When Lanford Wilson's "Burn This" premiered in 1987, John Malkovich was a four-alarm blaze, nearly incinerating the rest of the cast and the play itself. He starred as Pale, the explosive restaurateur who romances his polar opposite, Anna, a classy downtown choreographer. Joan Allen did win a Tony for playing the grief-stricken object of Pale's quirky lust, but Malkovich played Pale as nearly-psychopathic freak who I found it hard to believe anyone with an ounce of common sense would invite into their house, let alone their bed.
The Signature Theatre's revival of "Burn This" is more evenly balanced, featuring an edgy, but not insane Edward Norton as Pale. In artistic director James Houghton's production, we see the delicate strands of wary attraction and desperate need connecting the pair who come from such disparate worlds. At the time of the writing, AIDS hung over the play like a ghost. Pale and Anna are drawn together through the accidental death of the gay dancer Robby (his brother and her roommate and friend). Robby did not die of the disease, but its ravishments provided the general context for battered, grieving souls seeking solace. ("I'm so tired of the age I'm living in. I'm tired of feeling scared and ripped-off," Anna cries.) Now the shadow of 9/11 is the backdrop of desolation. The pain is still intense and Wilson's drama still throbs with the pangs of loners seeking tenderness. Christine Jones' vast loft apartment set emphasizes the space between the characters and the difficulties they have closing them.
Norton shows us Pale's vulnerable side that his macho posturing covers up. We never quite saw that with Malkovich. Indie film fave Catherine Keener does best when reacting to Norton's rants or the sharp one-liners delivered by Dallas Roberts as her surviving roommate, a gay advertising artist. Hers is the least showy role, but she captures Anna's broken spirit. Roberts is turning into one of our most promising young actors. After making a stunning debut in the gigantic, almost solo lead role of "Nocturne," he then played one of the kinky sex fetishists in "True Love." Now he is totally different as the queeny yet commanding Larry, mastering both his laugh lines and his silent moments of yearning. Ty Burrell adds layers to somewhat stuffy role of Burton, the too-perfect boyfriend Anna throws over for Pale. He manages to elicit sympathy for an athletic, rich screenwriter who cries when he states "I've never lost anything before."
Gritty realism is packed next to wacky comedy in Stephen Adly Guirgis' "Our Lady of 121st Street." It's obvious the playwright was hoping for a tangy, biting portrait of a diverse group of urban souls brought together by the death of the title character (Sister Rose, a beloved, but tormented nun). The final result is an undercooked meal where the various dishes just don't mix well.
Guirgis has succeeded previously with the same company and director. His "Jesus Hopped the A Train," a stark look at a man caught in the labyrinth of the criminal justice system, presented by the LAByrinth Theater Company with many of the same actors and the same director (that intensely real young actor Philip Seymour Hoffman), maintained a consistent tone of empathy and verisimilitude. "Our Lady" alternates between believable drama and absurd cartoons.
The play starts off promisingly with an achingly brutal scene between an alcoholic policeman (Felix Solis) and an enraged childhood friend of Sister Rose (Richard Petrocelli). The opening perfectly balances dark tragedy (the sister's body has been stolen) with raucous hilarity (Petrocelli's pants have also been pinched). There follows another frank and fine interval featuring a lapsed Catholic DJ (Ron Cephas Jones) and a doubting priest (Mark Hammer).
But then we get a ridiculously obvious encounter between two quarrelling gay lovers, followed by three consecutive screaming rants from a nasty ex-con, an hysterical asthmatic, and the overwrought hulk brother-caretaker of a mentally disabled brother. And so it goes, for every moment of painfully honest soul-searching there is an equally dishonest "Saturday Night Live" skit. Too much of the script is transparent. Every actor has his "Big Moment" with a high-pitched monologue suitable for excerpting for auditions and acting classes.
The cast members with the realest material fare the best. These include Solis, Petrocelli, Jones, and Hammer. The rest manfully attempt to overcome the shortcomings, as does director Hoffman, but they ultimately fail.
Narelle Sissons' funeral-parlor set, James Vermeulen's harsh lighting, Mimi O'Donnell's streetwise costumes, and Eric DeArmon's booming sound design achieve the level of realism the play reaches for and misses.
Another cartoon version of urban life is presented in "Little Ham," the musical (or, as it bills itself, "a jazzical") at the John Houseman about Depression-era Harlemites battling white gangsters. Based on a play by the poet Langston Hughes, "Ham" has been in the oven for many years. It's more than a little overdone. After regional productions at the George Street Playhouse and the Westport Country Playhouse in 1987, a revised edition presented by Amas Musical Theatre had a limited engagement last season. A glowing review in The New York Times prompted a transfer to a full Off-Broadway run this year. The Times praised its intimate nature and entertaining musical numbers which must have been more dynamic in the showcase setting of last year's production (I was not invited pending the fuller show now on view).
The numbers are indeed a source for rejoicing. Judd Woldin's music and his lyrics (co-written with Richard Engquist) are by turns elegant, peppy, sly, and silky. The legendary Luther Henderson of "Ain't Misbehavin'" and "Jelly's Last Jam" fame sets the tunes in dazzling orchestrations and arrangements like the gems they are. Leslie Dockery's choreography quotes period dance styles like the jitterbug and the lindy and adds its own spin and spark.
Unfortunately, "Little Ham" has big ham in its book by Dan Owens. Pratfalls, mugging, and clownish stereotypes are the order of the day. Eric Riley's broad-as-a-barn-door staging adds to the non-musical buffoonishness. Generally, the talented cast rises above the book material with Andre Garner slicing a winning portion of Little Ham (the title role), Brenda Braxton swishing her hips and turning heads as a dumb-like-a-fox chorus girl, Joe Wilson, Jr. adding extra dimension to the standard gay-comic-relief character, and Monica L. Patton displaying bags of charm and ability as a singer, dancer, and actress.
While "Little Ham" at least has jazzy music and a watchable cast, "Call the Children Home" at Primary Stages has even less to recommend it. Like "Ham," "Children" is meant to capture the fun, yet slightly scandalous behavior of lovable lowlifes in a bygone era. This time it's the fabled red-light Storyville district of 1912 New Orleans. The lovely Tamara Tunie plays a good-hearted madam (are there any other kind in musicals?) caught in a web of corruption, revenge, and melodrama. She's on the lam for murder (in self-defense, of course). Her long-lost daughter turns up as one of her "girls." She owes protection money to the corrupt local city fathers. She's falling in love with a man who may be out to kill her. How much can one golden-hearted hooker take?
Once again, the music is the high-point of the show. Mildred Kayden's score features some lively blues, gospel, and ragtime. But the book by the late Thomas Babe (with additional material by JD Myers) is so soap opera-ish, it belongs on daytime television.