The Weatherbox
Reviewed by David A. Rosenberg
Produced by Rattlestick Productions at Theatre Off Park, 224 Waverly Place, NYC, Sept. 13-Oct. 11.
Watch the angles. In Travis Baker's "The Weather-box" at Theatre Off Park, each placement of a dying mother's bed signifies a different view of family relationships. Although it occasionally whines and is uncertain in tone, the 90-minute, intermissionless drama‹mentored by Edward Albee whose "All Over" it resembles‹finds its voice in its blistering middle third.
Three children, looking for forgiveness and absolution, bring all their baggage to a core battle between love and recrimination. Son, Tom, is taking care of cancer-ridden Mother. Condescending, inwardly resentful and impatient, Tom administers prescribed doses of morphine and waits for the end. Into the house crashes sister/daughter Carol, yearning for an apology from mom for not protecting her. The two kids launch into a bitch session, ending in Tom's breaking of Carol's nose and having to take her to the hospital.
The way is clear for child number three, Dylan (Ivan Martin), who's not only on dope and booze, but illegitimate to boot. Naturally, he's the most loving of the kids and in a scene that's conflict, not argument, he and mom reach a measure of understanding and love. The title comes from his recurring dream of a place "where the answers are."
The Dylan/Mother scene not only contains the evening's most graceful writing, it offers Martin a chance to create a character filled with pity for his past and terror for his future. Without being either maudlin or sentimental, Martin beautifully modulates the optimism that can arise from pain.
As Mother, Johanna Leister carefully balances the free spirit that was with the entrapped body that is. Rob Sedgwick's Tom and Geneva Carr's Carol are burdened with one-note speeches that finally become irritating. Kim Levin's nuanced direction gets good support from the moodiness of Catherine Chung's set, Ed McCarthy's lighting, Liz Roles' costumes, and Aural Fixation's sound design.
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A Dream of Wealth
Reviewed by David A. Rosenberg
Presented by Urban Stages at Soho Rep, 46 Walker St., NYC, Sept. 16-Oct. 11.
Nothing dates like the once up-to-date. Urban Stages' "A Dream of Wealth," at SoHo Rep, is a screed about the United (here the Imperial) Fruit Company and its exploitation of Guatemalan workers. Told with masks and doses of magic realism, Arthur Giron's play pits two cultures against one another, coming down squarely, and unsurprisingly, on the side of the natives. The play's large canvas is peopled with colorful characters, but its sentiments are obvious.
Old World Spain and New World America are the villains, beginning as far back as the Pope who blessed the conquest of Mayan territory. Jumping ahead to this century, ugly American Keith (Mick Weber) mates with native woman Marina (Magaly Colimon). Their son is Martin (Gilberto Arribas), a boy whose mixed background is a constant woe. Marina owns a banana plantation, Keith exploits it, the son is torn.
There's also a sympathetic talking dog, a cheerleading bird, the sounds of a forest weeping, and a symbolic baseball. "I wanted to bring civilization to you people," says Keith. "You did," says Marina. "You built cities in the jungle, you taught our sons to play baseball. It is a beautiful dream."
While its heart is in the right place, the play itself is slack. At one time "Dream" attracted the attention of Joseph Papp, but he died before he could mount it and perhaps give it the more elaborate production it demands. The acting is sincere but perfunctory, except for Mary Bacon, who stands out as a na™ve American. Others in the cast are Frank Rodriguez, Andrea Gabriel, Cullen Wheeler, Carlo D'Amore, Giancarlo Gonzalez, and Courtney Mitchell.
Director Richard Harden keeps a firm grip on things, no easy task. Other technical credits are set by Derek Stenborg, lighting by Kevin Lawson, costumes by Lisa Jahn, and the excellent sound by Johnna Doty.
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W-WOW! Radio
Reviewed by Victor Gluck
Presented by the Cranston & Spade Theatre Co., Inc., at the Martin R. Kaufman Theater, 534 W. 42nd St., NYC, Sept. 9-Oct. 11.
Those who have never attended a live old-time radio broadcast have a treat in store: "W-WOW! Radio" is presenting a double bill of classic episodes from "The Adventures of Sam Spade" and "Murder at Midnight," with the original music, old standards, live sound effects, and the vintage radio commercials that were heard the night of their initial broadcasts.
For devot es of the Cranston and Spade Theatre Co. at the Partners & Crime Bookstore, the move to Off-Broadway has its drawbacks. At the Martin R. Kaufman Theater, "W-WOW! Radio" is slick and professional. However, the air of spontaneity is now missing. The live sound effects which were fun to watch up close are not as effective when performed by Curtis Kaine in the larger space. The costumes designed by Keith Shaw are appropriately 1940s, but Deborah R. Rosen's studio set is rather nondescript. While in the past there were sometimes 21 actors, each perfectly cast, the current 10 are used in multiple roles. This would not be a problem if some of director Andrew Frank's casting had been more effective.
In the clich d, predictable, "The Blood Money Caper" written by Bob Tallman and Jason James, Steve Viola's Sam Spade is excessively bland. Mim Granahan relies on high-pitched, squeaky voices for both her Effie Perrine and Flora. The "Murder at Midnight" episode, "The Man Who Was Death," by Robert Newman, is more suspenseful and successfully cast. As the sculptor Jan Rolph who decides to become Death in order to sculpt him, John DeBenedetto gives a Bela Lugosi-like portrait of a man who has slipped into madness. Deborah Hertzberg proves to be a great screamer.
The non-dramatic, purely vocal portions of the evening work best. With his ingratiating smile and suave demeanor, Frank Franconeri as the evening's announcer is delightfully hammy. He also shows versatility, playing first the villainous Blueprint Vance and later the victim with the deep British voice. As always, the musical portions of the evening are superb. The W.W.O.W. Studio Singers-Jennie Berkson, Elizabeth Block, and Christina D. Purcell-could probably sing anything under the expert direction of Eric Baum.
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Culture of Desire
Reviewed by Victor Gluck
Presented by the SITI Company, City Theatre and Portland Stage Company at the New York Theatre Workshop, 79 E. 4th Street, NYC, Sept. 16-Oct. 18.
Anne Bogart, conceiver and director of "Culture of Desire," an investigation of the American consumer culture, has forgotten the credo of the avant-garde: "Astonish!" Heavily influenced by Richard Foreman, Robert Wilson, and Lee Breuer, Bogart has no original ideas to show us. Using the life and career of Andy Warhol as her point of departure, she attempts to investigate the consumer society as a form of hell. For those of us who lived through the Andy Warhol era, she has nothing new to tell us. For those who are too young to remember, she does not give enough road signs to identify the icons and references.
As the lights come up, we witness Andy Warhol (played by Kelly Maurer) being shot as he was in 1968. A voice-over intones the first line of Dante's "Inferno": "Midway on our life's journey, I found myself in a dark wood, the right road lost." Suddenly,fashion guru Diana Vreeland (Jefferson Mays) appears and offers to take Warhol on a journey through Hell.
This wonderful premise never catches fire partly because Warhol's two-dimensional works do not lend themselves to three-dimensional presentation. The repetition in his art is represented on stage by recurring scenes, which ultimately become tedious. The cast plays icons from the "60s like Elvis Presley as well as members of Warhol's Factory such as Edie Sedgwick and Viva, and art dealer Henry Geldzahler spouting the words of art critic Ivan Karp. They never become more than cardboard cutouts.
With scenic designs by Neil Patel, costumes by James Schuette and lighting by Mimi Jordan Sherin, the visual imagery is hardly ever exciting. The first time we enter Hell, the male characters are pushing the female characters in silver shopping carts in an endless circle like the opening parade in a circus. "Culture of Desire" for all its attempts to delineate a world obsessed with wealth, fame, and material possessions never rises to this startling theatrical level again.
Send tear sheet to: Mr. Don Summa Richard Kornberg & Associates, 230 W. 41 Street - Suite 1305 New York, NY 10036.
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Martini Ceremony
Reviewed by Jane Hogan
Presented by Itls Productions and the SITI Company, as part of the Second Annual NY International Fringe Festival, at The Mazer Theater, 197 East Broadway, NYC, August 19-30.
"Martini Ceremony" is all about the quest for martini perfection‹and how some folks are really quite compulsive about it all. Martinis are not just a way of life, at least for these characters, but a way of being. As directed by Leon Ingulsrud, the movement-heavy piece is, at times, completely and utterly absorbing, and overall it is extremely well done. That said, it's one of those pieces that seems to want to take a subject that ultimately isn't all that serious to a frenzied level all the while highlighting the ludicrousness of it all. That's a long-winded way of saying I think they want you to think they're trying to be funny, not just, as the more sophisticated might say, amusing.
But while oh-so-amusing at times, it's rarely funny and a bit too precious for my taste. And the piece ultimately suffers from being a little too show-offy.
The cast members (Will Bond, Susan Hightower, Laura Kachergus, Barney O'Hanlon, and Tina Shepard) deliver energetic, intense performances, but they're almost too self-consciously good.
There are definitely some entertaining lines, about how wine "does not provoke imagination," and how the making of a dry martini "should resemble the Immaculate Conception." We also get the history of the martini (and a convincing explanation of how it serves as a metaphor for European/American culture) and a fascinating comparison between the martini and Coke (martinis are of course for the connoisseurs, cokes for the masses).
Excellent sound from Darron L. West (at one point we hear the thunderous sound of what appears to be ice cracking as it is loosed from an ice tray) and clean, stark lighting from D.M. Wood. For a Fringe production (it's the nature of such a festival that the shows won't be design-heavy), the show is technically strong, and has a stark, glossy look.
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Lizzie Borden's Tempest
Reviewed by David A. Rosenberg
Presented by The Sideway Theatre Company as part of the NY International Fringe Festival, at The Connelly Theater, 220 E. 4th St., NYC. Aug. 19-30.
Take a terrific idea, extend it beyond endurance, and you have "Lizzie Borden's Tempest," Sideway Theatre Company's Fringe Festival production at the beautiful Connelly Theater, a space that should be one of the city's prime showcases, but, as written and directed by Brendan Byrnes, this play about the spinster who may or may not have chopped up her mammy and daddy in Massachusetts drowns in its monologues.
The conceit is based on an actual playbill, listing a "Miss Borden" in the role of Miranda at a reading of Shakespeare's "The Tempest." Supposing the lady in question is the same as the putative matricidal-patricidal axe-wielder (whom a jury acquitted), playwright/director Byrnes imagines a confessional evening where fellow actors become not just characters in Shakespeare, but also embodiments of Lizzie's family.
While there are some interactions and occasional imagistic break-outs, like a Strauss waltz or a game of musical chairs, the evening consists mainly of having actors plant themselves in a center stage spot and go into lengthy disquisitions on who they are and what happened before, during, and after the fateful day. If the effect is meant to be Grecian in form and essence, it comes off stilted. Except for the angelic Ariel figure who guides the proceedings, connections with "The Tempest" become tenuous.
Some of the writing is aurally appealing, however, and the actors relish saying lines like "The power of a strong memory is unfathomable," and "Why did you leave me a cruel woman in a world of crying," as well as tethering themselves to the story's underlying sexuality. Kristin Barnett, Janet Gaynor, Anne Marie Higgins, Michelle Millerick, and Stephen Cabral are convincing, but it's Mary Ellen Kopp as a comic Irish maid and Aidan Connolly as the mysterious Ariel who most hold the attention. David Cabral's sets and costumes and Daniel DeGuzman's lighting are helpful.
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Vegetable Love
Reviewed by Irene Backalenick
Presented by 29th Street Rep, 212 W. 29th St., NYC, Sept. 20-Oct. 11.
All kinds of formats and genres are acceptable in the modern play, but there must be a method to the madness. And when "Vegetable Love" leaps from the sturdy realism of kitchen-sink drama into sudden surrealism, it just does not work.
Moreover, one is never sure what playwright Tammy Ryan is getting at in this drama now making its debut at the 29th Street Theatre. And the change of genre midstream does not help. To be sure, it is a tale of death and birth, decay and regeneration. But one is hard put to wade through these broad generalities to find the point of view. Is the playwright simply saying that the birth process itself is our ongoing miracle in a ravaged world?
Ryan has created an embattled Irish-American family living out its days in Queens. (Beyond an occasional religious epithet, there is nothing that distinguishes this group as Irish-American‹except for the drunken father/long-suffering mother cliche.) As the daughters, particularly the eldest, fight for love and nurturing, the hard-edged mother turns away and the garrulous, drink-sodden father listens only to himself. Pregnancies sprout profusely, and tomato plants grow in wild abandon in the basement, rising from soil, seed, and the father's ashes. Heavy-handed symbolism, indeed. But there are plusses in both the play and the production. Characters are sharply drawn, human, believable, giving their exchanges a strong sense of immediacy. April, the provocative eldest daughter, does not appear on stage until the second act, but when she does, the play takes on new vitality and interest. Paula Ewin in that role is excellent. And Lois Markle's chilling portrayal of the mother lingers long after the show ends. In fact, the entire cast, which also includes Edward Cannan, Elizabeth Elkins, and Moira MacDonald, turns in solid performances.
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Mark Dendy Dance and Theater
Reviewed by Lisa Jo Sagolla
Presented by and at Dance Theater Workshop, 219 W. 19th St., NYC, Aug. 27-30, Sept. 1-6, 8-12.
In "Dream Analysis," presented at Dance Theater Workshop, choreographer Mark Dendy offers a revised version of his autobiographical extravaganza shown last season at the Joyce. The tale of a confused homosexual dancer from a wacky Southern family is told through songs, cleverly scripted dialogue (by Dendy and Ronald Vereen), and choreographic sequences featuring twin depictions of Martha Graham and Nijinsky. Each of these notables is intriguingly portrayed by a duo: Dendy-Richard Move as Graham, and Lawrence Keigwin-Dendy as Nijinsky. While Liz Prince's outrageous costumes, Kevin Adams' smart lighting, and the all-male company's fierce dancing shock and enthrall, what makes this production continuously riveting is its keen handling of detail.
Every sound and image is intelligently chosen, meticulously prepared, theatrically timed, and exquisitely presented. Using expert vocal mimicry and a shortening re-alignment of his spine and shoulders, Dendy emulates Graham with eerie perfection. Rather than laboring through the obvious, angst-ridden contractions when satirizing Graham's choreography, the company finds subtle parody in carefully tent-shaped hands, conversations punctuated by falls and "sparkles," and graceful triplet-ing exits. In a thrilling depiction of Nijinsky, Keigwin sprinkles the familiar vocabulary of the danseur's greatest roles with contemporary virtuosity and eroticism, recalling the astonishing impact of Nijinsky's physical prowess and homosexuality.
As his story unfolds, Dendy reveals a remarkable range of dramatic technique, creating a comic characterization of his holy-roller mother, and delivering a frighteningly realistic monologue as Nijinsky going mad. The work climaxes in an explosive ensemble dance in which the disparate psychological and physical elements of the memoir imaginatively amalgamate. Then, in a surprising gesture of extreme generosity Dendy offers a bonus, an epilogue in which, to "Pr lude à l'apr's-midi d'un faune," he and Keigwin dance a kinesthetic masterwork, pushing the limits of their physicality in an ingeniously derivative duet that Dendy-izes the famous faun's frolic.
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Mr. Raisin Head and Other Delights
Reviewed by Jane Hogan
A production of the Present Company in association with Todo Con Nada, Inc., as part of the Second Annual NY International Fringe Festival, at The Tenement Theater, 97 Orchard St., NYC, August 19-30.
In "Mr. Raisin Head and Other Delights," part of the New York International Fringe Festival, writer and performer Erika Batdorf has created a one-woman show that keeps you watching‹and guessing.
Summarizing the piece is somewhat beside the point, but... it's about a guy's discovery of himself and the search for the right woman to be Mrs. Raisin Head‹and the love of water. Mr. Raisin Head's essential self is revealed through Batdorf's physical and vocal abilities (she adopts a tough-sounding Brooklyn accent). Batdorf is extremely skilled at creating the complex character through her physical movements, and nothing is spelled out for the audience. She slithered and moved sinuously around the stage like a lizard, lasciviously sticking her tongue in and out of her mouth. Mr. Raisin Head is repulsive and lewd, yet as the piece progresses, he journeys towards knowledge. Batdorf is extremely adept at suggesting someone's character and inner being in small ways and movements. A pink boa becomes the woman, or should I say beet (you really have to see it), Mr. Raisin Head marries.
The main work was preceded by a short piece "The Feather and the Crystal Glass." Here Batdorf became a little girl (is she in a ward of some sort?) waiting for her sister, who may or may not really be coming, who tells the audience a story while hoping her sister arrives. Batdorf again created a full-blown character through voice and movement, and, coupled with "Mr. Raisin Head," clearly revealed her range. Batdorf's work is both intense and subtle, and her vulnerable characters remain enigmatic yet accessible. And part of the charm of her work lies in the sense of mystery that she creates within the pieces.
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Intervals
Reviewed by David A. Rosenberg
Presented by Lapis Lazuli, at Collective Unconscious, 145 Ludlow St., NYC, as part of the NY International Fringe Festival, Aug. 19-30.
The four poems that make up "Intervals," Lapis Lazuli's Fringe Festival offering at Collective Unconscious, examine the spaces between words. Written and directed by Jenny Schwartz, they are impressionistic, rhythmical and language-besotted, lovely pieces in their own right although handicapped by the very stasis they examine.
Hauntingly suggesting everyone's essential isolation from one another, "Intervals" is akin to sitting on a shore, listening to the waves, watching the seagulls, and brooding over loss. The feeling was reinforced by Seth Kaufman's New Age piano music, played throughout the 40-minute piece.
The first of the four, "Sixth Grade," focuses on a young girl who associates her mother's early death with her own desire to shave her legs. Guilty, bereft, she rejects her father's plea to visit the grave. "I wanted his shadow far away from me," she says.
"Flash Flood" gives us an elegiac young woman on the verge who, unable to sleep, kicks ice cubes around her kitchen floor. In her quiet panic are the seeds of her unhappiness with, presumably, the husband she left in bed.
In "Rain Song," a golf-widow who has "just about had it with "fine,' " informs her husband she wants to leave him, fly to Seattle, and drive down the coast. Here, too, we have people who don't even want their shadows to touch.
Not so in "Halloween," wherein a young man and woman yearn to reach out, but can't. We don't know why, and maybe we shouldn't care. As in its companion pieces, what people say doesn't connect with their silences.
Under Schwartz's necessarily static direction, Andrea Berloff, Krista Hoeppner, Jack Phillips, Connie Hall, Leila Gerstein, Melissa Billington, James Stanley, and Michael Joseloff, by underplaying their roles, managed to skirt the kind of pretentiousness potentially inherent in this genre. Dan Nichols was the lighting designer.
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Marco Polo Sings a Solo
Reviewed by Jane Hogan
Presented by The Signature Theatre Company at The Signature Theatre, 555 W. 42nd St. Runs Sept. 15-Oct. 25. Opened Sept. 27.
Originally performed in 1977 at the Public Theater (in a cooly-received staging), John Guare's "Marco Polo Sings a Solo," directed by Mel Shapiro‹who directed the original production‹has floated back into the theatre. Actually set in 1999, on an iceberg off Norway, Stony McBride is directing his father, famed actor Lusty McBride, as Marco Polo in a film that includes a cast of 5,000 Chinese extras (in a bit of inspired costuming the character walks around in a jacket that reads, "Marco Polo‹The Movie").
Essentially, the plot revolves around Stony, Diane (his wife, who is leaving him for another man), and Stony's obsession with astronaut Frank Schaeffer, who is on a mission to save Earth from extinction.
There's more in terms of plot, character, and imagery (and references to Norway's own Ibsen, whose characters had plenty of identity problems). All for what? To examine how the future is always unknowable? How the human condition doesn't change, no matter where and when people are‹and no matter what they're faced with? The search for identity? To discover the future is now?
Plenty of ideas abound, but the writing doesn't support them. And once we come to know the characters' quirks and excesses, the inhabitants of the iceberg are ultimately not all that intriguing, and, like the writing, strangely empty.
The actors are all fine. Bruce Norris and Polly Holliday in particular handle the text's language well (though Norris should tone down his baby scene). As Stony's mother, Holliday delivers a lengthy monologue with such confidence and skill that it takes on far more meaning than the words alone can ever express.
The sets and lights, designed by E. David Cosier and Brian Aldous respectively, are imaginatively executed.
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If I Were You
Reviewed by Jane Hogan
Presented by 3-Legged Dog at The Kitchen, 512 W. 19th St., NYC. August 27-Sept. 12.
Conceived as a technological farce, "If I Were You," presented at The Kitchen by 3-Legged Dog, combines the frenzied atmosphere of a comedy of manners with the faux docu-realism of a video piece. The set consisted of sets of doors on a track, which can be rearranged on three sides of the playing area, and eight televisions suspended at varying heights.
Conceived and directed by Mike Taylor with Gregor Paslawsky, the piece plays with perspective, offering the audience member/viewer the ability to see the actor onstage as well as on television‹and see how information is processed from those two very different sources.
Essentially a mystery involving a plot to steal a valuable necklace at the mansion of an earl, the show is concerned with mistaken identities and concealed motives‹and an upper-class poetry salon. Sort of. It's really about commentary and how technology and images affect the understanding of events. On the eight TVs, as well as a large screen hanging from upstage center, various scenes and images are played. These range from an ad for 1-900-CAN DO IT, the phone number of a Mr. Fix-It for personal problems, to characters telling of the events from their perspective to pictures of the sky and clouds, along with the sound of wind as someone grows chilly. Actors speak over one another, finish one another's sentences, talk in sync‹they even have a big dance number.
The piece was extremely well-directed, and the actors never missed a beat. It could use some editing (it's too long) and some careful pruning might give the piece a clarity it's lacking (it seems a bit confused at times, particularly near the end).
The fusion of the present information age with English farce and French melodrama underscores the disjointedness of the search for the whole truth in our disconnected modern time.
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The Circle Hamlet
Reviewed by Irene Backalenick
Presented by Public Domain at P.S. 70, 333 W. 17th St., Sept. 17-Oct. 17.
A young dynamic company has burst upon the scene with "The Circle Hamlet." Public Domain has taken over space in a Chelsea school, creating a circular stage surrounded by chairs. With viewers sitting in the front row, close to the cast, "Hamlet" becomes an intimate experience. Not a single gesture or expression is lost. Audience and cast bond together, sharing the moment. Fortunately, this production, under Derek Lucci and John Edwards' direction, is up to the challenge. "Circle Hamlet" is intense, impassioned and fast-paced, as is Lucci himself in the title role. It is the work of a youthful company, brash and energetic.
Public Domain gives proof that the bare stage, the actor, and the text are the essence of theatre. There are no distractions‹set and lighting are non-existent, costumes and props minimal. For openers, actors in black-and-white garb appear, pick up props, bow solemnly to the audience, and march off. A mood is struck, the play begins. At once we are thrown into the fearsome ghost scene with Hamlet‹and bound to him till the very end, when "the rest is silence." This production is all movement, flawlessly choreographed, ending in a superb fight scene. The sense of urgency dominates every scene, enhancing the dramatic tension.
The lines, however, are not always spoken "trippingly on the tongue." Performances vary. Derek Lucci's vulnerable Hamlet is totally absorbing. Christopher George (Laertes) and Tom Huston (Horatio) are both strong, and Joe Muzikar is a convincing Claudius (except for a tendency to shout). As to the others, M. J. Karmi (Gertrude) gets little opportunity to show what she can do, decorative though she is, and other players are less satisfying. In particular, Jenni Blong (Ophelia) tends to garble speeches and seems uncomfortable in the role. But the whole is more than the sum of the parts. This is first-rate ensemble work and, taken all in all, well worth seeing.
Press: Paula Wenger Public Relations-802-7977
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The Mystery of Irma Vep
Reviewed by David Sheward
Presented by Steve Asher, Richard Frankel, Thomas Viertel, Steven Baruch, and Marc Routh, at the Westside Theatre (Downstairs), 407 W. 43rd St., NYC. Opened Oct. 1 for an open run.
I wasn't fortunate enough to see the original 1984 Ridiculous Theatrical Company production of "The Mystery of Irma Vep," but I doubt it could have been any funnier than the current revival at the Westside Theatre. Written by the late Charles Ludlam for himself and his companion Everett Quinton, "Vep" is a deliriously dizzy tribute to Gothic romances, horror movies, and theatrical kitsch in general. There are double and triple entendres, low drag and high camp. It's for everyone with any sort of sense of humor‹gay, straight, theatre-and-movie-mad, or culturally ignorant.
Quinton is directing this new production and plays Ludlam's roles. Quinton's former parts are now enacted by newcomer Stephen DeRosa. They are an entire gallery of icons from our collective memory of films and literature, both gloriously over the top and sublimely subtle.
Traditonally, Ridiculous productions (I did see many after Ludlam's death) were fun for the ingenuity with which Quinton and company made threadbare design elements into elaborate worlds of fantasy. Here, the physical side of the show is first class and not a whit less clever. William Ivey Long's costumes combine love of cheesy show-biz with witty parody. (His leg o' mutton sleeves for one of Quinton's elegant gowns earn guffaws.) John Lee Beatty's set is a riot of Victorian frou-frou and broody Hitchcockian menace. Paul Gallo has many gags in his lighting plot, and Zsmaria Sol Ronquillo's magic fingers created the makeup and many wigs.
With its small cast and high laugh quotient, "Vep" has long been a favorite on the regional and stock circuit. This revival should spark a new demand for the show in the provinces. If you haven't seen it before, I would definitely recommend it for future reference when you audition for regional theatres' seasons, as it will undoubtedly appear on the bills of many.
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Medea
Reviewed by Glenda Frank
ICM Artists in association Kritas Productions presents the National Theatre of Greece production, at City Center, 131 W. 55 St., Sept. 23-27.
Euripides' "Medea" is the most terrifying of women. Her colors should be ash white, the deepest black, and blood red‹the colors on the City Center stage where the National Theatre of Greece recently brought its highly stylized production of the classic. Although choreographed (by Vasso Barbousi) and scored (music by Savina Yannatou) to rouse pity and terror, the effect was diminished by the temptation to read the English supertitles and break the spell.
But the spell is powerful. As the titular pagan sorceress, Karyofyllia Karabeti as Medea, seems able to transform herself at will from a woman to a vixen to a snake. Finally, she is a red pillar of judgment towering over the stage and a half-naked, cowering Jason, her two-timing hubby.
When we first meet him, Jason (Lazaros Georgakopoulos) is the ascendant one, glancing down at Medea. With his well-defined torso and handsome bronze breastplate, he looks like a young god as he rationalizes why Medea should be delighted to be replaced by the king's daughter. The more cautious Creon (Kostas Triantafyllopoulos), the father who comes sword in hand, to banish Medea, finds her a suppliant. Entreating for one more day, she slowly circles around him, as though weaving an incantation. He concedes, and soon a hoarse-throated messenger (Maria Katsiadaki) wearing bloody white garments narrates the horrible news from the palace.
The kohl-eyed chorus of townswomen, all in white, look like visitors from the other side of the grave. Moving like dried leaves over the stage, they begin by comforting Medea and end babbling all at once, sounding inarticulate cries and moans, as she determines her final vengeance on the unfaithful Jason. Blood-red dominates the final scene.
The production directed by Niketi Kontouri didn't quite twist the heart, but it had an operatic life of its own, especially in memory‹as though it had happened 2,500 years ago and we were privileged to bear witness.
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Black Mask
Reviewed by Jane Hogan
Presented by Real Time Theatre and The Ontological Theater at The Ontological Theater at St. Mark's Church at 2nd Ave. and 10th St., NYC, Aug. 29-Sept. 12.
From Real Time Theater comes "Black Mask," a noir play, written by Frank Bradley and Damon Kiely and directed by Kiely. It's a tightly-directed, wonderfully-designed show. It boasted strong performances (particularly from Rob Donaldson who pretty much carried the show as private dick Jake Willow), and from Jason Howard in the multiple roles of Maudy, a sympathetic young cop; a nurse; and movie producer Reggie DeTillo).
The program notes tell us "Black Mask" is named after "the most popular detective fiction magazine of the '30s and '40s," and text and inspiration from the hard-boiled works of Chandler, Hammett, Cain (both James M. and Paul), Whitfield, and Nebel.
A fine lineage to be sure, and Bradley, Kiely and the cast had the style and noir-speak down pat (the other cast members are Lillith Beichman, Johanna McKeon, Bryan Webster, Seana Lee Wyman and Lia Yang). If there's a problem with the play, it's that the overall story doesn't always support the directing, acting and design. The typically noir plot about a dark, mysterious woman who hires Willow to find her missing friend, doesn't quite sustain interest, despite the creative and resourceful staging.
Set designer Vicki R. Davis placed venetian blinds on rollers, which were moved around the stage to create the playing areas, and which at times were lit in such a way that we saw people's silhouettes behind them.
Though essentially illuminating the piece with white light, lighting designer Michael Gottlieb also suffused the stage (the floor of which was painted a bright yellow) with vibrant colors (red, green, fuschia). Generally associated with black and white, this noir piece used strong color to create the vivid look of a heightened reality. In addition, Gottlieb created some long shadows (by lighting the rolling blinds and utilizing templates). Costume designer Carol Bailey also deserves mention for costumes that convincingly evoked the period.