Meet George Orwell
Reviewed by Victor Gluck
Presented by DCRT at the Sargent Theatre, 314 W. 54th Street, NYC, Jan. 21-Feb. 27.
Mark Weston's one-man play "Meet George Orwell" does exactly what its title implies. It offers a revealing look at the author of "Animal Farm" and "1984." Based on the writings of Orwell, the play is 95% in his own words. In the title role, distinguished British actor Michael Allinson creates a convincing and endearing portrait of a man who moves from being apolitical but humanistic to being passionate about his staunch socialistic and anti-totalitarian beliefs. Michael Alexander's direction is suitably unobtrusive.
The play is presented in the form of a BBC radio broadcast from Orwell's home on the island of Jura, off the coast of Scotland, about a year and a half before his death. Allinson as Orwell recounts his feelings as a poor boy at an English school for the privileged. He then details his early attempts to get published while living hand to mouth in London of the 1920s, where he meets his future wife Eileen.
It was his experience in Barcelona and Madrid during the Spanish Civil War that led to his political conversion, when he saw first-hand the internal dissension between the Republican side, which he fought for, and its Communist allies. The '40s bring his adoption of a son and his wife's sudden and premature death. Allinson demonstrates his superb technique when depicting the grief-stricken widower and the loving father who can't assuage his fears for his son.
The play's greatest strength is to make theatrically engrossing the journey of an intellectual through his different philosophical stages. Its greatest weakness is that the radio format and the chronological structure descend to the level of a lecture. "Meet George Orwell" is not very dramatic in the sense of climaxes. However, its combination of history, biography, philosophy, and storytelling makes it a unique theatre experience.
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The Director
Reviewed by Karl Levett
Presented by Laine Valentino and Kate Watcher Productions, at the ArcLight Theatre, 152 W. 71st St., NYC. Opened Feb. 15 for an open run.
Actors, be warned: You are very much on display in Nancy Hasty's new play "The Director"-and the picture is not pretty. While "living this moment totally" and "building trust" amid abuse, the actor-victims seek to "break boundaries." Sound familiar?
Peter (John Shea), a disciple of Jerzy Grotowski, the Polish-born revolutionary director, once led his own company but is now reduced to being a janitor in a rehearsal hall. Annie (Tasha Lawrence), a beginning playwright, recognizes Peter as the brilliant director from her college days and seeks him out to direct her play. While warning "I'm impossible," Peter accepts the commission, auditioning for the company only actors who are "willing, committed, gifted, and fierce." Enter the hopefuls, John (Todd Simmons), Meg (Tanya Clarke), Sally (Shula Van Buren), and Barney (Warren Press). Peter wants to approach Annie's play via Strindberg's "Miss Julie" and the games (teasing, manipulation, humiliation) begin.
While playwright Hasty is creating this rehearsal milieu with total credibility, the lingering thought is, what kind of a play is this? Is this a play about character-an expos of a special kind of theatrical monster? Or is it a play about ideas-an examination of the wilder shores of innovation in the theatre? By play's end we realize that we have actually been treated to a modern melodrama, complete with an 11th-hour plot twist. There's a special irony here that this portrait of a truly unconventional theatrical character is framed in a surprisingly conventional-albeit entertaining-theatrical format.
Director Evan Bergman provides the fun and games with pace and panache. Shea's performance, alive with persuasive physical details and subtle mood swings, is frighteningly convincing. He's backed by a first-rate ensemble: Lawrence shines with good sense amid the madness, Clarke is most believably abandoned, and Press easily mixes humor and menace.
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Squonk
Reviewed by Eric Grode
Presented at the Helen Hayes Theatre, 240 W. 44th St., NYC. Opened Feb. 29 for an open run.
"Squonk" had the makings of becoming this year's most improbable success story. Buoyed by strong reviews after a limited run at off-off-Broadway's P.S. 122, this surreal quintet vaulted straight to Broadway, which could sorely use some novelty these days. Even without seeing the earlier production, however, I feel safe in saying that the transfer was unwise.
"Squonk" attempts to be many things, above all strange. Only a quirky, Michael Nyman-esque funhouse score propels the action. When they're not blasting through off-kilter jigs and arias, the five musicians/performers turn saxophones into milkshakes, catapult marshmallows into the audience, and perform dozens of other potentially pretentious acts.
The key word here is "potentially": A lot of these antics would fit right into P.S. 122's anything-goes ethos. However, the Helen Hayes Theatre stage-small by Broadway standards but cavernous compared to P.S. 122-invites a much more distanced, objective viewing of the oddball events.
"Squonk" does not benefit from such scrutiny (or, it goes without saying, from a $40 increase in ticket prices). What might have seemed spontaneous and inclusive now feels precious; audience involvement rarely extends beyond the third row of the orchestra.
It certainly isn't all bad. Most of the willfully offbeat ideas have at least a germ of originality, and Steve O'Hearn's costumes and props are often quite clever. The score by Jackie Dempsey, who plays both piano and accordion, deftly straddles mainstream and avant-garde styles; all four of the other performers, especially vocalist Jana Losey and percussionist Kevin Kornicki, are proficient at their instruments as well. (O'Hearn, on woodwinds, and bassist T. Weldon Anderson round out the ensemble.)
Ultimately, though, the move to classier, less comfortable digs-and commensurate hike in prices-is likely to squander any goodwill generated by these pluses. One can't help but suspect that this bigger theatre results in a smaller show.
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Letters from Cuba
Reviewed by Glenda Frank
Produced by and at Signature Theatre Company, 422 W. 42nd St., NYC, 8 Feb. 8-March 5.
"Letters from Cuba," Maria Irene Fornes' new play, recently at Signature Theatre, is a beautiful tone poem about longing and fear. Traveling between the U.S. and her native Cuba, it is unified by the dreams of a separated sister and brother.
Donald Eastman's blond-wood set offers four connected spaces, metaphors for four lives. Three of these spaces belong to Marc (Matthew Floyd Miller), Joseph (Peter Starrett), and Fran (Tai Jimenez), three struggling artists who share a New York apartment. It is disappointing that they remain undeveloped as characters, even in the men's rivalry for Fran.
The lissome and lovely Jimenez, as the dancer, carries her symbolism effortlessly. At times Lady Liberty, at times the seductive woman in red, she is the embodiment of grace and freedom. In a touching, funny scene, Jerry, a beefy laborer (Peter Van Wagner), arrives early for his "dance lesson." Clumsily but with full concentration, he partners her through jet s and turns, then departs-glowing. But tender moments alone do not create drama; the center rings hollow.
It is Luis, Fran's brother (Chris De Oni), who steals the play. From a Cuban tenement roof, a perpetual starry sky behind him, he blueprints his life through his letters. Sometimes he waxes poetic about love and his son Enrique; sometimes he's gossipy, sometimes confessional about his jealousies. His life is multifaceted, full of nuances and human tones. And when Enrique (Rick Wasserman) arrives in New York in a fantasy, the boy brings a vitality and comedy that wake the play from its dream. Here the oblique political allusions, absent from the other scenes, throw the human dimensions into sharper perspective.
Fornes directs well, and achieves stirring performances from the three Cuban characters. She used more than 200 actual family letters written over a 30-year period to tell this tale of a family divided by more than distance.
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Enough About Me: An Unauthorized Autobiography
Reviewed by Karl Levett
Presented by The Illyria Theatre at The Chelsea Playhouse, 125 W. 22nd St., NYC. Opened Feb. 18 for an open run.
Varla Jean Merman is the singular creation of Jeffery Roberson. Long rumored to be the love child of Ernest Borgnine and Ethel Merman, Varla Jean has developed a devoted following from her cabaret appearances and is now trying to go legitimate in a theatrical setting. The theme of the autobiography is self-absorption-"I'm as self-absorbed as a panty liner!"-and is told in song (about 10 in all) with video accompaniment-"All say multi-media m lange." Some of the songs are original (Roberson and Director Michael Schiralli) while others are standards, delivered-pardon the expression-almost straight.
At just over an hour, all this does not quite an autobiography make, and in the more rigorous confines of a theatre, this still looks like a superior cabaret act. This celebration of self-absorption, however, ironically delivers many an interesting thought beyond the Varla Jean persona.
It's my suspicion that Varla Jean is a character in transition. Roberson here begins to flirt with something more-under the wigs and sequins, there's a social satirist struggling to get out. Matching a remarkable voice of considerable range is an intelligence that's also shaping the new slimmed-down version of Varla Jean. Thus gross-out material ("Dream a Little Dream of Cheese"-sung while emptying a can of EZ cheese down her throat) and the outrageousness of "Blackman" (race and small penises), seems curiously pass .
Paradoxically, a straightforward rendition of Roy Orbison's "Crying" is strangely touching. The video accompanying "Mockin' Bird Hill," with its nod to both Hitchcock and Harper Lee, shows an imagination at work, as does the show business finale that seeks to out-Liza Liza. Perhaps these are indicative of the more sophisticated territory Roberson and the new Varla Jean are venturing into. Certainly enough genuine talent is glimpsed here to sustain a long creative journey.
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Joyful Noise
Reviewed by Elias Stimac
Presented by Lamb's Players Theatre, at the Lamb's Theatre, 130 W. 44th St., NYC, Feb. 17-March 18.
"Joyful Noise," based on the history and histrionics that led to the creation of the musical masterpiece "Messiah," is indeed a cause for celebration. Playwright Tim Slover fills his drama with clever characters and smart situations, making for an intriguing 18th-century "behind the music" scenario. Handel's famous oratorio takes on a new clarity and immediacy in the context of the circumstances surrounding his composition.
Set in London in the mid-1700s, "Joyful Noise" focuses on a quartet of fascinating men and women. George Fredrick Handel (Tom Stephenson) has become bitter and apathetic following a failed opera and loss of favor with his royal patron, King George II (Robert Smyth). The ruler is susceptible to bouts of moodiness as well, after the death of his wife. A third public figure of the time faces even greater depression-Susannah Cibber (played by Mary Miller) is suffering a blighted singing career and humiliating notoriety after an adulterous affair. Her last hope is to audition for the maestro and hopefully win a role in Handel's new work-if the King doesn't shut it down before it opens, based on the misguided counsel of Bishop Egerton (David Cochran Heath).
The remaining dramatis personae are equally compelling, including a theatrical super-diva (Deborah Gilmour Smyth), an eccentric arts supporter (Linda Bush), the "Messiah" librettist (Paul Eggington), and Handel's helpful assistant (Doren Elias). All the characters are given moments of dignity and hilarity by author Slover, and are played to perfection by the acting ensemble. Jason Makiaris, Ted McCann, and KB Mercer are solid in support.
Performer Robert Smyth pulls double duty as director of "Joyful Noise," and masterfully conducts the action with a rousing pace and graceful undertones. Technical contributions by scenic/lighting designer David Thayer, costume designer Jeanne Reith, sound man Greg Campbell, and properties person Chrissy Vögele stylishly suggest the period.
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Exhibit #9
Reviewed by Jane Hogan
Presented by Theatre Outrageous, at The West End Theatre, 263 W. 86th St., NYC, Feb. 25-March 18.
Describing "Exhibit #9," a new play from Tracey S. Wilson, as a mess is at best an understatement. Apparently meant to be groundbreaking, or at least daring, in its exaggerated presentation of black (and other) stereotypes, the piece ultimately mines those stereotypes for laughs only, rather than commenting on any larger racial concerns-presumably the play's intention.
Two white guides present various "exhibits," placed upstage behind curtains. Actors form living displays, from, as defined by the play, the earliest black stereotype (Blackus Sharecroperus) to the next (Auntus Jemimus) and so on to the most recent (Ghettous).
The downstage playing area represents the home of the present-day, solidly middle-class, black James family: parents Eddie and Betty and their grown children, Baby Eddie, Jason, and Melissa. Having settled in New Jersey, Eddie runs a successful construction business while living a secret double life. Betty sells Mary Kay cosmetics; Baby Eddie graduated first in his class from Harvard Medical School; Melissa makes over $170,000 in banking, but suffers from untreated (and almost unacknowledged) mental illness; and son Jason has dropped out of Stanford Law to become an actor. Much to his family's great embarrassment, he spins incredible tales about an invented ghetto (read "criminal") past to his L.A. pals.
Their secrets and lies are on display to the audience as they attempt (unsuccessfully) to have a family party for Baby Eddie, who is soon to be confirmed as the Secretary of Health and Human Services by the U.S. Senate. Some of the actors manage to convince, particularly H. Howard Heard as Jason, Mike Hodge as the elder Eddie, LaDonna Mabry as Betty, and L. Trey Wilson (in various roles, but especially as Ghettous). But a wildly uneven tone, sloppy direction from Lenora Pace, weak production values (particularly evident in Sebastien Grouard's unpolished set), and a bizarrely constructed, over-the-top-to-no-purpose second act destroy whatever credibility the text may have.
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Jeune Ballet de France
Reviewed by Phyllis Goldman
Presented by the French Institute Alliance Fran‡aise, at the Institute's Florence Gould Hall, 22 E. 60th St., NYC, Feb. 10-12.
The very young French ballet dancers of Jeune Ballet de France are an embarrassment of riches. This unusual company, founded in 1983, is made up of recent graduates of dance schools, selected worldwide, who have attended a one-year residency in contemporary dance and ballet in Paris. These dancers are all immaculately trained and can do the proverbial "anything." Over the years more than 200 of the 220 dancers from this project have gone on to major companies.
The choreography set to show them off was by "emerging" French choreographers, but the quality was questionable, often boiling down to a showcase of steps, athletic feats, and bravura turns. Depth and emotional intensity, polish and fluidity seemed to take a back seat to how high, how many, how daring. Music ranged from Arvo Part to Jacques Brel, with an amusing solo turn to Edith Piaf's "La Vie en Rose," performed by a weightless wisp, Renata Pavam, with-yes-a rose between her teeth. Pavam and partner Guillaume Pruneau pulled off a playful pas de deux to another famous Piaf song-"Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien." Pavam also added a gutsy substance to her featured two roles, that the other dancers overlooked. The first part of the program was devoted to contemporary works and was a parade of pas de deux, trios, and an occasional ensemble piece-each performed with a panache that only exacting rehearsals and nearly perfect bodies can produce. Of these, Ivan Favier's duet "Febrile," performed by Brian McKenna Maloney (an American) and Emanouela Merdjanova, was exceptionally inventive. Beginning in silence and progressing through moments of volcanic explosion, it ended again in silence as Merdjanova, a bittersweet expression across her face, balanced on her lover's exhausted body stretched out on the floor.
Nit-picking: Somehow the bows after each piece lent a "recital" look to the program. Wouldn't a collective bow at the intermission (Ã la opera) or a grand standing ovation at the end lend a smoother look to the program as a whole? Nevertheless, the JBF company gave the audience a thrill a minute with its youth, talent, and generosity of spirit; and these dancers should have no trouble finding a permanent company home "toute suite."
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Molissa Fenley
Reviewed by Lisa Jo Sagolla
Presented by and at The Kitchen, 512 W. 19th St., NYC, Feb. 9-12, 16-19.
Dancer-choreographer Molissa Fenley reminds one of a frisky forest creature-a capricious chipmunk, scampering squirrel, or feisty raccoon whose wide-eyed glances spray us with magical pixie dust that proves entrancing. Her movement vocabulary is original and remarkably unrepeating, imbuing her choreography with a spontaneous formlessness that contrasts winningly with her dancing's fastidious shapes and energies.
Fenley opened her recent performance at The Kitchen with "Island," a captivating new work in which she nestles her solo dancing between an immense fish-skin sculpture hanging stage right, and flutist Patti Monson, positioned in a pool of light downstage left. Fenley's movements seem to link the music (an assemblage of surprisingly unflute-like snapping and plucking sounds composed by Harold Meltzer) and the visual artwork (an illusory object that can look like anything from pillows, to driftwood, to a stack of hoagies). The choreography's angular gestures and hops fit firmly within the blips and hiccups of the musical score and complement the sleek shapes and crevices of the sculpture. But with a flute sounding like a percussion instrument, the haunting presence of that slippery sculpture, and a bewitching dancer who could be the missing link between Bette Davis and Tinkerbell, the atmosphere on Fenley's island is ticklingly surreal.
The remainder of the evening showed that Fenley's choreography is less alluring when performed by others and structured into group works that create lulling moods through formalistic maneuverings. Though Fenley's eloquent musical accompaniments are always keenly selected, her casting choices are disputable. The squat Paz Tanjuaquio looked incongruous in a quartet ("On the Other Ocean") with the fair and statuesque trio of Heather Waldon, Kerry Ring, and Meg Wolfe. And Reginald Ellis Crump's competent dancing (in the quintet "Escalay") was sadly dwarfed by the aforementioned women's stunning balletic lines and strength.
Kimberly Richardson gave a particularly persuasive performance, however, in "I and you resemble each other, now," an exquisite, cool duet in which the dancers move independently with unimpassioned sensitivity, while a mysterious cerebral connection seems to keep their disparate movements in complementary balance.
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Eastern Standard
Reviewed by Jane Hogan
Presented by The Key Theatre, at American Theatre of Actors, 314 W. 54th St., NYC, Feb. 18-27.
"Eastern Standard," Richard Greenberg's late-1980s play about yuppie-ish (already a term with a rather quaint ring to it) New Yorkers grappling with issues of love and social/personal responsibility, hasn't aged all that well. Laced with a sharp wit and some nicely acerbic observations (Act One is hilarious), the play, about a group of hyper-successful urbanites confronting various late-20s hurdles, nonetheless suffers from a decidedly '80s tone, implausibility (a vituperative homeless woman is, for various reasons, invited to join the group), and a drawn-out second act.
Still, The Key Theatre, a new company of able youngish actors, gamely and vigorously-and often successfully-takes on Greenberg's assorted, though obvious, character types. Especially strong, particularly when making his oh-so caustic remarks, is Nathan Halvorson, who also directed, as Drew, a successful gay painter. Act Two drags, particularly a scene between brother and sister Peter (Brent Smith) and Phoebe (an uneven Braden Joy Pospisil) but overall Halvorson's direction propels the story forward.
Matt Mullin, as architect Stephen suffering a crisis of conscience over his designs, and Angie Den Adel as actress-waitress Ellen get consistently better, with Mullin in particular conveying a believable tired anguish in his later scenes. As Peter, who has to live with the knowledge that he will die of AIDS, Smith seems out of his emotional league, though he has a surprisingly strong finish in his latter scenes with Halvorson. Angie Toomsen's motivation as the homeless May is unclear, but Toomsen is nicely understated in the role.
The age difference between the characters (late 20s) and most of the actors (apparently early 20s) affects the emotional tenor of the piece. The Key members are more comfortable-and convincing-when tackling the play's relationship conundrums; they are less convincing as characters well into their careers, questioning the paths they have taken.
Matthew Anderson offers a nicely conceived set design, and Kathleen Hefel's lighting easily shifts from interior to exterior.
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Love in a Thirsty Land
Reviewed by Irene Backalenick
Presented by The Jewish Repertory Theatre, at Playhouse 91, 316 E. 91st St., NYC, Feb. 27-March 12.
For his first produced effort, playwright Alan Glass offers a play of historic interest-a commendable effort that does not quite live up to its promise. "Love in a Thirsty Land" takes place in 1875, just before the great eastern European Jewish emigration, and the story unfolds in New York and Brooklyn.
Glass was inspired by a real-life tragedy, the indictment of a young Polish Jew for the murder of his mistress. How the two meet, fall in love, and come to a clash is the substance of the play. The trouble in paradise is that the young man (Pesach Rubinstein in the play) is married to another woman still languishing in Poland. The story moves between flashbacks of the couple's courtship (here the mistress is called Sara) and scenes in Pesach's jail cell. Outside the cell, cries of "Christ-killer" fill the air, suggesting that the possibility of a fair trial is questionable.
Glass creates dialogue that is lucid and appropriate. But he runs on so lengthily that one longs for him to get on with it. Every step (except perhaps the final moments) is predictable-and spelled out in detail, a virtue in journalism but not in playwriting. Little is left to the viewer's imagination.
Yet the characters are believable. Particularly interesting is Leah, an older cousin, who takes a proprietary interest in Pesach, constantly reminding him of his marital and religious obligations. That her motives are not entirely high minded, as Sara (the younger of the two women) suggests, is undoubtedly true.
The role of Leah is performed flawlessly by Suzanne Toren, and Susan May Pratt is most engaging as Sara, whose love scenes with Pesach come off as human and touching. Too, David Julian Hirsh turns in a strong performance as Pesach.
Not only the solid casting and the fluid direction of Robert Kalfin mark this production, but also first-rate design work. Mark Nayden's set and Chris Dallos' lighting lend themselves to the episodic tale, with its many short scenes. And Gail Cooper-Hecht's 19th-century costumes give a further sense of authenticity.
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The Peony Pavilion
Reviewed by Irene Backalenick
Dream Music Puppetry Program presents The Chinese Theatre Workshop's Toy Theater, at HERE, 145 Avenue of the Americas, NYC, Feb. 27-March 12.
Is it possible to condense a 55-act Chinese opera into a one-hour show? The Chinese Theatre Workshop's Toy Theater has done just that. Purists might consider this as much a sacrilege as a condensation of Shakespeare! But, in fact, a synopsized version of "The Peony Pavilion" on a tiny puppet stage is a blessing. This 15th century classic, which was-to Westerners, at least-initially a repetitive, drawn-out soap opera, benefits from such treatment.
The Toy Theater's modern version, with its interaction of puppets and live actors, is most satisfying when it sticks to the authentic material. Contemporary references to Beanie Babies and Star Trekkers (as well as day-traders and ATM machines) strike a jarring note.
But the Chinese musical instruments and the performance of Kuang-Yu Fong (who directs as well) bring grace, beauty, and an understanding of a venerated Asian art form to young and old audiences. Fong (founder of the Chinese Theatre Workshop) means to teach even as she entertains, which, indeed, she does.
Thanks to puppeteer Stephen Kaplin, who adapted the material with Fong, an unusual form of puppetry takes over, with the action moving back and forth from the tiny puppet theatre to the larger stage. The story deals with a noble maiden, who loves a young student of her dreams. Because she cannot find him in real life, she perishes, but is ultimately brought back to life and love.
The charming little tale is enhanced by flutes, percussion instruments, and keyboards, performed by Baogang Liu, Karen Wong, and Zhongxi Wu, much as it was some 600 years ago. Essentially this is an educational experience, well suited to the school audiences on which Fong and company have focused. It brings classical Chinese drama to life in a form palatable to today's young people.
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Splendora
Reviewed by Victor Gluck
Presented by the Illyria Theatre in association with Peak Performance Productions, Inc., at the Chelsea Playhouse. 125 W. 22nd St., NYC. Opened Feb. 17 for an open run.
As Shakespeare would have said, the new musical "Splendora" is neither fish nor fowl. An old-fashioned operetta with music by Stephen Hoffman and lyrics by Mark Campbell, it has country-western songs for the minor characters. A modern gay fairy tale of liberation, it has a heroine who wears clothing from 1900. "Splendora" wants to be up to date and savvy, and yet its book by Peter Webb isn't as satiric as "The Music Man" from 1955, which also has a small-town librarian as its leading character.
However, "Splendora" does have an esoteric charm all its own. Based on the 1978 cult novel by Edward Swift, the Hoffman-Campbell-Webb "Splendora" was the winner of the 1995 Richard Rodgers Production Award. The Illyria Theatre is staging a revised version of their musical, which played at the American Place Theatre in 1995.
The story concerns Miss Jessica Gatewood, a beautiful young woman who has come to the small town of Splendora, Tex., to run the bookmobile. She captivates all including the town pastor, but Miss Jessica is not all she seems. She is actually Timothy John Coldridge, an outcast who left his grandmother's house in disgrace 15 years before and has returned home in this more socially acceptable fashion.
At first it is not entirely clear to the audience that Timothy and Jessica are the same person. Then the gimmick of their conversations becomes tiresome. As the female side, Teri Dale Hansen makes a beautiful heroine, but her small soprano fails to do justice to her aria-like songs. As Timothy, Mark Cortale is rather bland to have engineered this stunt.
Upstaging both of them is Kristine Zbornik as the town's first female sheriff. Tod Mason as the love interest is pleasant in an innocuous manner. Donna Drake's direction and musical staging are polished, but highly derivative of other small-town tales.
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Cherylyn Lavagnino: Chapel Songs
Reviewed by Lisa Jo Sagolla
Presented by Danspace Project, at St. Mark's Church in-the-Bowery, Second Avenue and 10th Street, NYC, Feb. 17-20.
Cherylyn Lavagnino offered an especially pleasing evening of her choreography at St. Mark's Church. Capitalizing on the architectural features and spiritual atmosphere of the church space, Lavagnino placed singers and instrumentalists in the lofts above the stained-glass windows and orchestrated choreography and lighting effects (designed by Lap Chi Chu) that evoked reverent, ritualistic, and celebratory moods.
An opening musical "Prelude" (composed and performed by Scott Killian, Carol Lipnik, and Lawrence Lipnik) blended the tonalities of Medieval church music with the subtly suggestive sounds of Impressionism. It created a milieu of modern-tinged orthodoxy that reinforced the choreographer's methods of sprinkling modern moves atop classical ballet vocabulary.
In the opening section of "4-2" (an oddly structured piece consisting of a quartet followed by a duet), four women make broad, angular arm gestures as their legs whiz through slicing actions and precise footwork en pointe. The duet that follows is an engaging exploration of the many ways a couple can roll over, nestle under, curve, twist, and rotate around one another.
"Chapel Song," a courtly, Baroque-flavored trio, is rightly a male duet. It features dreamy sequences danced by Gino Grenek and Alexander Gish and is crowded, rather than enhanced, by the gangly and extraneous presence of Faye Driscoll.
The high point of Lavagnino's program was "Women's Suite," a tour de force of solo female dancing. It begins with "Moth," a tricky little gem, full of unexpected changes of tempo and energies, keenly performed by Dana Parrott with a composure that parallels the choreography's veiled complexity. Next, Suzanne Gardner, a distinguished dancer with an extraordinary kinesthetic understanding of ballet's illusionary magic, performs the ethereal "Unfolding" to exquisite perfection. Following a dissonant musical "Interlude" that shifts the suite into an edgier realm, Lavagnino dances "For," an understated solo which she performs with a modesty that's refreshingly appealing amidst the abundance of self-aggrandizement one encounters in today's brash cultural climate.
The program closed with "Skeeter," a lighthearted showcase for the pointe technique and comic sensibilities of Lavagnino's well-trained troupe.
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Taking a Chance on Love
Reviewed By David A. Rosenberg
Presented by York Theatre Company at the Theatre at St. Peter's in the Citicorp Center, 619 Lexington Ave., NYC. March 2-26.
Devised by Erik Haagensen, "Taking a Chance on Love" is a pleasant, informative snapshot of the life and work of John Latouche, the man who wrote words to the music of such composers as Leonard Bernstein, Vernon Duke, Douglas Moore, Duke Ellington, and Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. Four performers and two pianists eagerly charge into this York Theatre Co. revue.
Haagensen combed Latouche's journals, plus what others said about him, integrating biography with numbers plucked from his short career. (He died in 1956 at age 41.) Remembered for "Cabin the Sky" and "The Ballad of Baby Doe," Latouche also contributed to "Candide." But his finest achievement is the brilliant, sung-through "The Golden Apple," in which his lyrics serve as the 1954 musical's libretto. That show's break-out "Lazy Afternoon," as boldly and sensitively rendered here by the revue's two men, remains indelible.
Gay, alcoholic, blacklisted, longing to be both artistic and entertaining, John Treville Latouche was a poet torn between his romantic Southern roots and seductive Northern hedonism. Thus the evening's most startling moment is the discovery that Latouche penned "Ballad for Americans," a patriotic, 13-minute hymn to an all-inclusive democracy. So powerful is the number-and so timely-perhaps it should have closed the first act.
Terry Burrell, Jerry Dixon, Donna English, and Eddie Korbich bring an easygoing, cabaret-style charm and clarity to the proceedings. Janet Watson's musical staging is best when least busy. Jeffrey R. Smith doubles as music director and pianist, sharing the ivories with David Harris-both lending sparkling support. James Morgan's direction is as unobtrusive as his setting, which lighting designer S. Ryan Schmidt bathes in soft to harsh tones, mirroring Latouche's career. Suzy Benzinger's costumes are smart and agreeable. So is "Taking a Chance on Love."
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Companhia de Dan‡a Deborah Colker
Reviewed by Phyllis Goldman
Self-presented by Companhia de Danca Deborah Colker, at The Joyce Theater, 175 Eighth Ave., NYC, Feb. 16-20.
As the curtain fell on the Companhia de Dan‡a Deborah Colker performance seen recently at The Joyce Theater, the final image was an outsized, far-from-average ferris wheel: Balanced like a carriage around each spoke was a human form pulled into a fetal position. What a graceful and powerful finale to this Brazilian-based company's fascinating debut.
Unlike the more prop-oriented Momix, the Colker dancers sculpted extraordinary images with bodies like melted taffy, stretching them into varying shapes, one after the other. The one-hour-and-30-minute program called "Rota" was a wonder of balance and slowly articulated movement with enough originality to distinguish it clearly from a simple acrobatic tour de force.
The piece was divided into two acts. Act I was a four-section dance framed by a handsome backdrop resembling a city map, black lines on white. The dancers cavorted through elaborate variations, gleaned from both ballet and gymnastic vocabularies. Set to Mozart, Schubert, and a group called The Chemical Brothers, the gifted dancers wound their way through strenuous dance technique, humorous gesturing, sparring, taunting, and slapping each other-the movement distinguished by a superb sense of precision and timing. Nothing looked like filler. Every position had a sense of belonging right where it was.
But Act II, "Gravity," was the real astonishment. The stage was smoky, and the ferris wheel was hidden in a murky maze in the back. Now the action became intense. A twosome balancing precariously here, a solo turn there, a fall, a split, a lift, someone climbing ladders-the stage was alive with "goings-on." Yet Colker kept us constantly transfixed on the picture as a whole as the wheel inched forward. Then the dancers began swinging on and off, turning it with calculated exactitude-never too fast, always in control of both the wheel and their bodies burrowing into the challenging choreography.
Deborah Colker, the creator, director, and choreographer, is a small, sinewy, tomboy blonde. She creates an amazing outpouring of inventiveness (and demonstrates business acumen, by enlisting the funds of Petro, Brazil's largest oil company), rewarding us with image after image of consummate artistry.
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Godspell
Reviewed by Peter Shaughnessy
Produced by and at Third Eye Repertory Theatre, 22 W. 34 St., NYC, Feb. 25-March 13.
The script for Stephen Schwartz's "Godspell" was taken from improvisations by its original cast. Every subsequent production of this musical takes liberties with the lines to personalize the characters and update the references. Why, then, are directors so unwilling to depart from the original design concept of the show? The original and the movie were both done in a "rummage sale" setting, with the cast in colorful, mismatched, hippie-clown costumes. While Third Eye Rep forgoes the face paint that normally accompanies the attire, it still has the same feel as every other "Godspell" you've seen.
This is a shame, since this musical is so open for interpretation. There are countless original concepts that could serve the musical well. When a director (Shawn Rozsa) gets a gifted ensemble, he owes it to them to make the show more memorable than the last. Every one of the ten has a strong voice, a distinct character, and the ability to do more than this boilerplate production allows.
The Third Eye Repertory cast does well with the improvised lines. The cast gets to be their own silly selves. They have fun, and so does the audience. The thing that is different about this version is that some members of the audience are seated uncomfortably at the sides of the stage. And the Jesus figure (Barrett Foa) doesn't wear a Superman T-shirt. He does, however, wear a smier (That's the combination of a smirk and a sneer) that seems to taunt his followers, as if to say, "I know more about the Gospel than you do." This makes it very hard to take the crucifixion scene seriously.
This show is a crowd-pleaser, though, and Schwartz' songs are praise-worthy. Under musical director Dan Schachner, the house band, Shirley Temple of Doom, updates the style of many songs, incorporating hip-hop, reggae, and good-old fashioned hard rock guitar licks into the score.
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I Didn't Mean to Turn You On
Reviewed by Andy Buck
Presented by and at Fez, 380 Lafayette St., NYC, Jan. 9-March 19.
She's a robust, purple-haired drag queen from Down Under with a fabulous wardrobe and a habit of bringing audience members onto the stage and insulting them. But this is not your mother's Dame Edna Everage. This is Jackie Beat for whom Down Under is New York's downtown underworld of Wigstock and Lucky Cheng's.
Now at Fez through March 19 with "I Didn't Mean to Turn You On," Beat is already a legend for her blatantly coarse humor, her pop-standard parodies like "Fat, Tragic Woman" and "Me and Jenny Jones," and her acknowledged penchant for "wearing more makeup than all four members of Kiss." Call her Dame Edna of the damned.
Beat's repartee isn't the wittiest. When she remarks to two audience members, "I am so happy that you were born-that your mothers didn't go through with their original plans," she doesn't threaten someone like Wigstock's Lady Bunny who can undress a rival with a single well-timed phrase. Nor is her act as groundbreaking as Kiki and Herb's Justin Bond who is a ferocious cross between Carol Channing and Kurt Cobain.
But Beat does possess a terrific stage presence and sings surprisingly well. She slanders Cher with a memorable song about cosmetic surgery (to the tune of "Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves") and can rap with the best of them on "Baby Got Front," a drag-hop paean to her favorite male attribute. And she does have a genuinely good wisecrack every now and then. In "The Hetero," a musical reminiscence of trying to play it straight in high school (to the tune of Berlin's "The Metro"), Beat recalls wearing a t-shirt that read "No Fat Chicks" on it. "Isn't it funny?" she interjects. "The irony of it all."
For Beat, lack of subtlety isn't just a lifetime trait; it's an art form.
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The Tale of the Allergist's Wife
Reviewed by David A. Rosenberg
Presented by the Manhattan Theatre Club, at City Center Stage II, 131 W. 55th St., NYC, Feb. 29-April 16.
The laughs don't stop in Charles Busch's "The Tale of the Allergist's Wife," at the Manhattan Theatre Club. Superbly directed and acted (five terrific roles), slickly produced, thoughtful yet batty and even mysterious, this is Big Time stuff. Juggling mid-life crises, bisexuality, terrorism, suppositories, New York angst, holistic healing, pseudo-Buddhist writings, religious fanaticism, and half a dozen other fears and tremblings, Busch stands sitcom situations on their heads with a rising tide of risibility, recognition, and ambiguity.
Deeply mourning her late psychiatrist and recovering from wounds received when she cut herself on smashed Disney figurines, Marjorie Taub is a woman on the edge. Husband Ira, a retired allergist, is too busy lecturing and taking care of clinic patients to take much care of his wife. Marjorie's dyspeptic mother suffers from bowel complications, while Mohammed the doorman is Marjorie's sweet-natured, literature-loving confidante. Into their lives comes Lee, a worldly, devilish sophisticate who claims to have inspired the likes of Andy Warhol, Jack Kerouac, and Princess Diana.
As Marjorie, a role Busch wrote for her, Linda Lavin is dynamite. Searching for her soul or chopping salad greens, she goes from lost shlump to imperious queen bee, from self-pitying hysteric to protective firebrand, like an out-of-control pinball that can't find home base. Eyes darting hither and yon, body panicked with indecision, when she launches into her climactic speech, Lavin transforms herself into a force of nature.
Michele Lee makes a welcome stage return as the so-called friend who wreaks havoc yet brings peace, a woman both seductive and outrageous. As Ira, Tony Roberts is fusty, patient, curious, and saintly. Shirl Bernheim is a hoot as mom, while Anil Kumar is a sympathetic Mohammed (even if his entrances are rather contrived).
Everything is exquisite, from Lynn Meadow's direction, to Santo Loquasto's set, Christopher Akerlind's lighting, Ann Roth's costumes, and Bruce Ellman's jokey sound design. Even the chandelier seems to dance with joy.
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The Wild Party
Reviewed by David A. Rosenberg
Presented by the Manhattan Theatre Club, at City Center Stage I, 131 W. 55th St., NYC, Feb. 24-April 2.
When does exciting become exhausting? Manhattan Theatre Club's pounding musical "The Wild Party," with book, music, and lyrics by Andrew Lippa, is beautifully mounted, vigorously danced, and brimming over with a kind of orgiastic hedonism you hardly get anymore. But it doesn't add up.
Lippa's "Party" is but one of two to be seen this season based on Joseph Moncure March's jazz-age poem of the same name. (The other, by George C. Wolfe and Michael John LaChiusa, opens in April.) Written in 1926 but considered too hot to publish until 1928, and then reissued in 1968 with many of its ethnic references expunged, the poem's syncopated style is also its substance.
At MTC, music, dialogue, and dance flesh out March's staccato beat without introducing complex elements that can involve an audience on more than one level. Religious overtones-a mock crucifixion, Adam and Eve retold-are hinted at but not folded into the mold, leaving appetites stimulated but unappeased.
Although the book is troubled, music and lyrics make an accomplished dash from romantic to hard-boiled, Rodgers to Weill, giving a two-sided picture to a peculiarly American version of decadence: intermittently daring, yet self-doubting and inevitably violent. This double vision extends to Mark Dendy's derivative though charging choreography and to Gabriel Barre's direction, which veers from tame to hot.
Julia Murney is a striking Queenie, Taye Diggs a wonderfully sensual Black, Brian d'Arcy James a dangerous, then suddenly poignant, Burrs. Alix Korey hauntingly stalks the stage as Madelaine True, Jennifer Cody and Raymond Jaramillo McLeod are amusing as unlikely opposites, and the ensemble is dynamic. But Idina Menzel is disappointingly shrill.
Kenneth Posner's mottled lighting, David Gallo's fractured set, and Martin Pakledinaz's sinister costumes are alluring. Brian Ronan's sound design, Michael Gibson's orchestrations, and Stephen Oremus' musical direction make telling contributions to what is, for all its compromises, a show that periodically comes vibrantly alive.
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The Big Bang
Reviewed by Victor Gluck
Presented by Eric Krebs and Nancy Nagel Gibbs, at the Douglas Fairbanks Theatre, 432 W. 42nd St., NYC. Opened March 1 for an open run.
Imagine Mel Brooks' "History of the World, Part I" as a stage musical with Brooks as two actors and you have an inkling of the hilarity in the new musical comedy "The Big Bang," starring its creators Jed Feuer and Boyd Graham, two hitherto unsung "silent clowns."
The talented Feuer, who is the composer, orchestrator, and vocal arranger, and the equally talented Graham, who is the bookwriter, lyricist, and director, have conceived a show in which they are producers presenting a backers' audition in a Park Avenue apartment. Their project is "The Big Bang," the most expensive musical ever conceived: an $85 million extravaganza retelling the history of civilization from the creation of the planet up to the present. As they don't yet have the money, they must improvise the 6,000 plus costumes and the 312 roles.
Backed up by Albert Ahronheim on keyboard sounding like a one-man band, Feuer and Graham hilariously play all of the roles, from Adam and Eve to Columbus and Queen Isabella to Shanghai Lil and Tokyo Rose. The double entendres, anachronisms, and puns fly in all directions. They are matched by the visual wit of the actors' using "found objects" from Edward T. Gianfrancesco's set for the costumes (created by the inspired Basil Du Maurier and Jennie Marino, the specialty props designer). The gold fringe of the hassock becomes the Lion's mane, an enamel clock becomes Napoleon's hat, etc.
Both the narration and musical numbers are witty, with song titles like "Free Food and Frontal Nudity" for the Garden of Eden sequence. Among the musical styles parodied are Gilbert and Sullivan in "We Are Two Asian Ladies," risqu Cole Porter-type patter songs as Pocahontas and Minnehaha complain about "The Dating Game" in the bar of the Algonquin Hotel, and pop songs as with Nefertiti's "Viva La Diva."
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Imagining Shadows
Reviewed by David A. Rosenberg
Presented by New Georges, at the Ohio Theater, 66 Wooster St., NYC, Feb. 24-March 11.
Somewhere inside "Imagining Shadows" is an idea waiting to take flight. Yet, as it stands, the New Georges production is a trying work that spins its wheels.
Told from the viewpoint of a bright, sensitive nine-year-old girl named Biloxi, Juliann France's drama is set on a farm near Memphis, Tenn. The sparking event is the death of Biloxi's beloved, wise, American Indian grandmother, Maw. Others affected by the loss are the grandmother's husband, who quickly marries an obnoxious Southerner; her daughter, mother of Biloxi and sister Carolina; and her son, the retarded, sweet-natured Skip, who's eventually shoved into a mental hospital.
Switching back and forth in time, the play is part realistic, part surrealistic. Maw, whom everyone misses like mad, reappears every once in a while to issue homilies and share reminiscences. Though much of the evening lacks tension, a confrontation between Skip and Biloxi is infused with wary tenderness, and the young girl's speech about how white powder cannot kill the hidden Indian part of Maw is movingly alive. But points are made and remade in an evening that keeps lurching one step forward and two back.
Jessica Bauman's direction has its moments, but, like the play, lacks drive. The acting, especially by the two girls-Alexndra Tatarsky as Biloxi and Lisa Anne Apatini as Carolina-is naturalistic and believable. Marilyn Alex, Ron Crawford, Gerrianne Raphael, and Garland Hunter make quick sketches of their characters. Lyle Kula has a small role as a preacher. As Skip, Frank Deal eerily stomps about, says next to nothing, and looks both confused and dangerous. It's a provocative portrayal, the kind of character that gets away from an unfocused author.
Rachel Nemec's sets, Robert Williams' lights, Christianne Myers' costumes, and Stefan Jacobs' sound design make effective use of the awkward Ohio Theater space.