R E V I E W E D B Y
DAVID A. ROSENBERG
It's possible to be amused by "Lypsinka Is Harriet Craig!" without viewing it as much more than a party entertainment, the kind of surefire silliness cooked up by talented and slightly inebriated friends at 3 am. The parody, supposedly created by one S. P. Ellbound, and playing at Mother in the meat-packing district, gleefully jumbles sexes, genres, and movie clichƒs.
The premise is a takeoff on the Joan Crawford flick in which Mommie Dearest played George Kelly's neatnik housewife Harriet Craig, who threw 10 fits if an ashtray was out of place. The film was an unintentional satire of the excessively fastidious Crawford herself, of course.
But Lyspinka also underhandedly comments on male-female roles and relationships. Actors happily interchange genders. John Epperson, a.k.a. Lypsinka, has been outfitted in sparkling gowns by five costumers, hair courtesy of Vidal Sassoon, jewelry by Robert Sorrell. All contrive to make the star a rhinestone rival to the queen of mean. The contest is between glamour and spit, as when Epperson says lines like "Where is that imported French marmalade I imported from France?" or gives a frozen-smile lipsynch of a number from "Dreamgirls."
Another drag performer, Varla Jean Merman, is wild as Harriet's big-busted cousin, her every orifice yearning for satisfaction. Saucer-eyed Jay Rogers is as endearing as Lottie the maid and a menacing kid from next door as he was in "When Pigs Fly."
Colleen O'Neill is butch as husband Walter, while Stephen Pell is simpering as the revengeful housekeeper. As the obligatory cute blond, Russell Scott Lewis turns from spectacled nerd to nude stud faster than you can say Velcro.
Kevin Malony is the shamelessly unsubtle director, going for the presentational approach. And why not, in an evening where the scenery is literally chewed? Set designer Jeffrey Wallach makes good use of Jerry Van Deelan's phallic furniture, while Ramona Ponce's costumes and Flavine's lighting design are equally addled.
"Harriet Craig" isn't for the overly critical or the uptight. But, hey, especially in these times of tch-tch scandals, it harmlessly reminds us to take life less seriously.
Presented by Tweed TheaterWorks, at Mother, 432 W. 14th St., NYC, Feb. 8-March 8.
PRIVATE LIFE
R E V I E W E D B Y
DAVID A. ROSENBERG
The only thing not padded in "Private Life," at the Grove St. Playhouse, is Matthew Del Negro's underwear. We know that because we watch him dress after his spectacular buck-naked entrance halfway through the evening. For all its pretensions to the soignƒe, the comedy, written and starring Craig Archibald as that ultimate sophisticate No'l Coward, might make a better stand-up act than play.
"Private Life" spends most of its time having Coward contemplating the bad reviews he received in 1937 for "Past Imperfect," the first part of his two-part autobiography. Seems the critics took him to task for not being honest, for gliding across the crystal surface of his life, writing an extended gossip column rather than perceptive autobiography. It's an unpleasant and paltry conceit.
The world has come to know Coward as a genius acquainted with Everybody, a brilliantly brittle and proudly patriotic writer, a fact playwright Archibald acknowledges by having Coward recite a mantra throughout the evening: " 'Vortex,' 'Cavalcade,' 'Private Lives.' " They are, of course, early public glories. It's the private desires Coward wished to hide, embodied by the handsome sailor pick-up. "I have locked myself in this world and that boy is free," he says.
This sailor's more than physical, however. In between seductive back-rubbings, he perceptively advises Coward to fight back against his detractors. Coward does, in a climactic phone interview with The New York Times' Brooks Atkinson that turns out to be a shallow and familiar justification of a public figure's preference for being entertainer, not penitent.
The premise is unbelievable, the characters unlikable, the situation tenuous. There's so little to learn that we long for a few choice bits from the plays themselves.
Archibald is, well, arch as Coward. Carolyn Baeumler is chipper but struggles with a shallow role as the lesbian secretary not above ogling the sailor's crotch. Del Negro's sailor is no more than a plot device, although he adds a modicum of live-wire danger. Jim Frangione's direction stays out of the way, as do Valda Lake's set design, Alex Bartlett's smart costumes, and Ray Cullom's lighting.
Produced by The Steep Creek Theater Co. in association with The Flock Theater Co., at the Grove St. Playhouse, 39 Grove St., NYC., Feb. 8-March 8.
CLASH BY NIGHT
R E V I E W E D B Y
DAN ISAAC
Clifford Odets' rarely revived 1941 Broadway failure, "Clash by Night," a brooding melodrama that centers on a triangle of forlorn malcontents, is directed by Richard Caliban with such provocative brilliance that this production asks a crucial reappraisal of the play.
Filled with the torpor and rage of an unbearably hot summer, "Clash by Night" also reflects the anxiety of Americans wondering if they are about to go to war with Hitler. Odets sets the action in an impoverished working-class neighborhood on Staten Island. We get the picture quickly when the wise-cracking Earl Pfeiffer comes from Manhattan to visit his friend Jerry Wilensky and spots him sitting on the front porch of his frail wood-frame house, flanked by his sullen wife, Mae, and taciturn immigrant father. When Jerry, a dumb lug who never gets it, invites Earl to live in the spare room of their tiny house, he lights the fuse that will ignite his wife's passion for his best friend.
Michael Messer's sound design, reportedly based on Caliban's conception, uses period music and enhances choice dramatic moments with special themes.
Jodie Markell's wonderful portrayal of Mae is at the heart of this production, her emotions ranging from sulky to intense loathing. Tom Gilroy is powerfully believable as Earl when he lets us see the pain just beneath the crackling sarcasm. Michael DellaFemina is first rate as Jerry once he gets beyond his opening speech about the stars in the nighttime sky, for he sounds oddly demented at the beginning. Dominic Comperatore is very good as Joe Doyle, especially when he delivers Odets' passionate critique of America and ruefully adds, "Paradise begins with responsibility."
Tallulah Bankhead created Mae in the initial 1941 production that opened shortly after the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, and one can only wonder if her mannered performance helped sink the play.
Presented by All Seasons Theatre Group and Cucaracha Theatre, at Theatre Three, 311 W. 43rd St., NYC, Feb. 12-March 1.