.  Her crises are of her own making, not of anyone else’s, and no sacrifice she might ultimately make as a consequence of her own misbehavior is comparable to Iphigenia’s.

I am well aware that many people disagree with me, that they prefer to blame “society” or “the man” or “the system” or “Wall Street” or “the top 1%” or anyone other than themselves for their problems.  Indeed, the press release itself for this production asserts that the play “drives home the high price people pay for society’s shortcomings.”  In his review of the National Theatre’s production for The Stage, Tom Wicker described the play as “a blisteringly powerful indictment of society’s failings….”  And Lyn Gardner, in her review for The Guardian, wrote: “Iphigenia was Agamemnon’s daughter, sacrificed by her father to ensure a fair wind to Troy and to further the ambitions of men.  But who are the Iphigenias of today, being sacrificed in the pursuit of growth and profit?  Seeing the heart torn out of your community and services cut is like having your tongue put out.”

If you happen to fall into that group of those who blame “society” for all their problems (I hope you don’t), then you will probably enjoy this production even more because, in addition to its being a bravura performance by a superb actress, it will reinforce your communal political philosophy.  But even if you don’t, if (like me), you still believe in individuals taking responsibility for their own lives, you’re still likely to appreciate Ms Melville’s terrific performance.


Monday, May 8, 2017

Retro Productions Revives AND MISS REARDON DRINKS A LITTLE at Gene Frankel Theatre

L-R: Heather E. Cunningham, Amanda Jones, and Sara Thigpen in AND MISS REARDON DRINKS A LITTLE.  Photo by Connolly Photo NYC.
Retro Productions’ has taken it upon itself to present revivals of “retro theatre” and to “tell good theatrical stories which have an historical perspective – with an emphasis on the 20th century – in order to broaden our own understanding of the world we live in.”  To that end, it has had some very notable successes including its productions of Benefactors in 2010 and The Butter and Egg Man and Good Boys and Girls in 2015.  Currently it is staging a revival of Paul Zindel’s And Miss Reardon Drinks a Little at the Gene Frankel Theatre on Bond Street in lower Manhattan.
  
I’d best get this off my chest at the outset: I don’t much like this play.  No, it’s more than that: I think the work is dismayingly mean-spirited and, while it is referred to as a “black comedy,” I find little humor in it – of any coloration.  Originally produced in 1967, it opened on Broadway in 1971 and is now being revived by Retro Productions in celebration of the 50th anniversary of its original opening.   Had it been up to me, I would not have revived it but of course it was not up to me.  So it should come as no surprise that I didn’t really enjoy this revival.

But it is equally important that I make it perfectly clear that my failure to enjoy this production was entirely a function of my negative predisposition to the work itself and should not in any way be interpreted as an indictment of this particular production.  Indeed, given the limitations of the material they had to work with, I think that Retro Productions – an exceptionally good company as evidenced by their previous successes - did a truly first rate job in direction, set design and, most tellingly, in the entire cast’s performances in this production as well.

Catherine Reardon (Heather E. Cunningham), Ceil Reardon (Sara Thigpen), and Anna Reardon (Amanda Jones) are all well-educated sexually-repressed and relatively dysfunctional sisters, all employed in some capacity or other by the New York City public school system, and all still coping with the after-effects of their father’s abandonment, their sexually-repressive upbringing by their mother, and their mother’s recent death.  Catherine, an assistant principal, is a spinster and the “Miss Reardon” of the play’s title. Anna, also unmarried, is a science teacher and an obsessive animal-loving vegetarian who is recovering from a nervous breakdown in the wake of an alleged sex scandal that may have involved her and a young male student at her school.  And Ceil, a school superintendent, is married – but to the man who was once Catherine’s boyfriend.

Catherine and Anna are living together in their mother’s old home when Ceil comes around to meddle in the decision that Catherine and Anna will have to make as to whether or not Anna should be institutionalized.  Also showing up uninvited are Mrs. Pentrano (Wynne Anders), an insensitive, self-centered neighbor; an unnamed high school student delivery boy (Sean J. Moran); Fleur Stein (Rebecca Holt), a school acting guidance counselor who hopes to enlist Ceil’s assistance in obtaining a permanent license; and Bob Stein (Christopher Borg), Fleur’s bombastic, misogynistic husband.

The play’s director, Shay Gines, has commented on the fact that “The play takes place as the Women’s Lib movement started to bloom here in the United States” and that “It focuses on four educated women who are dealing with issues that we can all relate to.”  How ironic then that the actor who steals the show is Christopher Borg whose bravura performance is the most memorable feature of this production.


Wednesday, May 3, 2017

Seeking the Loch Ness Monster in FOSSILS at 59E59 Theaters

L-R: Adam Farrell, Helen Vinton, and Luke Murphy in FOSSILS.  Photo by Carol Rosegg.
Fossils, written and directed by Nel Crouch, is an extraordinary play – wonderfully entertaining, intellectually stimulating, brilliantly executed,  theatrically ground-breaking, and as multi-layered as a geological excavation.  Currently being staged at 59E59 Theaters on East 59th Street in midtown Manhattan as part of the Brits Off Broadway program, Fossils is produced by Bucket Club and breaks through the fourth wall while employing a remarkable variety of props ranging from toy boats to toy dinosaurs, from soap bubbles to water glasses, from a violin to a squirt gun.

Vanessa (Helen Vinton) is a 28-year-old scientist, currently studying the coelacanth, an ancient fish thought to have been extinct prior to its discovery in the 1930s and now considered to be something of a “living fossil,” providing us with a glimpse of the first fish that walked on land.  In her present position as a research fellow in evolutionary biology at the University of Kings Lynn, she also is supervising two PhD students, Dominic (Adam Farrell) and Myles (Luke Murphy).  And she is hoping to publish enough –preferably in Nature, a highly regarded scientific journal – to propel her to her ultimate goal, that of a position as a tenured professor by the time she is 35.

In a way, the mythical Loch Ness Monster might seem to be something like the coelacanth – if it does exist, wouldn’t it be something of a “living fossil” itself? – but Vanessa will have none of it.  When a local newspaper publishes a questionable photograph of the monster taken by one Brian Parker (Adam Farrell), Vanessa’s reaction – or over-reaction - is to tear the paper to shreds.  She is, after all, a scientific skeptic par excellence who gets her rocks off by arguing with creationists but even so, why so angry and why her refusal to even discuss the issue with the mainstream press?

But when Nature calls, offering her an opportunity to write a feature on the subject for the journal, the cat is out of the bag (or the fish out of the tank?).  Of course Vanessa accepts - her career is on the line - but the offer is a contingent one.  It requires Vanessa’s accessing her father’s research on the subject for, as it turns out, he was once the foremost expert on the Loch Ness Monster himself and an associate of Brian Parker.  Or at least he was before he abandoned both Vanessa and her mother 12 years ago.

Which means that Vanessa’s search for the Loch Ness Monster must become something of a search for her missing father as well.  And an exploration of man’s ancestry, his need to return to his intrinsic nature, and his (or her) subsequent evolution.

Helen Vinton, Luke Murphy and Adam Farrell are all outstanding in their roles delivering theatrically ground-breaking performances as they navigate their way through their symbolic world (populated with fish tanks and toy dinosaurs) and communicate not only with one another but through the fourth wall.  This is a production not to be missed.



Sunday, April 30, 2017

THE ROUNDABOUT by J.B. Priestley Premieres at 59E59 Theaters After 85 Years

L-R: Hugh Sachs and Emily Laing in THE ROUNDABOUT.  Photo by Carol Rosegg.
It is the 1930s – a time of worldwide economic depression, political upheaval, and social unrest.  In England, Lord Richard Kettlewell (Brian Protheroe) is lamenting the failure of his financial ventures.  He has been separated from his wife, Lady Kettlewell (Lisa Bowerman), for years.  His daughter, Pamela Kettlewell (Emily Laing), whom he has not seen since his separation, has become a communist and has traveled to Russia, in support of the new communist state.  And he has just attempted to sever his relationship with his mistress, Hilda Lancicourt (Carol Starks).

And then all hell breaks loose.  On a single day in late summer or early autumn, Pamela returns from Russia and arrives, unexpected, at Lord Kettlewell’s country house with her scruffy and oversexed Russian fellow traveler, Comrade Staggles (Steven Blakeley), in tow.  In short order, Hilda shows up too, as do Lady Kettlewell; the local busybody, Lady Knightsbridge (Richenda Carey); and one of Richard’s young employees, Farrington Gurney (Charlie Field).  Richard’s old friend, Churton Saunders (Hugh Sachs), is already a guest at the house when all the others arrive as is Alec Grenside (Ed Pinker), an artist whom Richard has tentatively commissioned to paint some panels in the house. And, of course, Richard’s butler, Parsons (Derek Hutchinson) and his housemaid, Alice (Annie Jackson) are around as well.

The Roundabout by J.B. Priestley, in which all these characters appear, is a slight drawing room comedy that was originally produced in 1932 at the Liverpool Repertory Theatre.  Not too surprisingly, the play did not receive another major production again for the next 85 years; it is, after all, a rather trivial, stilted and dated play and its loss to posterity is far from devastating.  But equally unsurprisingly, after all this time, this “lost” play is now enjoying its US premiere at 59E59 Theaters on East 59th Street in midtown Manhattan as part of this year’s Brits Off Broadway program because, despite all of the play’s evident shortcomings, it is still quite entertaining and provides an amusing look into one sector of a long gone world.

Moreover, we can be especially glad that Cahoots Theatre Company, in association with The Other Cheek and Park Theatre, are staging this production because they have done a truly first rate job.  Emily Laing comes close to stealing the show in her chameleon-like performance as Pamela – a passionate communist, an abandoned daughter, a broken-hearted lover, a manipulative schemer – but she is very ably abetted in her task by the rest of her company.  Hugh Sachs, Steven Blakely and Derek Hutchison deserve special mention for the comic relief they provide.


Monday, April 17, 2017

ANGEL & ECHOES at 59E59 Theaters

L-R: Rachel Smyth and Serena Manteghi in ECHOES.  Photo by Carol Rosegg.

Henry Naylor wrote The Collector, the first of the three plays forming his Arabian Nightmares trilogy, in 2014.  The following year he wrote the second of the three plays, Echoes, which won the Spirit of the Fringe Award at Edinburgh before going on to play at 59E59 Theaters as part of that year’s Brits Off Broadway program.  Despite our having been quite impressed by both of the performers in that production - Felicity Houlbrooke and Filipa Braganca – we were disappointed in the play itself which we thought was “little more than a superficial diatribe seeking to establish the moral equivalence between the excesses of British colonialism and the horrors of Islamic terrorism and proclaiming the eternal victimhood of women and ethnic minorities at the hands of men and Western Europeans.”  You can read our full review of that production at "2016 Echoes Review."

We were, however, clearly in the minority.  Many of those who saw the 59E59 Theaters production of Echoes last year actually were so taken with it that it is now back by popular demand and is being staged together with Angel, Naylor’s third installment in his Arabian Nightmares trilogy, as part of this year’s Brits Off Broadway program.  The two performers in the current production of Echoes are Rachel Smyth and Serena Manteghi and, like their predecessors, they, too, turn in outstanding performances.  But our opinion of the play itself really hasn’t changed despite some minor updating: in our review of the 2015 production, we commented on the playwright’s “gratuitous swipes at Donald Trump and Ted Cruz thrown in for good measure, as if to underscore the fact that the play really is nothing more than an extreme feminist and far left polemic.”  In the current production, Donald Trump and Ted Cruz have been replaced by Mike Pence and Bill O’Reilly but the play remains just as much “an extreme feminist and far left polemic” as it was in its original incarnation.

Avital Lvova in ANGEL.  Photo by Carol Rosegg.
Angel, however, is another matter entirely.  Having premiered at the 2016 Edinburgh Festival and winning two major awards, the play garnered 18 well-deserved four and five star reviews before arriving at 59E59 Theaters in midtown New York.  And it is this production of Angel – including Avital Lvova’s absolutely bravura performance as Rehana, The Angel - that makes this dual entry of Angel & Echoes in this year’s Brits Off Broadway production truly worth seeing.

Angel was inspired by the story of the young female Kurdish freedom fighter known as The Angel of Kobane who was reputed to have shot 100 ISIS fighters when they overtook her small town of Kobane in Syria.  In Naylor’s interpretation of the story, Rehana was a strong-minded peace-loving young woman who would have much preferred pursuing a career in the law but who found herself forced by circumstances to take up arms against her oppressors.  It is an empowering and exhilarating play that focuses on women’s strengths rather than their victimhood and it is Avital Lvova’s performance that makes it especially memorable.


Sunday, April 9, 2017

A GAMBLER'S GUIDE TO DYING at 59E59 Theaters

Gary McNair in A GAMBLER'S  GUIDE TO DYING.  Photo by Benjamin Cowie.
Written and performed by Gary McNair, A Gambler’s Guide to Dying is an entertaining recollection of the life of McNair’s grandfather, Archie, a man who was neither great nor simple, but who was a father and a friend, a liar and a cheat, a story teller and a hero to his grandson.  And if nothing else, he was an inveterate gambler and “the kind of guy who chased a thrill.  Just an ordinary guy with an ordinary life who was trying to make the world more exciting.”

McNair’s ruminations on his grandfather’s life begin with Archie’s big bet on England’s winning the World Cup in 1966 and culminate with Archie’s even bigger bet on his own life at the turn of the century.  Along the way, McNair manages to use Archie’s life as a jumping off point to explore some of our most intractable philosophical problems including life, death and immortality, pre-determination and free will, time travel, luck and probability.
Unfortunately, McNair’s musings are more platitudinous than insightful.  We are treated to such sophomoric thoughts as:

“…life’s a gamble.”

“There are two guarantees in life – you are born, and you die.”

“…until everyone IS dead, you can’t prove that everyone WILL die.”

“according to Sir Isaac Newton everything that has ever happened was always going to happen the way that it happened and everything that will ever happen will happen the way it will happen and there is nothing you can do about it.”

“You weren’t lucky to survive a stabbing.  You got stabbed!”

“We’re always time traveling.  It’s just that so far we’ve only worked out how to go forward.”

But if the play does not succeed as a thought-provoking philosophical exercise, it does succeed in capturing the essence of the gambler’s personality – the man who never can cash the big bet – and in reminding us of the extent to which our own immortality resides in our progeny and in their remembrances of us.  And for my money that is more than enough to justify the play’s current staging as part of the Brits Off Broadway program at 59E59 Theaters on East 59th Street in midtown Manhattan.

Wednesday, March 15, 2017

WHITE GUY ON THE BUS Soars at 59E59 Theaters

L-R: Susan McKey, Jessica Bedford, Robert Cuccioli and Jonathan Silver in WHITE GUY ON THE BUS. Photo by Matt Urban/Mobius New Media Inc.
Bruce Graham’s White Guy on the Bus, currently enjoying its New York City premiere at 59E59 Theaters on East 59th Street in midtown Manhattan, is an absolutely extraordinary “Rashomon” of a play – one that allows its audience to interpret it in whatever manner might be consistent with their own pre-existing notions regarding race, class and vengeance, while still encouraging them at least to consider alternative explanations for what actually transpires on stage.  Thus, “politically correct” progressives will see ample evidence of “white privilege” in the fact that Ray (Robert Cuccioli), a well-connected, wealthy, white investment banker literally “gets away with murder,” while disadvantaged African-Americans suffer disproportionately in prison.
 
Similarly, the plight of Shatique (Danielle Lenee), a black, single mother, will resonate with the “politically correct” among us: after all, isn’t she balancing a multitude of responsibilities, including studying to become a nurse, working to support herself, visiting her son who is temporarily in the care of his grandmother, remaining in touch with her all-but-abandoned brother while he is in prison, and simply struggling to survive in her crime and drug-ridden ghetto?  Under those circumstances, who can really blame her if, when she is forced to make a difficult ethical decision, she fails to make the right one?

L-R: Robert Cuccioli and Danielle Leneé in WHITE GUY ON THE BUS. Photo by Matt Urban/Mobius New Media Inc.
Of course it also will be pretty obvious to the progressive contingent that Molly (Jessica Bedford), a white, well-educated, self-proclaimed liberal, working as a guidance counselor at a white all-girls academy in Bryn Mawr, is really a hypocrite and racist at heart.  Consider: after proclaiming her undying love for the city because of its “buzz,” its energy, and its diversity (in contrast to the all-white suburbs), what does she do but up and move to the suburbs as soon as she is pregnant in order to assure a safer life and better schools for her unborn child.  And didn’t she reluctantly admit that if her car were to break down at one o’clock in the morning, she’d much prefer if it were to happen in Bryn Mawr than in North Philadelphia?  QED: Racist!

And as for her husband, Christopher (Jonathan Silver), an aspiring sociologist whose dissertation prospectus is entitled “Male African-American Images in Television Advertising,” what more really need be said?  As his thesis adviser put it in rejecting his proposal “What right does a white man have to speculate on a black man’s image?” and then, in answer to her own question, “White man has no right, white man has no right!”  And so Christopher, another presumed racist, bites the dust but, availing himself of his “white privilege,” lands on his feet when Ray offers him a job.  And ends up with a great house in the suburbs, to boot.

But now let’s take a look at all of this from another vantage point: that of a politically in-correct conservative-leaning libertarian.  Yes, Ray is the beneficiary of “white privilege” (admittedly he is white) but that scarcely means that he doesn’t deserve credit for his achievements in life.  His mother died when he was seven.  His father was a bus driver and an alcoholic.  His brother went to jail for burglary.  But despite all that, Ray not only survived, but flourished.  Surely he deserves credit, rather than condemnation, for that.

And as for Shatique: yes, she is a black, struggling single mother.  But she is a single mother because she got pregnant at sixteen, and not as the result of rape, a condition for which she certainly must assume at least some responsibility.  Clearly she too deserves credit for the tremendous effort she is making to improve her life but providing her with a free pass for any and all mistakes she may have made or may yet make on the basis of her perceived “victimhood” is completely unjustified.  Regardless of her “victimhood,” or Ray’s “white privilege.” for that matter, shouldn’t they both still be held responsible for their actions?

Which brings us to Molly, that exemplar of smug, self-satisfied, “politically correct” hypocrisy.  With nothing at stake, Molly champions the right of African-Americans to take offense at any criticism emanating from a white person – simply because it comes from a white person – whether or not the criticism is justified by the facts.  She denies that anyone other than a white person can be racist and expresses the “theory that the disenfranchised – in this case African-Americans – due to the effects of slavery and the aftermath – can’t be racist because they never held the power” even to the point of denying that when eighteen black kids attack three Asian kids, that is a “racist” act.  And then, with everything at stake, Molly does a complete about-face, proclaiming that “we need to move.  Any place as long as it’s out of the city.  The schools are just – unless you’re rich enough for private just…forget about it.  The public schools are – well, you know. It’s weird but knowing you’re having a baby just…changes your whole point of view.  About everything.  People, our neighborhood.  Traffic.  I worry about traffic now.  I never did before.  Everything looks so…different.  It all seems dangerous.”

And Christopher?  But what, if anything, was wrong with his dissertation prospectus, “Male African-American Images in Television Advertising,” in the first place?  Notwithstanding his thesis adviser’s contemptuous remark - “What right does a white man have to speculate on a black man’s image?” – the fact is that a white man has every right to speculate on a black man’s image just as a black man has every right to speculate of a white man’s image.  Moreover, Christopher wasn’t even speculating: he was compiling and analyzing voluminous data on his subject, much in the way that Charles Murray did research for his books The Bell Curve and Coming Apart.  But then again, we saw how the students at Middlebury treated Murray, didn’t we?

There is one other character in White Guy on the Bus whom I have not yet mentioned and for good reason, despite the fact that she – Roz (Susan McKey) – is really the most important character in the entire play.  My problem is that, in talking about Roz, I run the risk of spilling the beans about the entire play.  But I will try to avoid that risk while eschewing spoiler alerts.

Roz is Ray’s wife and a truly dedicated English teacher.  Unlike Molly, she teaches in a disadvantaged inner-city school that is 72% African-American, 12% Hispanic, 9% Asian, and 7% “other.”  Despite that,  she has had finalists in nationwide poetry competitions, including two winners, in eleven out of the last fifteen years.  She is attempting to teach an illiterate student, Nazir, how to read – on her own time.  And she is this year’s state finalist for the national Teacher of the Year Award.

There is another way that Roz is very unlike Molly: she doesn’t spout platitudes or necessarily conform to whatever might be deemed “politically correct” at the moment. Notwithstanding Spike Lee’s contention that only a white person can be racist, she is fully prepared to accuse the black principal of her school of racism in light of the principal’s contempt for the Asians, Hispanics and “others”  - indeed, everyone other than the African-Americans - in her school.

It is not that Roz considers Molly to be racist.  On the contrary.  After Roz forces Molly to admit reluctantly that if her car were to break down at one o’clock in the morning, she’d much prefer if it were to happen in Bryn Mawr than in North Philadelphia, Roz readily concedes that “Molly, I would swear in court that you are not and have never been a racist.  You answered that question based on common sense.  You were honest.  None of us want our car to break down in the bad neighborhoods and around here the bad neighborhoods are black.  This is a fact.  But I work with people – like my principal – who would call you a racist in a heartbeat.  You would be perceived to be a racist because they didn’t like your answer.  It’s the new McCarthyism – don’t like the way someone thinks, call ‘em a racist.  Someone calls you a racist, how do you defend yourself?  Guess what – you can’t.”

In effect, Roz is strictly pragmatic, simply attempting to do the very best for the kids in her charge (despite their referring to her as a “white bitch,” a sobriquet which she did not consider a “hate crime” but actually used in a class on adjectives).  She entertains no preconceived notions to muddy the waters.  As she describes her work with Nazir, he is in “Tenth grade, can’t read.  So I meet with him after school and try to – I don’t know – do something for him.  I keep copies of job applications – not Microsoft or anything.  Realistic – fast food places.  Wal-Mart.  And we work on – I mean if he can at least fill one out maybe he can…I don’t know.”

To which, predictably, Molly’s response is: “You’re aiming kind of…well, low, aren’t you?  With the applications.  I mean, it’s as if you’re saying…okay, you – Burger King.  You’re from this neighborhood so don’t expect anything better.”

And Roz’s reaction: He can’t read, Molly.  I can be idealistic or realistic – can’t do both.

And there you have it.  Roz is the down-to-earth real adult in the room and it is what happens to her and how it reverberates throughout the group – especially as it affects Ray and Shatique - that animates the play.  I’m reluctant to say any more lest I inadvertently let the cat out of the bag and disclose too much.

My bottom line?  I think this is a terrific play with fine performances across the board and I urge you to see it.  And from my perspective – as a right-leaning libertarian -  I think that Bruce Graham has done as good a job of demolishing progressive “politically correct” pretensions as David Mamet himself might have done.  But then my liberal friends most likely would disagree.


Saturday, February 25, 2017

Jeff McCarthy Stars in KUNSTLER at 59E59 Theaters

L-R: Jeff McCarthy and Nambi E. Kelley in KUNSTLER at 59E59 Theaters.
William Kunstler, an ACLU director from 1964 to 1972 was a staunch civil rights advocate, attorney, and liberal icon who gained both notoriety and acclaim for his spirited defense of clients ranging from the Mississippi Freedom Riders to the Chicago Seven, from the Black Panthers to the Attica Prison rioters, and from the American Indian Movement to the Weather Underground.  But if his clients were controversial (and they certainly were), so was the man himself.  On the one hand, for example, he argued that he defended his clients because, guilty or not, everyone is entitled to the best possible defense.  That is why, he contended, he didn’t limit his clientele to men like Martin Luther King, Jr. or the Mississippi Freedom Riders but also chose to defend such unsavory characters as Colin Ferguson (the black man who killed six people in a shooting rampage on a Long Island Railroad train), Sheikh Omar Abdel-Rahman (the blind sheikh responsible for the World Trade Center bombing in 1993), and such mob bosses as John Gotti and Joe Bonnano.  And yet, at the same time he refused to defend right-wing groups such as the Minutemen, proclaiming that “I only defend those whose goals I share.  I’m not a lawyer for hire. I only defend those I love.”  Similarly, Kunstler viewed due process as merely a means to an end, unabashedly politicizing the issues in his cases if he thought that doing so might inure to the benefit of his clients.

Kunstler by Jeffrey Sweet, currently being staged at 59E59 Theaters on East 59th Street in midtown Manhattan, is an enormously entertaining paean to William Kunstler, featuring an absolutely bravura performance by Jeff McCarthy in the title role.  But the 90-minute two-hander in which William Kunstler is gently confronted by Kerry (Nambi E. Kelley), a young, black female law student who challenges him to justify his defenses of John Gotti or Colin Ferguson, could have been even better if it had addressed the contradictions in Kunstler’s persona more forcefully.  As it is, the play merely alludes to but generally glosses over Kunstler’s shortcomings – from the infidelities that led to the collapse of his first marriage to his rationalizing justifications for Ferguson’s murderous behavior as being “understandable” in terms of “black rage,” providing Kerry with limited opportunity to provide a strong counter-balance to the positive depiction of the liberal icon presented throughout most of the play.  And as a result, the play is neither intellectually stimulating nor thought provoking, although it certainly is extremely entertaining.


And maybe just being entertaining is quite enough. 

Thursday, January 19, 2017

LaBUTE NEW THEATER FESTIVAL at 59E59 Theaters

L-R: Michael Hogan and Clea Alsip in WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS,  part of  LaBUTE NEW THEATER FESTIVAL
As a great fan of Neil LaBute, I eagerly anticipated attending a performance of his latest one act play, What Happens in Vegas, currently enjoying its world premier at 59E59 Theaters on East 59th Street in midtown Manhattan as part of this year’s LaBute New Theater Festival.  Unfortunately, I was to be sadly disappointed.  Not that this latest two-hander by LaBute doesn’t exhibit the same sort of sharp dialogue and clever character juxtapositions that exemplify his other plays for it certainly does.  Nor is it the fault of the two fine actors, Clea Alsip and Michael Hogan, whose portrayals of a sexy call girl and her cost-conscious client are spot on.  No, it is simply that What Happens in Vegas never comes across as a fully fleshed out play – not even a short one-act one – but rather as little more than a classroom exercise in playwriting.  To be sure, What Happens in Vegas is an occasionally mildly erotic and amusing riff on the encounter between that hot Las Vegas hooker and that married salesman on a tight budget, enabling LaBute to express at least a smidgen of his considerable literary talent, but it never amounts to very much more than that.
The remainder of the evening’s program consists of three other one act plays – Homebody by Gabe McKinley, American Outlaws by Adam Seidel, and Mark My Worms by Cary Pepper – all of which are currently enjoying their New York premieres (after having received their world premieres at past LaBute New Theater Festivals at St.Louis Actors’ Studio’s Gaslight Theater in prior years).  But again, despite some excellent performances, none of those three really grabbed me either.
Homebody is a disturbingly macabre tale of a dysfunctional twosome – Jay (Michael Hogan), an unsuccessful aspiring novelist in his late 30’s, and his mother (Donna Weinsting), with whom he is living.  The play reminded me of the work of Martin McDonagh whose The Pillowman and The Lieutenant of Inishmore took Broadway by storm more than a decade ago.  But much as I could appreciate McDonagh’s playwriting talents, I found both The Pillowman and The Lieutenant of Inishmore to be so fundamentally distasteful that I regretted having seen them both.  My reaction to Homebody is similar: admittedly it is a well-written and professionally performed work but I found it to be so distasteful that I just didn’t like it.  But if you’re a fan of McDonagh, you might very well enjoy it much more than I did.
American Outlaws is yet another two hander in which Mitch (Eric Dean White), a mild-mannered cuckolded accountant attempts to hire a hit man, Mike (Justin Ivan Brown), to kill his wife.  The relationship between Mitch and Mike turns out to be much more complicated than we might have imagined at first blush but making sense of it all required a greater suspension of disbelief than I thought the play was worth.  The play ends not with a whimper but with a bang but is sufficiently incoherent that I couldn’t really be sure who was banging whom (at least I didn’t have that problem in LaBute’s play).
Which brings us to the final play on the program – Mark My Worms – in which Mason (Eric Dean White) and Gloria (Clea Alsip) have been cast in a newly-discovered play by the renowned absurdist, La Salle Montclare.  The play is to be directed by John (Justin Ivan Brown) but the catch is that Montclare’s estate insists that the play be performed exactly as Montclare wrote it – typos and all - and Montclare was a terrible typist.  So when the play opens, for example, with Mason holding Gloria at gunpoint and saying, as per the script, “I’ve got a bun!,” when it should be apparent to anyone with a modicum of common sense that what he actually meant to type was “I’ve got a gun!,” Mason still is required to say “I’ve got a bun!,” rather than “I’ve got a gun!”  And when the script goes on to have Mason saying “Come out or  I’ll…hoot,” when Montclare obviously meant to say “Come out or I’ll shoot,” Mason is still required to express the absurd statement as written rather than what would actually make sense.  In a way it gives a whole new meaning to the term “theatre of the absurd.”
Gloria, however, does attempt to make sense out of it all and does so in an even more absurd manner.  She discovers a Ph.D. thesis written on Montclare by one Thorndike Farrington which attempts to explain Montclare’s obvious typos as intentionally distorted food references and, with the utmost pretension, she contends that Montclare “loved food as much as he hated violence…He thought food was the answer to all our problems…What he’s saying here is that you, the instrument of violence, should be wielding a bun.  Because if everyone who resorts to force did that, all violence would end.”  And in further reliance on Farrington’s thesis, Gloria goes on to cite him as saying that “Montclare’s unique dialogue should not be viewed within the framework of the traditional communications paradigm” and that the “transmutation of preconception is sublime subordination” - whatever any of that might mean.
It all reminds me, in its puncturing of academic pretension and pomposity, of the so-called “Sokal Hoax,” perpetrated by Alan Sokal, a physics professor, two decades ago in which Sokal submitted an article entitled “Transgressing the Boundaries: Towards a Transformative Hermeneutics of Quantum Gravity” to Social Text, an academic journal of postmodern cultural studies, in which he proposed that quantum gravity is a social and linguistic concept.  The editors of that supposedly scholarly journal actually published the article and, on the day it was published, Sokal revealed that the article was a hoax, describing it as “a pastiche of left-wing cant, fawning references, grandiose quotations, and outright nonsense…structured around the silliest quotations…about mathematics and physics.”
It reminds me, too, of the very funny scene in the Woody Allen movie, Take the Money and Run, in which Virgil, a would-be bank robber, hands a note to a bank teller on which is written “I have a gun” – except that Virgil’s handwriting is so bad that the bank teller can’t decide whether it says “I have a gun” or “I have a gub.”  The point of all this being that while Mark My Worms is predicated on an amusing conceit, it’s been done before and, to my mind, not only more effectively (in the Sokal Hoax) but also more entertainingly (in Take the Money and Run).