Off-Broadway
The Bacchae (***3/4) -- After a meteoric rise to Broadway A-list status on the strength of star turns in Spring Awakening and last summer's outdoor revival of Hair, Jonathan Groff has taken some heat for the self-possessed mildness he brings to the volatile wine god, Dionysus. Indeed, when this Bacchus rages outdoors in Central Park, he is no more threatening than a handsome teen running for president delivering his campaign speech at a high school assembly.
Altogether spot-on, I say. Dionysus' resemblance to Jesus makes him all the more terrifying when the punishment he metes out to disbelievers overruns all bounds of rationality and justice. Of all the ancient dramatists, Euripides' universe is closest to our own: awesome in its intoxicating beauty, appalling in its capricious destructive force, and mocking our impotence.
Dionysus doesn't roar because he's a god, not the Big Bad Wolf. Similarly, director Joanne Akalaitis has solid ideas on updating the Greek Chorus for modern eyes, reveling in the Delacorte's attractive amphitheater and in the ancient theater ritual -- which originated 2500 years ago as annual celebrations of Dionysus and his mythical rebirth. The ritual authenticity is enhanced by a fresh, primal score from Philip Glass, much of it set to the choral speeches. So these Bacchae are a real chorus!
Dionysus' adversary, King Pentheus of Thebes, is both outnumbered and overmatched. Anthony Mackie was faced with the compound challenges of sustaining his pigheaded skepticism in the face of universal opposition and leaving a sufficiently positive impression to make us sorrow in the wake of his horrific death. It does help that Dionysus humiliates Pentheus before he's savaged, tricking him into dressing up as a woman, and Mackie minces adorably in rouge and high heels.
The king's mom, once a denigrator of Dionysus, becomes a bacchante when he returns to Thebes and has the privilege of ripping off Pentheus' head when he witnesses their sacred rites. She thinks she has bagged a lion before she emerges from her ecstatic trance and discovers the bloody truth in her hands. The horrors escalate from there, and Joan MacIntosh feasts unforgettably on the alarm and the grieving as Agave. [Closed on Aug. 30]
After Luke & When I Was God (***1/2) -- These two 2005 one-acts by Cónal Creedon are getting wonderful productions at the Irish Repertory Theatre, with Gary Gregg and Michael Mellamphry trading barbs in both halves of the twinbill. In When I Was God, Mellamphry stars as a soccer referee in his final match, with Gregg splitting time between the TV announcer and the ref's dad, a staunch patriot who sees soccer as a sissy imperialist game imposed by the British and prods his son into the manly native sport of hurling.
The story of the proud ref's misadventures in hurling, his ill-starred dalliance with table tennis, and his lordly sovereignty on the soccer pitch are all succulent treats, but After Luke, modeled on the biblical story of The Prodigal Son, is an instant classic. Here Mellamphry plays the wastrel Maneen while Greg is the elder brother, a dogged mechanic who wants no part of Maneen's get-rich schemes.
Colin Lane joins the fun as the sullen, bumbling Dadda, striving to keep his "chalk and cheese" sons from killing each other. Dubious toward Maneen's entrepreneurial designs, Dadda mostly remains oblivious toward the prodigal's manipulativeness -- and a vicious streak that nearly extends into Martin McDonough territory.
I hadn't laughed this heartily in a theater since... The Toxic Avenger the previous week. Mellamphry is brilliant, and Gregg is amazing. [Through Sept. 27]
Toxic Avenger (***1/4) -- For awhile, Joe DiPietro's spoof of the sci-fi horror flick was funnier than Evil Dead: The Musical. But then Melvin Ferd the Third, that most ungainly nerd of Tromaville, New Jersey, is dipped into a vat of toxic waste by the two town bullies, acting on orders of the corrupt Mayor Babs Belgoody.
What emerges from that chemical sludge wreaks satisfying vengeance on the thugs, but the comedy is scarred. The prosthetic mask designed by John Dods for the Toxic Avenger -- nicknamed "Toxie" by his blind librarian paramour -- doesn't allow actor Nick Cordero nearly the same range of expression we enjoyed when he was the endearingly ugly, pathologically shy Melvin. Director John Rando adds to the irritation, decreeing that Toxie's involuntary roar should be amplified to the max.
So the comedy burden shifts to Nancy Opel, who piles on the bitchiness as Mayor Babs, and Diana DeGarmo, who proves to be a surprisingly slutty librarian when cloistered with a repulsive hero she cannot see. Make no mistake, both these comediennes -- and Cordero -- perform at a higher plateau than the cast I saw at the same New Stages venue in Evil Dead less than three years ago. So do supporting players Jonathan Root and Demond Green, performing as a multitude of bit parts listed as White Dude and Black Dude.
The Tin Pan Alley Rag (***1/4) -- Two giants of American music, Scott Joplin and Irving Berlin, meet at Berlin's publishing company way back in the early 20th Century. They exchange greetings, melodies, and autobiographies in a pocket musical for two pianos.
If you don't already know 28th Street by its famed alias, Tin Pan Alley, the Mark Saltzman play-with-music will be triply illuminating, since it explores the workings of the American music industry back in the day when sheet music was still its primary product. Saltzman weaves his bio-fiction resourcefully, bringing the king of ragtime to Berlin's door late in his career, when depressed finances force Joplin to assume an alias in order to plug his own wares.
Berlin, a huge success long before the full flowering of his talent, sees through Joplin's pretense as soon as he begins playing his signature ragtime. Joplin wants Berlin to publish his magnum opus, Treemonisha, so that the opera might someday be produced. As he gets to know Izzy better, he also fervently wishes that Berlin would break free of his commercial four-page formula, expand his musical ambitions, and embrace syncopation.
There's a tragic parallel in the two biographies that helps forge a bond between the two men. Michael Therriault brings a nervous, hustling edge to the youthful, savvy Berlin, while Michael Boatman endows Joplin with serene dignity and authority -- subtly tinctured with disappointment, desperation, and decrepitude. A superb 10-person ensemble keeps the stories chugging colorfully forward. [Closing on Sept. 6]
A Lifetime Burning (**3/4) -- This beautifully acted world premiere production is immaculately staged at Primary Stages on East 59th Street. It definitely centers on an issue that is fresh and relevant, a writer who scores a big dollar bonanza by faking her autobiography. Trouble is, in weaving her drama, Cusi Cram layers on multiple mitigations and reasons to empathize with Emma's deception.
Emma has a history of mental problems for starters. She also has a spiteful, jealous sister, Tess, itching to expose her fraud. She's been encouraged by a barracuda book publisher, Lydia Freemantle; and in gathering her exotic autobiographical materials, she has hooked up with a resentful boyfriend, Alejandro, who turns abusive when he finds out how he has been exploited. So in depicting the story of a writer without a moral compass, the playwright has lost her own.
Cram certainly demonstrates powerful dramatic talents in keeping us involved, though the sharpness of her characterizations occasionally takes a break to serve her plot. Jennifer Westfeldt is a knockout as Emma, with a luscious vulnerability that keeps us caring. As Tess, Christina Kirk manages to seem more responsible and more neurotic than the sister she envies, and Isabel Keating as Freemantle is the very essence of a corrupt, hypocritical trade. Raúl Castillo turns nicely from grateful charity case to resentful menace. [Closing on Sept. 5]
Too Much Light Makes the Baby Go Blind (**) -- This weekly madcap ritual in the East Village by the New York Neo-Futurists has spontaneous tribal elements that will remind you of Hair and a cheesy game show streak that evokes The Price Is Right. From its great storehouse of some 1,734 miniature plays and skits, the ensemble of five writer/performers chooses 30, whose titles are printed on your program, shopping-list style, to be delivered within the space of 60 minutes every Friday and Saturday night at 10:30 p.m.
The audience is called upon to dictate the order of the plays, shouting out their numbers when a cast member says, "Curtain." Out of the inchoate din that ensues, the cast member ostensibly discerns the number that was shouted first and declaims the title of the next play to be performed.
Quality is variable, but the format allows for incomparable freshness. Last Friday night, for instance, we had a playlet about Senator Edward Kennedy before his funeral. Another subtle benefit: no skit needs to outstay its welcome. "Hokey Pokey in Hell" was admirably concise, and "An Absolutely False Reenactment of How Snow White's Wicked Stepmother Enticed Snow White into Snow White's First Lesbian Experience Starring Erica Livingston as Snow White's Stepmother and Cara Francis as Snow White" had the unique distinction of being shorter than its title.
Yet the format also allows for some unforgivable lapses in judgment. In the middle of "Dueling Clichés," a cast member nonchalantly tossed a pie into the audience, illustrating "easy as pie." The pie landed in the row ahead of me, coating a young lady in a film of blueberry goo that stretched from her hand to her shoulder.
After the photographer's timer finished counting down the 60 minutes, during which the ensemble managed to deliver 28 of the 30 plays, the lights came up and we saw that the pie had landed in the woman's purse. She probably wouldn't have rated the performance as highly as I have.
But if offering a cookie to a friend with your asshole is your idea of hilarity, this is definitely your ticket. Dress appropriately -- and sit defensively.
FringeNYC [Ended on Aug. 30]
Victoria and Frederick for President (***1/4) -- Previously premiered at the Create Carolina Festival in May 2008 on the Winthrop University campus, Jonathan L. Davidson's historical curiosity has been admirably trimmed of its gossipy, salacious excesses, focusing our attention more sharply on substance. How is it possible that Frederick Douglass campaigned for the reelection of President Ulysses S. Grant while running against him as a vice presidential candidate? The fascinating answer is loopy suffragette visionary Victoria Woodhull, who drafted Douglass onto her ticket without consulting the great orator.
The original climax, a confrontation between Douglas and Grant after somebody -- bigots? Grant supporters? -- has burned down Douglas's house, is still a powerhouse. So is Mel Johnson Jr's portrait of Douglass, the best element of the Rock Hill production. All the other parts in the FringeNYC production were in capable Actor's Equity hands. Best were Antoinette Levecchia, nicely adulterating her principled Victoria with a wink of wantonness, and Edward Hyland as Grant, earthy, convivial, and unshakably self-assured.
Give that man a cigar! Seriously, that one extra prop wouldn't have busted the budget. Johnson, on the other hand, tours with his own one-man show, Frederick Douglass in the Shadow of Slavery, so his leonine mane and beard are imposing no-cost extras the producers have passed along.
Graveyard Shift: The American Tragedy Musical (***) -- Zombies are eating the flesh of American citizens in Ren Casey's new horror spoof, and the corpses of the slaughtered victims are coming back to life, killing more and swelling the zombie army. The President has pre-empted normal TV programming to advise all citizens to abandon all hope. Promising beginning!
But Casey turns down the intensity afterwards, transporting us to a besieged big box retailer, ValueVille, and showing us how the late shift employees deal with the threats of cannibalism and the end of civilization. All the while, V-Ville newbie Ellie is being indoctrinated into the store's ideals by manager David Hussey -- and the grim underpaid realities by cashier Sharonda and supervisor Stacy.
Romance? That would be on Aisle 9, if I'm not mistaken, in the person of Petey, an $8.95-an-hour lifer who still lives with his grandma.
As you can readily divine, this set-up allows Graveyard Shift to shuttle gracefully between episodes satirizing the spirit-sucking culture of mass retail and desperate action sequences with the fate of the world at stake. Sort of like a musical Chuck, n'est-ce pas?
There are longueurs in Casey's script, to be sure, but the fecundity of his musical imagination and the barbs in his lyrics make him someone we're almost sure to be hearing from on larger stages. Ditto for Tonilyn Hornung, singing Ellie, and Connie Jackson, belting out Sharonda. Their big voices are also too big for the Minetta Lane Theatre.
Dancing With Abandon (**1/2) -- Charlotte émigré Sandy Binion bravely starred in this quirky, quixotic, and charming first stab at a full-blown stage musical by singer/actress/writer Karen Hartman. We remember Binion here as a dusky contralto who sang the lead in such musicals as Applause and Sunday in the Park With George. Apparently, she also has operatic training, enabling her to lift up her voice into the soprano range.
She sensationally dusts off those capabilities here as Alice Silverstein, a Jewish operatic phenom who sacrifices parenthood to pursue diva glory. Brought up by Italian peasants as Dwayne Boccacio, Alice's rock-'n'-roll son shows up at the Kennedy Center and moons his mom as she is about to receive the lifetime achievement medal in front of the world's glitterati.
So eventually, institutionalized, Silverstein gets to sing a mad scene for real! Trouble is, Hartman has so overloaded the diva's role with vocal demands, sprinkling it with arias from Madama Butterfly, Carmen, and Gianni Schicchi, that it's impossible for even the two singers who split the Silverstein part -- Natalie Charlé Ellis is the younger Alice -- to perform it every night.
At its best, when Binion and Zachary Clause as Dwayne combine in an opera-against-rock duet, "Rock Me Mama," Hartman is onto something new and exciting. But she needs to confine the insanity to her autobiographical diva, borrow less from the classics, and nurture her own compositional gifts. Above all, Hartman, a Met Opera audition winner in her youth, should have compassion for her singers and give them a break.
