SOMETHING WICKED THAT WAY GOES

In a rare clash of film noir, an awesome murder mystery party, and Shakespeare, Punchdrunk’s Sleep No More is the ultimate voyeuristic thrill. Audience members don Venetian masks and explore the depths of the 1930s-style McKittrick hotel in pursuit of the dubious characters of Shakespeare’s Macbeth, who run amuck throughout. The painstakingly detailed set — which is the entire hotel — will have you digging through suitcases, desk drawers, and bookshelves in a desperate, darkly gleeful search of any dirt you can find on your favorite social climbers, the Macbeths. The hunt goes on all night, interrupted by witches climbing up walls, the nuevo-royalty taking a quick bath to wash blood off their hands, and (if you’re in the right room) an occasional murder. Each of these major scenes is acted in silence, so Shakespeare is not really in focus here — in fact, you get only whiffs of plot. Even if you are quick enough to pursue a character that intrigues you, it’s pretty difficult to discern exactly who you’re following — that doesn’t really become clear until the very end, if you make it that long (you can stay inside the hotel for up to three hours). And yet, it’s hard not to get swept into the chase. The cast is highly engaging, and nimbly darts in and out of rooms, up and down stairs, all the while maintaining a mysterious air about them so that you simply can’t resist trying to follow. The roles are all doubled, so I hesitate to name anyone in particular, but the witches are particularly exciting to watch; if you can figure out who they are, they’re especially worth the pursuit. Punchdrunk may not deal much with the depths of Macbeth in Sleep No More, but they’ve turned it into an even more visceral, exciting theatrical event than any other production of the Scottish Tragedy you are likely to see. It’s not to be missed.

photos by Yaniv Schulman and Robin Roemer

Sleep No More
Punchdrunk Theatre Company at the McKittrick Hotel
scheduled to end on September 7, 2013
for more info and tickets, visit http://sleepnomorenyc.com

Sleep No More plays six nights a week with five different start times
Friday and Saturday have five additional late night times

SKETCHY BLUEPRINT

The great John Turturro stars as the architect Halvard Solness in David Edgar’s translation of Ibsen’s enigmatic chef-d’oeuvre The Master Builder, which is currently being performed at the BAM Harvey Theater under the direction of Andrei Belgrader. Mr. Belgrader chooses to take what might be called a more traditional approach to staging the work, using affected speech patterns and Marco Piemontese’s period costumes to create a formal theatrical experience that is rich and satisfying at times, but not entirely persuasive.

Fundamentally, The Master Builder is the tale – or fairytale – of a supremely successful, middle-aged architect haunted by guilt over his past wishes and in constant fear of being usurped by the young. Into his life arrives a seductive twenty-three-year-old girl named Hilde (Wrenn Schmidt), who demands that he fulfill an impossible promise, which she insists he made to her ten years earlier.

The play ranges from the realistic to the surreal, and every combination in between; as soon as you think you have a firm hold of the work, it changes its shape and slips away. Mr. Belgrader chooses to take a middle line of sorts, grounding the show in reality but infusing it with a good bit of the mystical and dreamlike. This duality can be seen immediately in Santo Loquasto’s psychological set, with its combination of everyday period items under an expressionistic rusted metal skeleton that somewhat resembles a church tower leaning precariously over everything. Ray Rumery’s sound and James F. Ingalls’ lighting also alert us when something not quite realistic is about to happen. The solid and sure-footed technical proceedings are aided by first-rate performances from the remaining cast: Julian Gamble, Kelly Hutchinson, Max Gordon Moore, Katherine Borowitz, and Ken Cheeseman.

But the show lacks nuances which keep it from hitting its mark. Hilde, when she is with Solness, does a lot of suggestive posing intended to seduce or at least to entice him. She uses her youth and sexuality to get him to do what she wants, but her physical bluntness doesn’t seem to quite fit the period style of the production, and it feels like overkill. Most importantly, this redundancy eats into time that could have been spent making Hilde a more complex figure, both in terms of her as an individual but also with regards to her thematic place in the play.

Another underdeveloped element is Hilde and Solness’ relationship. After the first few scenes, their emotional connection barely shifts – they just seem to be rehashing the same old thing over and over. As a result, the architect’s important final monologue to her doesn’t seem to come off as it should: We understand that in this speech Solness is being earnest and that for him the words are dramatic, but it’s not clear if we are supposed to take it at face value or with a bit of irony. The same could be said of a production which nonetheless holds our attention.

photos by Stephanie Berger

The Master Builder
Brooklyn Academy of Music at Harvey Theater
scheduled to end on June 9, 2013
for tickets, call (718) 636-4100 or visit http://www.bam.org/

ALL THE WRONG MOVES

The musical Chess highlights the tongue-twisting, swift, and pithy lyrics by Tim Rice and the soaring, dazzling music by Benny Andersson and Björn Ulvaeus of ABBA fame. In previous Stage and Cinema reviews of productions at MTG and the Met Theatre, its history has been well-documented: The super-partnership of Rice-Andersson-Ulvaeus in 1979; the worldwide success of Chess’ 1984 concept album; its shaky 1986 mounting in London, and a bungled 1989 Broadway production. Since then it has lived in a bubble of enormous potential, but has yet to burst forth as a great musical in spite of numerous tweaks and reworked books (even Tim Rice, who supervised the version at Albert Hall in 2008, saw that it was best done as a concert). The reason why the show is so often produced resides with the score, one of the best ever written for a recording studio.

For the time being, the key to making this work exciting and affecting in a staged performance is to showcase the score and curb the complicating and confusing story elements. East West Players tackles Chess with the still bizarre and befuddling original UK book (with additional material from the Broadway and the Rice concert versions), but this production suffers from much more than an oddly constructed libretto (which, it seems, cannot be avoided). This checkered outing includes the following: Miscast actors who were clearly utilized for purposes of multiculturalism, not because they are right for the roles (one of the reasons for the mediocre performances); director Tim Dang’s atrocious staging; and a band overwhelmed by the complex, shape-shifting music. I can only wonder what sort of involvement and thought process Dang had to take a flawed ruby and deliver rubbish instead of refinement.

The metaphor of chess itself – war, strategy, etc. – is woven through a tale involving politics, romance, and matters of personal honor. The story takes place in the later years of the US / USSR cold war conflict and centers the action on the World Chess Championship showdown between two brilliant players: Freddie, a brash, upstart American who is the current World Champion, and Anatoly, a cool, collected Soviet challenger. Both their fates are transformed not by country or by game, but by Florence, Freddie’s manager, lover, and second. In an attempt to sort out some tempers at a match in Merano, Italy, Florence starts to fall in love with Anatoly. Love triangles and political intrigue emerge and surprising personal truths are revealed as another match is played in Bangkok in the equally clunky second act. However, nothing is clunkier than the manner in which it is presented at the David Henry Hwang Theatre.

To start, the mismatched performers, who have little to no chemistry. Elijah Rock has the incredible vocal range, control, and power necessary to knock Anatoly’s challenging songs out of the theater. Not so with his range as an actor: He’s supposed to be the romantic hero we’re rooting for, and instead we are subjected to a wooden performance where beautiful ballads and impassioned anthems are reduced to nothing more than mere exercises of vocal prowess. Whereas Rock has the voice coupled with blank interpretation, Victor E. Chan, as Freddie, overcompensates for his rival’s stale nature by over-gesticulating and overwrought vaudevillian emphasizing, and his vocal range, while impressive, is not altogether consistent. Joan Almedilla sings quite well as Florence and does the best she can to make the scenes work with the extreme performances of her co-actors. Carey Rebecca Brown comes as a breath of fresh air in the underwritten role of Anatoly’s wife, Svetlana, and beautifully sings and interprets “Heaven Help My Heart.”

Ray A. Rochelle plays Molokov – Anatoly’s second and KGB agent – like Boris Badenov of Rocky and Bullwinkle fare, which he performs quite well, but it doesn’t translate effectively in this musical – he seems more comical than threatening. His baritone is impressive, and he comes close to stealing the show during “The Soviet Machine,” wherein he unleashes a series of balletic turns in stunning fashion (Rochelle’s thick Russian accent also calls into question why Rock’s Anatoly has none). Ryan Castellino plays the Arbiter – a referee and president of the International Chess Federation – with plenty of proper ham and cheese; while his voice is capable of hitting all the notes, his range is chopped between his chest voice and a distinctly nasal and helium-filled head voice; it is jarring to hear him go in and out in the middle of phrases.

Dang’s vision of Chess introduces a character dubbed “The Spirit of Chess” (Jasmine Ejan) who dances around during the prologue and various chess matches. This creation neither illuminates the story nor makes it more coherent. On top of that, Marc Oka’s choreography lacked the fluidity one would expect from a spirit of any sort.

Music Director Marc Macalintal’s performers are overwhelmed by the demanding score, in which time changes and tonal shifts are frequent and unrelenting. The trimmed-down band of six struggles to keep up but too often falls behind. Complicating matters is Yoshi Irie’s tepid and irregular sound design – absolutely unforgivable for a piece with a bombastic and explosive score fueled by powerhouse voices and dynamite music. The chorus is both game and vocally strong, but melody lines and lyrics, while better understood than most productions of Chess, are often lost. The male ensemble really showed off the show’s potential with a rousing and riotous “Embassy Lament.”

Anthony Tran’s mismatched costumes are positively indescribable in that dark Tim Burton / 1980s thrift store kind of way. Add to that Adam Flemming’s set and Dan Weingarten’s lights, and it looks like we’re in a seedy multi-level Bangkok gay bar from the start of Act One. The trappings are sufficient only for “One Night in Bangkok,” when the stage comes alive with scantily-clad dancing boys in tight gold lamé shorts and dominatrices in hats that were stolen from an organ grinder’s monkey. While the rest of Act Two can be forgiven the dark and dingy atmosphere of that disreputable city – it makes no sense why Merano, Italy looks the same but feels like a soviet-themed bar and lounge.

Flemming’s projection design is infuriating, with looped videos and a “LIVE TV feed” video camera stationed upstage left, leaving the characters to talk towards the camera and into the wings. Why are they looking there instead of out into the audience? And why is the blurry screen stationed at the top of the stage on stage left? Our eyes are forced to bounce back and forth unnaturally. As bad as this was, the worst staging had to be the final match; it took place stage right on a platform between the top of the scaffolding and the stage itself, while the spirit of chess was free to dance all around center stage. Even with all of the volume, one audience member seated to my left fell asleep; a few others left at intermission, no doubt due to the poor management of all these elements. I suspect that the only people who would sit through this ordeal are those who take pleasure in watching American Idol auditions.

Chess is ultimately a musical about the value of our choices; the chess pieces of our life that we think are vital to success can quickly fly off the board in one swift move. It’s about adapting and making the moves necessary to go forward and make it in life. Some are by necessity, some are foolish, some require sacrifice, and hopefully we end up with the results we want in the end. The dream is that we can rise victorious from the incongruous belief systems we are born into. That’s why people see the potential of this musical as one which is both transformative and exceptional (and that is also why this burnt-out critic keeps returning to the theater after so much dreck — every show is a potential for transformation). Unfortunately at East West Players, Tim Dang makes all the wrong moves and puts both his performers and the audience in an undeserved checkmate.

photos by Michael Lamont

Chess
East West Players
David Henry Hwang Theater at the Union Center of the Arts
scheduled to end on June 23, 2013
for tickets, call 213.625.7000 or visit http://www.EastWestPlayers.org

ALIVE WITH AMBIGUITY

If you require a neat and tidy ending, a feeling of clarity, and a sense of completion to insure your theatrical enjoyment, then Dying City – making its Los Angeles premiere at the Rogue Machine Theatre –is not for you. If on the other hand you appreciate that a life examined offers more questions than answers; that closure is an elusive entity more a delusion than a reality; and that human beings are complex creatures who lack the ability to truly understand why we choose to live our lives the way we do (let alone grasp the consequences of our actions on others), then Dying City is just what your psychoanalyst ordered.

Christopher Shinn’s (Four, Other People) script takes a deep look into our culture of victimization, and queries whether or not our bad behavior can be blamed on someone else, thereby justifying our actions and reactions. Are we all a product of our upbringing? Identical twin brothers, Peter and Craig (Burt Grinstead), were both raised in the same household yet one became a straight, hyper-masculine soldier and the other a gay, self-obsessed actor. Why are they so different and are they really different at all? Kelly (Laurie Okin), Craig’s wife, overcompensates for feeling persecuted as the “poor little rich girl” by becoming a therapist who seeks to soothe her demons by being overly empathetic to the fears and foibles of others.

Mr. Shinn raises many lofty ideas that inspire questions he surely knows there are no definitive answers for: Is it a foregone conclusion that the abused becomes the abuser? If we did manage to escape our youth relatively unscathed are we not still victims of society at large? 9/11, the horrors of war, and the worldwide inhumanity that is thrust upon us every day surely has an effect (it’s no accident that one of the first words a child often says is why – our inherent need to know can’t and never will be fully satisfied).

The story unfolds as a master class in manipulation and passive aggressive behavior. Peter, who has just stormed off stage mid-show from a Broadway production of Long Day’s Journey into Night, arrives unannounced at Kelly’s apartment. The pair have not seen or spoken to each other since Craig’s funeral. What ensues is a series of obtuse and superficial conversations that circumvent the real issues at hand. Hints of the underlying turmoil and strife are quickly stifled or glossed over so the two can plow blindly ahead with their own agendas. Peter exits into the bedroom to answer his cell phone, and then reappears moments later as his twin. What follows is a flashback to Craig’s final night in the city before being deployed to active duty in Baghdad. Through a series of conveniently placed calls and other theatrical devices, time and character seamlessly jump throughout the 90 intermission-free minutes.

Director Michael Peretzian knows a thing or two about bringing victimization to the stage. His stewardship of the emotionally devastating Holocaust survivor drama Red Dog Howls, starring Kathleen Chalfont, was brilliant. He again deserves accolades for his work here. Under his watchful eye, the show never descends into the realm of gimmickry but remains grounded in a naturalistic haze.

Peretzian’s discerning eye has shaped amazing performances from his two stars, allowing them to soar. As Kelly, Miss Okin is a wonder. With the exception of an emotional breakdown near the show’s finale that teeters on the cusp of believability, she has crafted a consistently authentic, multi-layered portrayal. Mr. Grinstead is nothing short of a revelation. He inhabits each of the brothers so fully that it is hard to believe they are played by the same actor. A less gifted thespian would resort to stereotypes and outwardly blatant character traits to differentiate the siblings, but not Grinstead, who gives not one but two remarkably flawless and distinct performances. After his first transformation into Craig, I sat transfixed in disbelief that this was the same actor that just exited the stage as Peter. This may sound crazy, but the change was so all-encompassing that I swear his biceps got bigger.

Tom Buderwitz’s dreary, mood-setting, and suitably muted NYC apartment had a slight problem with the pesky front door which kept opening on its own. Not to be outdone by the possessed portal, Leigh Allen’s soothing lighting was disrupted by a rogue lamp that couldn’t decide whether it wanted to be on, off, or simply just flicker. No doubt these opening night issues will be addressed for future performances – the point is that the actors trudged on unfazed, never letting these mishaps distract them from their appointed rounds.

The ambiguities that abound in Dying City may leave the viewer with an empty feeling at first, but as with life, time and reflection fill the void with a resounding and resonating truth. The show will stay with you for days, and the performances, especially Mr. Grinstead’s, will stick with you for a lifetime.

photos by John Flynn

Dying City
Rogue Machine Theatre
scheduled to end on July 8, 2013
performances Sat at 5:00, Sun at 7:00, Mon at 8:00
for tickets, call 855-585-5185 or visit http://www.roguemachinetheatre.com

HOME IS WHERE THE HEARTACHE IS

Moments before the arrival of Hope (a domineering mother-in-law, not the aspiration), newly-married Melody jests with her handsome corporate attorney husband, Craig: “Don’t talk about your mother and then try to kiss me.” Although funny dialogue such as this may seem more sitcom than theatrical in Bekah Brunstetter’s Be a Good Little Widow, it feels fresh and points up the disconnect in their young marriage. When the playwright turns this deceptively simplistic dialogue towards the unexpected in this west coast premiere, the result is exhilarating.

Despite their obvious affection for each other Craig doesn’t listen to his wife as Hope walks into their new Connecticut house furnished by Melody in (set designer Jason Sims’) garishly-colored thrift store Danish Modern. She wastes no time in telling her son that an old girlfriend of his is back on the market. A wonderfully austere Christine Estabrook had the Old Globe audience gasping and laughing at Hope’s audacity. As we will find in this comedy that tailspins into a drama, there’s more to Hope than disapproval of the marriage and the tasteless decor.

Melody is going out of her mind with boredom during Craig’s business-related absences. She is a cacophony of brash naiveté and self-indulgence: When Craig (Ben Graney) is later out of town, she is drawn to his paralegal Brad (Kelsey Kurz), who arrives to retrieve some info off of his laptop; she is stressed by her feeble efforts to please her mother-in-law; she is addicted to pop tarts; and she fills her lonely hours by color-categorizing her sweaters, lamenting, “That made me happy. And that’s sad.” There is almost no sub-text as everything she feels or questions is blurted out. She’s both sweetly and annoyingly off the spectrum. As Melody, Zoë Winter’s performance is superb, capturing the inconsistencies, fears, and joyous mania of a troubled woman fighting to bring her life into balance.

When Craig is killed in a plane crash, mother-in-law and daughter-in-law are thrown into a cauldron of grief management and funeral planning. Hope prescribes a rigid decorum for widowhood. Melody will have none of it. This is Melody’s first funeral ever and by God she’s going to write her own speech. “Eulogy,” corrects Hope who has already hired a minister for that purpose. But Melody forges ahead, pen hovering over paper as she struggles to describe her husband Craig. What kind of person was he? After several painfully funny starts she sets the pen down intoning: “What kind of a person is anyone?”

This is the moment she begins to shed her naiveté, realizing that she no more knows the man she was briefly married to than herself. What follows is an arduous and wildly comic crawl through a mire of grief. Hal Brooks directs seamlessly, unafraid to employ stretches of wordless calm when time is needed to reflect. Indeed, grief is rarely such a delight.

Only the play’s end feels a misstep. Hope warms to Melody to such a degree they are on the verge of becoming friends. Hope’s change of attitude – inspired by a dream (a kind of deus ex machina) in which she lets go of Craig – belies her controlling nature. Still, in her final advice, Hope instructs Melody on how she should honor Craig and deal with his future replacement: to wit, how to dance with him and how to invite him to lunch. It’s played as a loving gesture, but really she’s continuing to lay down the rules for being a good little widow. In this case, hope (both the mother-in-law and the aspiration) is a bitter irony.

photos by Ed Krieger

Be a Good Little Widow
Sheryl and Harvey White Theatre
Old Globe in San Diego
scheduled to end on June 9, 2013
for tickets, call (619) 23-GLOBE [234-5623] or visit http://www.TheOldGlobe.org

THE TITLE CHARACTER IS TOO PURE FOR PEOPLE, BUT THIS PURE PRODUCTION IS FOR EVERYONE

Of all Moliere’s comedies, The Misanthrope (1666), now gloriously and faithfully revived at Court Theatre, is the one literary critics and Moliere fans most take to heart. The master’s most personal and most ambiguous work, The Cantankerous Lover (its telling subtitle) delivers both a scathing attack on a superficial, gossip-ridden society and a searing portrait of the isolation thrust upon anyone who dares set himself against it. The title character Alceste is almost a tragic hero, relentless in his search for an honest man (and, especially, woman); he is far too willing to put his ideals before his happiness.

Though the “unfashionably sincere” Alceste (“Don’t spoil my solitude!”) despises scandalmongers, coquettes, and sycophants, he loves the beautiful Celimene, an engaging extrovert who owns all three excesses and fills Alceste with a jealous possessiveness no true misanthrope would ever admit to. His inability to trust the person he loves, along with defeat in a crucial libel suit, drives Alceste to his final desperate decision to become an anchorite in a retreat.

And once-proud Celimene, herself unsuccessful in her law suit, now exposed by a too-free correspondence as a double dealing flirt and rejected by her numerous suitors, is also left loveless and alone. Even more than in Tartuffe — also to be done at Court Theatre in June – a magnificently consistent Moliere refuses to compromise in The Misanthrope. In an American romantic comedy you just know that the quarrelling lovers would eventually settle with a contrived reconciliation, a big kiss, and a few empty promises. But, unbending even in a comedy, Moliere artfully imagines two mutually exclusive extremes — the isolationist purity of Alceste’s contempt for human phoniness versus the hypocrisy and insincerity of chatterbox Celimene’s socially-mediated world.

Moliere in effect forces us to choose the middle path of reason, as exemplified by both Philinte, his “raissonneur” friend, and Eliante, the practical lady who gives up Alceste for Philinte.

Director Charles Newell, working from Richard Wilbur’s unimprovable translation, snagged the right player for every part, enough to make a 140-minute comedy convincing from start to finish. Anchoring Moliere’s thoughtful laughter is Erik Hellman’s supple Alceste, a very attractive idealist obsessed with the false notion that only constant truth will set us free. His whiplash reactions to the fraudulence around him — most frenetic when he chastises Celimene’s sparkling slander — is as hilarious in effect as it’s serious in source (though his second-act temper tantrum goes a bit over the top). This young actor is quickly becoming the default driver for complex and charismatic parts.

He’s well-matched with Grace Gealey’s sultry and knowing Celimene. No 21-year-old innocent craving attention by mocking her BFFs, Gealey’s spitfire bad girl, almost clad like a 17^th-century dominatrix, is the yin to Alceste’s yang: she’s seriously shallow. But, alas, never the twain can meet.

Superb character work comes from the African-American supporting cast. Caught in the crossfire are Kamal Angelo Bolden as Alceste’s sensible philosopher-friend and Patrese D. McClain as his love by default. Scathingly representing the Versailles-soaked opportunists, flatterers and backbiters are Travis Turner as a twerpy marquess, Michael Pogue as an effete fop, a glowering and rubber-faced A.C. Smith as Celimene’s pompous suitor Oronte, and, in a devastating drag turn a la Lady Bracknell, Allen Gilmore as prudish, censorious, and treacherous Arsinoe, Celimene’s worthy nemesis.

John Culbert’s black and gold set is echoed in Jaqueline Firkin’s elaborate costumes, full of gilded filigree embellishments, bustled court gowns, and lots of beautiful bling.

After David Ives’ insufferably ham-handed parody of this masterwork at Chicago Shakespeare Theater (the execrable The School for Lies), Newell’s pitch-perfect revival is a tonic, a balm, and an exorcism. Moliere is forever now.

photos by Michael Brosilow

The Misanthrope
Court Theatre in Chicago
scheduled to end on June 9, 2013
for tickets call 773-753-4472 or visit www.CourtTheatre.org

for info on this and other Chicago Theater, visit http://www.TheatreinChicago.com

SCULPTED TO PERFECTION

Dance should never be dull: That’s the acting credo of Boris Eifman’s kinetic Eifman Ballet of St. Petersburg, now erupting across the huge Auditorium Theatre stage through Sunday. Chicago may be a huge dance town already, but this amazing company is always welcome for their frenzied dancing, electric mood swings, pulsating lighting on swirling sets, and complete commitment to the emotional peak of every scene. The huge, young troupe consistently transforms spectacle from raw energy to a thrill-seekers delight. Eifman refers to the magic on stage as “psychological ballet”; whatever the term implies, we can feel as much as we can understand his constant, complex investigation of the multiple meanings behind every movement.

Eifman’s new ballet Rodin explores the textured genius of sculptor Auguste Rodin and his tortured love/hate relationship with Camille Claudel, his muse/mistress and fellow-sculptor. (Their mix of rivalry and romance immediately recalls Zelda versus F. Scott Fitzgerald in the 1920s.) Employing a supple score by French composers of the period (Saint-Saens, Massenet and Ravel), this two-hour tour-d’art focuses on Oleg Gabyshev’s tall and elegant Rodin, lean and lovely Lyubov Andreyeva as too-fragile Camille, and Nina Zmievets as Rodin’s dogged and damaged wife Rose Beuret.

The action opens with Camille in the mental asylum where she spent 30 years before dying forgotten in 1943. Joined by other mad ladies who abuse her, she dances out her insanity (perhaps the easiest thing to depict in ballet, which is why it’s such a favorite subject). Flashbacks to happier times become the main story: We see Camille’s raucous arrival in Rodin’s busy studio as a model who will herself turn marble into life. She is literally on a pedestal but, a proto-feminist in mind as well as heart, she will soon carve on her own. Remarkably, the dancer does as much to her body – and quicker than chisel and mallet could permit.

Eifman’s triumph is the opposite: His literally statuesque dancers turn life into marble as we watch Rodin and Camille moving their limbs into the desired finality of The Gates of Hell, Clotho, and other works. The galvanic ensemble effortlessly evoke Rodin: swirling students; villagers at a grape festival; pliable, homoerotic group sculptures in progress; soubrettes leaping into a can can or gallop at a Montmartre cabaret; and dream images of statuary to come or never to appear.

Along with swift lighting changes and the awesome living sculptures that Eifman molds as powerfully as Rodin did, there are splendid effects, like billowing shrouds in clouds, revolving walls that separate the lovers like their quarrels, sprawling silhouettes of the artisans frozen in action, a high-kicking bacchanal that all but scorches the Auditorium stage, and stretching spandex that reveals figures who seem aching to emerge.

Eifman’s greatest feat is, in effect, to recreate creativity. We see love as inspiration in the jagged, hypnotic and almost spidery duets between Rodin and Claudel, while Rose’s anguished solos exactly testify to all the outlets for love or art denied this all-suffering spouse. This wordless ballet attests to the many more than 1,000 words behind every stage picture — all generously presented in an enthrallingly sculpted saga.

photos by Nikolay Krusser

Eifman Ballet of St. Petersburg
Rodin
Auditorium Theatre of Roosevelt University
scheduled to end on May 19, 2013
for tickets, call (800) 982-ARTS
or visit http://www.AuditoriumTheatre.org

then plays the Sony Center in Toronto
May 23-25, 2013 http://www.sonycenter.ca
for more info on Eifman Ballet,
visit http://www.eifmanballet.ru/

for info on this and other Chicago Theater, visit http://www.TheatreinChicago.com

BEDEVILED

An off-stage character is tortured by a Salem court in Arthur Miller’s The Crucible, a play which dramatizes the Salem witch trials of 1692. As heavy stones are placed upon his chest, the innocent man’s reported final words are “More weight.” This is exactly what Antaeus Company’s production needs in order to be more triumphant than it is. Unfortunately, the experimental concert-style staging – wherein actors deliver many lines facing forward – ends up being more distracting than illuminating, and robs the production of the key emotional moments necessary for the play to pummel our senses. The playgoer is still promised some intense and palpable sensations as we witness a town go berserk from fear, but that is largely due to the script, one of the greatest works in American literature, and some rock solid performances. For those who have never witnessed this 1953 masterwork, written as an allegory of McCarthyism and blacklisting, the timeless and still-relevant themes of accusation-as-truth and religion-as-control will no doubt resonate, even with Antaeus’ gender-bending, colorblind casting. However, those who have seen this play before may find themselves longing for a more traditional approach.

There is a magical suspension of disbelief that occurs when witnessing a play presented in radio format (L.A. Theatre Works, Lost Moon Radio, It’s a Wonderful Life: The Radio Play), as our mind fills in the gaps left by actors who read the script from music stands. But it’s jarring when co-directors Armin Shimerman and Geoffrey Wade’s staging begins with this face-forward format, and then suddenly switches to actors interacting with each other and then back again. I can see what the helmers were going for: some of the more villainous characters face out – as if these are the ones who can’t be trusted – and the more heroic characters look each other in the eye. But it’s both inconsistent and keeps actors from one of the most important ingredients in live thespian stagecraft: reacting. Plus, some actors sit at the rear of the stage and watch while others exit; there may have been a reason for each and every move on that stage, but eventually it comes down to the actors in the scene.

The story concerns a farmer, John Proctor, who had an affair with his 17-year-old maidservant, Abigail. As a result, John’s wife, Elizabeth, kicked Abigail off the farm, and the manipulative teenager tried to hex Elizabeth by performing a late-night pagan ritual with her girlfriends. When Abigail’s uncle, the domineering and greedy Reverend Parris, happens upon the rite, the girls’ fear leads them to name innocents as witches to alleviate any suspicions aroused by their activity. The accusations fan the flames of mistrust and the witch hunt begins.

Many of Antaeus’ actors do a lot of film work, so their delivery into space can be quite effective. Still, I believe the staging device caused a discrepancy among actors (the show is double-cast; I saw “The Proctors”). As John, Christopher Guilmet never had a false note, playing the protagonist with equal parts courage, forthrightness, caution and shame. Devon Sorvari had some lovely and vulnerable moments as Elizabeth, but the coldness of the character came off as disconnected instead of taciturn (which I attribute to the staging). Marcia Batisse created a genuine, if somewhat overwrought, Tituba, Reverend Parris’s black slave from Barbados; later, however, an egregious error was made by having her play Hathorne, the presiding judge over the Salem Witch Trials, but not because of the gender switch: Hathorne should be unemotional, oblivious and hostile, yet Batisse went for some kind of professorial, attitude-drenched Jerry Springer-type guest with a broad British accent – it completely threw me out of the play. None of the other actors soared to devastating performances, but they did very good work. Only Joe Delafield as Reverend Parris floundered when it came to creating a fully-realized character; he had to resort to mannerisms to display emotion.

Wade’s notes indicate that “this production is set in a sort of ‘non-time,’” which is wholly appropriate given that the themes are so timeless. But the ‘non-time’ approach falters as a directorial vision when E.B Brooks’ costumes cleverly reside in a netherworld between country puritans and Old Navy, but then Stephen Gifford’s set consists of furniture right out of a 17^th century Salem farmhouse. As for the differing styles of delivery, it’s a brave theatrical device, but it was used for one of the few plays I know that doesn’t need deconstructionist staging. It’s like chipping away at some of the marble on Michelangelo’s David to display it in a smaller museum. Yes, there were moments that I felt emotional pressure on my chest, but this Crucible should have crushed my heart. More weight, please.

photos by Karianne Flaathen

The Crucible
Antaeus Company
scheduled to end on July 7, 2013
for tickets, call 818-506-1983 or go to http://www.antaeus.org

THE NORTH PLAN STARTS ON COURSE THEN GOES SOUTH

A ruthless splinter group has seized power in Washington and a low level bureaucrat who has escaped with the new regime’s “hit list” is on the lam and heading for a backwoods Missouri town in Jason Wells’ political satire. The North Plan, now playing at The Elephant Space in Hollywood. The script plays like it was spawned as the bastard love child of David Mamet (American Buffalo) and Martin McDonagh (The Lieutenant of Inishmore). “F” bombs and gratuitous violence abound, but unfortunately the end result never quite measures up to its parental pedigree.

It all starts off quite well. The setting is the backroom of the local police station (set design by Joel Daavid) where the prisoner holding cells are located. The sole inmate is the local gun toting, foul-mouthed, loony-yet-lovable Tanya (Kerry Carney) who it seems has turned herself in for drunk driving. She is trying to obtain her release by badgering, with motor-mouth precision, the uniformed administrative assistant Shonda (Bernadette Speakes). Shonda, sitting quietly at her desk reading the paper, is having none of it but that does not stop Tanya from continuing her verbal assault which, as written by Wells and performed by Carney, is quite often hilarious.

Enter the complacent Andy Taylor-esque (of Andy Griffith / Mayberry RFD fame) Chief Swenson (Stan Roth). Completely unsympathetic to Tanya’s situation he informs Shonda he will be bringing in another prisoner to be held until Homeland Security agents can arrive to question him. It turns out it is none other than Carlton Berg, the aforementioned escaped bureaucrat. Once caged, he pleads with the girls to let him out before his inquisitors arrive. The fate of the free world is in his hands and they must help him before it’s too late. Intermission.

The first act is very short, barely 35 minutes, and the primary purpose of the intermission is to do an extensive set change. Act two, which is not much longer, is set in the front room of the police station. Gone are the cells replaced by desks and other police paraphernalia. There is a doorway off to the rear leading to an unseen room where the two agents are practicing their “enhanced interrogation” techniques on a screaming Carlton. We meet agents Pittman (Dominic Rains) and Lee (John Forest) and are immediately entertained by their bungling ineptitude and volatile relationship. While the dialogue continues to be quite amusing and funny, a series of twist and turns ranging from the ridiculous to the downright unbelievable unfold and the show goes into the crapper. The effectiveness of the final showdown is totally blown by unconvincing props and amateurish sound effects that are simply laughable, and not in a good way. It turns a farce into a cartoon. It’s a real shame because up until then the show seemed to be building to greatness and then the balloon pops and the fun is gone. (Editor’s note: See Stage and Cinema’s review of The North Plan at Theater Wit in Chicago.)

The cast members are all very good but the real star of the show is Kerry Carney as Tanya. To be fair to the other performers, her part is the best written, but she takes the bull by the horns and runs with it. She is hysterical to watch. Shonda, Carlton and the Chief are pretty much thankless roles but the actors make the most out of them. As the agents, Mr. Rains and Mr. Forest have great chemistry and play off each well, resulting in some very funny repartee. It should be noted that those two roles are double cast so I can only speak for the team I saw.

Director David Fofi keeps the action moving briskly but really needs to be taken to task for allowing the show to deteriorate in the final moments. You are willing to forgive the absurdities in the script but the unconvincing showdown is unforgiveable. It ruined for me what could have been a very enjoyable evening in the theater.

photos by Joel Daavid

The North Plan
The Elephant Space, 6322 Santa Monica in Hollywood
scheduled to end on June 1, 2013 EXTENDED to June 8, 2013
for tickets, call (855) NO-FORGET [663-6743]
or visit http://www.ElephantTheatre.org

THE ROYALE PACKS A PUNCH SLAP

There are many things to recommend about The Royale, currently making its World Premiere at the Kirk Douglas Theatre. The staging is brilliant, the fight choreography mesmerizing, the lighting stunning, the music and sound enthralling, and many of the performances are excellent. So what then prevents this drama from becoming a “one-two knockout punch” and relegates it to little more than a watered down “bitch slap?” The script — or more accurately the lack of a script.

As is so often the case in the theater today, new plays are really “playlets” performed in less than 90 minutes without an intermission. A sort of drama-lite that does not allow for the full exploration of the characters or the subject matter. It’s been said that it’s always better to leave the audience wanting more. That may be true, but these glorified one-acts frequently just leave the audience wanting. Wanting a fully fleshed out story they can care about. Wanting characters that they can identify with. Wanting a full course theatrical banquet that leaves them emotional satiated.  Instead what’s served up here is a superficial and cursory exploratory tease that leaves the audience hungering for more.

The script by Marco Ramirez, which takes place in the early 1900s, deals with a fictional black boxer, Jay Jackson (David St. Louis) and his quest to take on the reigning white champ and become the heavyweight champion of the world. Of course the sport, like much of society at the time, was segregated and his aspirations filled the hearts of all with fear and apprehension. Unlike The Great White Hope, an actual full-length play which dealt with real-life champion Jack Johnson and his life after he became champ, The Royale concentrates on Jackson’s ascension to the throne and what surely will be the ensuing repercussions of his achievement (plus, Hope opened on Broadway — starring James Earl Jones and Jane Alexander — in one of the USA’s greatest years of racial unrest: 1968).

At first the tale revolves solely around Jackson’s drive and determination, but when his sister Nina (Diarra Oni Kilpatrick) arrives on the scene the focus shifts to what the fallout will be. She views his actions not as bravery but selfishness. She clearly believes he is behaving recklessly and not taking into account the danger he is placing all blacks in by standing up and breaking the color barrier. It’s a real fear and concern and probably not unlike what many felt when Rosa Parks refused to sit in the back of the bus. The backlash of the actions of a single person, no matter how heroic, can cause the suffering and persecution of many. While Nina feels it’s safer to continue the status quo than rock the boat, without these pioneers we would all find ourselves in a sad state of affairs.

Director Daniel Aukin does an admirable job with the hand he’s been dealt. He coaxes strong performances out of the cast and for the most part keeps the action moving although it would have been helpful to have the actors pick up the pace of their delivery in some of the slower sections. A little bit of quiet intensity goes a long way. It’s not until Ms. Kilpatrick arrives on the scene that the show finally gathers some much needed steam.

The real high points of the production are the staging and the technical execution. Ameenah Kaplan is credited with Movement and Rhythm and what she has wrought is hypnotic. The fights are highly stylized and choreographed. Punches are thrown in slow motion into midair accompanied by stomps to signify their arrival at their intended target. The boxers are on opposite sides of the stage and never directly interact with their opponent. Anticipation is built through the syncopated hand-slapping rhythms of the entire cast. The action is accentuated by Lap Chi Chu’s bursts of light and Ryan Rumery’s original music and sound design. Andrew Boyce’s set design is sleek and simplistic but defies logic when it serves a dual purpose of being both cold and stark and yet at other times warm and welcoming.

Mr. St. Louis shines as Jay. He cuts a striking and imposing vision and is always convincing in his portrayal. Robert Cossett as Jay’s trainer Wynton and Desean Terry as Jay’s adversary turned sparring partner Fish are both excellent. I only wish Mr. Ramirez gave them more to work with. Miss Kilpatrick is a real standout as Nina. She commands the stage and she brings a real sense of immediacy to her role. Keith Szarabajka playing several roles (promoter, referee, ring announcer, and  reporters) isn’t given much to do and unfortunately he doesn’t do much with what he’s given.

Yes, there is a lot to like about The Royale and it’s probably worth a gander if not just for the staging alone. As long as you know you’re not in for a knock out you’ll be fine; and if not, you’ll be out of there before they can ring the bell for round 5.

photos by Craig Schwartz

The Royale
Center Theatre group at the Kirk Douglas Theatre
scheduled to end on June 2, 2013
for tickets, call(213) 628-2772 or visit http://www.CenterTheatreGroup.org