QUICK TAKE REVIEW By Beverly Creasey All In The Game

Bill Doncaster’s TWO BOYS LOST (presented by Stickball Productions through Oct. 25^th) is a riveting tale of one stressed out family—It could be any family, give or take a bad break or two—on Christmas Eve. Christmas does that to people but bickering is already an art to the Molineaux clan. They can implode just as easily over calzone as they can over Jimmy, the schizophrenic son whose demons keep him homeless and terrified.

In his few lucid moments, Jimmy worries about his brother, Eddie, who has taken on the responsibility and burden of rescuing him. As boys, they played at saving each other from pirates and sundry dangers, calling themselves “the two lost boys.” Now it’s true. Jimmy is lost in train tunnels and brain tunnels. His loving brother feels he’s lost control of his life, on call 24/7 to rescue Jimmy from street situations, police stations and thieves who will even steal his shoes. If that’s not enough to push a man over the edge, Eddie has a nasty ex who tries to keep him from seeing his son. And he has his own demanding mother to contend with.

Doncaster writes lovely, funny dialogue for solid, compelling characters. When the sister arrives back at her mother’s after running errands, she finds her brother and mother going at it hammer and tong. “Is this still or again?” she quips sarcastically. And Doncaster cleverly creates a character with clear vision and enough distance to see every other character’s flaws. Eddie’s treasure of a second wife is the calm, cool voice of reason.

Happily, director James Peter Sotis has a dream cast to animate these complex characters: Cheryl McMahon is a force to be reckoned with as Ma, the proud, strong-willed, difficult to please mother who lays down the law for the Molineaux family. Ma has her reasons and McMahon manages to soften her character so we can see she’s not made of stone. James Bocock gives a powerful performance as Eddie, awash in heartbreak, as he watches his brother and his dreams slip away. Jade Guerra as “the good wife” radiates wisdom and strength—and she’s delightfully funny, as well.

As Jimmy, Brett Milanowski skillfully captures the visceral pain of mental illness: We see it eating at him, torturing him with guilt and paranoia. Shawna Ciampa, too, as Jimmy and Eddie’s sister, captures the fragility that comes from constant worry.

The evening opens with a treat, a curtain raiser, a cheeky, comic ten minute piece called STEP ON ME by Lisa Wagner Erickson. It sounds masochistic…well, it is masochistic, but not in the conventional sense. Liz Michael Hartford and Michael Towers taunt and tease each other until she submits to his entreaties, but not in the conventional way. That’s all I’m saying about it.

QUICK TAKE REVIEW By Beverly Creasey ROGUE GALLERY

Stephen Sondheim and John Weidman’s controversial musical, ASSASSINS, is back to remind us how violent these United States are. This time out New Repertory Theatre is assembling the shooting gallery, playing through Oct. 26^th appropriately enough, at the Arsenal Center.

The musical is a conundrum. The historical context is fascinating. The message that someone can make a name for him/herself by assassination is chilling and the songs are gorgeous—but perverse in the mouths of these evildoers. “Everybody’s Got the Right [to a Dream]” is one of Sondheim’s loveliest but the dream, in this case, involves a gun and a president.

 

When ASSASSINS debuted, audiences were shocked at what seemed like a glorification of violence. A quarter of a century later, I’m horrified to say, people are more than familiar with news of mass murder ( from children killing their classmates to homegrown and foreign terrorism to the “collateral damage” from drone and missile attacks we hear about every day on the news). Now ASSASSINS seems more of a cautionary tale—and sad, solid evidence that our country has always had a fascination with violence.

 

The shadow of recent history casts a frightening resonance on the musical that it didn’t have before. Most surprising is the vignette about the failed presidential assassin, Sam Byck, who planned to hijack a plane and crash it into the White House way before 9-11. Ironically, after the musical’s first disappointing outing, Sondheim and Weidman were ready to try it again. Time had passed. Backers were found and they were scheduled to open in November of 2001. Then 9-11 happened and they didn’t.

Director Jim Petosa’s straightforward production unfolds on a giant American flag (set design by Kamilla Kurmenbekova) whose stars all display black bullet holes, repeated in carnival proprietor/cheerleader Benjamin Evett’s patriotic coat (by Chelsea Kerl).

Music director Matthew Stern’s ensemble delivers the songs with conviction and humor. Standout performances include Mark Linehan’s commanding Booth (whose final prayer is especially, surprisingly touching), Brad Peloquin’s quirky, almost childlike assassin and Kevin Patrick Martin’s desperate, lonely gunman. Their seemingly innocent, lilting trio (“All you have to do is crook your little finger…”) morphs into a barbershop quartet (by adding a female assassin) becoming, despite its gentle tune, passionless instruction for a shooting.

Also affecting are Harrison Bryan (although his over the top Italian accent kept me from making out some of the lyrics and maybe it’s just because I saw SWEENEY TODD a week ago, but he sounds a lot like Pirelli, Sweeney’s nemesis), McCaela Donovan and Paula Langton as inept, ineffectual wannabes, Casey Tucker as a proud, determined Emma Goldman and Peter S. Adams as the wacky Sam Byck (although placing him at the far end of the stage each time meant we had difficulty (and I was in the center section) hearing all of his rant.

Best of all, in a tour de force is Evan Gambardella, first as the balladeer, there at the start to chronicle the first assassination, then as a confused, reluctant Lee Harvey Oswald, entreated by all the other assassins, to give them historical importance. When he gives himself over to his brothers/sisters in arms, we feel sorry for him. Even if you don’t subscribe to the lone gunman theory, the Oswald segment works as theater and Gambardella creates a character you won’t soon forget.

NOT SO QUICK TAKE REVIEW By Beverly Creasey Another Knockout Production from Imaginary Beasts

While Picasso and Braque were busy in Paris deconstructing modern art, cubists in Russia, too, were laying waste to form and content. While Malevich and the Suprematists were radicalizing painting, Daniil Ivanovitch Iuvachev (later known as Daniil Kharms) and friends were knocking the stuffing out of formal literature. Kharms and his associates advocated a theater without logic or connection. KNOCK! THE DANIIL KHARMS PROJECT (caroming around the BCA through Oct. 18^th) is the IMAGINARY BEASTS’ stunning take on Kharms’ surreal life and work. Don’t miss it.

The Beasts already embrace gestural language, musicality, physicality and a wild imagination to enliven their productions so Kharms would seem the perfect fit for such an adventurous company. And to think, the world might never have seen Kharms’ work: Stalin imprisoned him for his avant-garde, anti-socialist bent and later, even after he joined the Soviet Writers’ Union, he was again arrested and banned from publishing. He died in 1942 of starvation in one of the republic’s infamous, so called “mental hospitals.” Miraculously, a friend rescued his manuscripts, which didn’t surface until the 1960s. A lively, new translation by Irina Yakubovskaya found its way to the Beasts and the result is a world premiere—and to quote their press, a “once-in-a-lifetime event.” And that it is.

Michael McMahan’s adroit adaptation combines not only Kharms’ poetry, plays and short stories but actual elements of the author’s harrowing life—so that odd, little stage inventions coexist with snatches of peculiar conversations, bits of nonsense dialogue and Kharms’ revelatory black humor. Director Matthew Woods and company add their trademark wizardry for a performance of breathtaking visuals and hilarious commedia del’arte.

Kharms’ seemingly lunatic vignettes build to a menacing dread. A parade of “buffoons” follows a man pulling a sled, confiscating the pages which fall out of his suitcase. Then in another scene, they form an endless line so no one can get ahead. They may waddle in their billowing great coats and sport red clown noses but we instinctively know they’re the automatons who represent repression.

The man slowly, laboriously pulling the sled behind him (Michael Chodos) is the embodiment of Kharms himself as we imagine him, slightly bent over resigned to his fate, plodding headlong into a snow storm. Happily, the exquisite, swirling snow effect (caught in Christopher Bocchiaro’s almost blinding back light) is repeated throughout, since it’s one of the loveliest visuals in the performance.

Images speed by your visual field, sparking recognition and resonance: so many references, so many connections to what may seem at first to have none. It’s exhilarating. It’s thrilling. And it’s full of surprises. A dangerous Joey Pelletier tells us his wife has run away. (And we know why: He plucks a fly out of the air for an afternoon snack like Dracula’s assistant, Renfield.) He warns us not to “go around with peasants.” You’d certainly want to steer clear of him, although Sarah Gazdowicz manages to cleverly outmaneuver the scary watchman.

William Schuller (as the writer) is presented a desk by his exceedingly elderly aunt (Molly Kimmerling) but he doesn’t seem to know which way is up. Just when we think the Beasts have exhausted all the bizarre and delightful positions Schuller can assume and still not be able to write, they slide a chair sideways onto/under him for the frosting on the cake in one of the best sight gags ever.

Michael Underhill is no slouch in the contortions department, either. His gravity defying coup also involves a chair and an inability to employ it in the accepted mode. Every scene is a revelation (but not in the sense of complete, rational understanding). You have to let it all wash over you subjectively and give yourself over to the ride. Chris Larson’s sound design and Woods’ brilliant country “door” set, not to mention the musical choices which build the emotional impact of the scenes, all serve to reinforce the authentic “Russian” feel of the material. Cotton Talbot-Minkin’s whimsical costume designs (especially for Chodos’ snow scene and for Mariagrazia LaFauci’s ethereal “angel of death”) are simply incomparable. I could hold forth for hours about the production and the talented ensemble. Suffice it to say I’m immensely grateful to learn about Kharms and to have witnessed another inspirational offering from the Beasts. They’re like no other company around.

QUICK TAKE REVIEW By Beverly Creasey NIE WIEDER

Zeitgeist Stage is honoring the 35^th anniversary of the Holocaust play, BENT, Martin Sherman’s frightening, ultimately redemptive play about the gay men who perished, along with the Jews and gypsies, in Hitler’s concentration camps. Director David Miller’s production (running through Oct. 11^th) features two powerful performances by Victor L. Shopov and Brooks Reeves as the imprisoned men who will be each other’s salvation.  

Zeitgeist is known for its tightly knit, compact productions in the Black Box at the BCA. For BENT they have moved to the comparatively spacious Plaza theater, next to the box space but with the move come some complications. The first scene in Max’s living room makes it seem like a sprawling penthouse. Just using the imaginary bathroom takes precious seconds to get offstage. And placing the decadent, cross-dressed cabaret chanteuse (whom Miller uses for running satirical effect) in front of the apartment space puts “Greta” much too close to the audience.

Some opening weekend jitters distracted from the story early on but by the time Shopov and Reeves are the sole players on stage (except for the Nazi guards), the horror and the beauty of their relationship carries the play toward its chilling conclusion. A lovely performance by Robert Bonotto, as Max’s closeted uncle is one of the pleasures of Miller’s productions. Mikey DiLoreto, too, scores points as the dancer who, like the uncle, thinks the Nazis won’t come for him.

Thomas Grenon is terrifying as the sadistic lieutenant who forces Max to perform unspeakable acts in order to save himself. Shopov’s transformation, in response to Reeves’ luminous humanity, more than makes up for the small production problems. This is a major play which deserves to be seen. The German phrase, “Nie wieder” meaning “never again” serves as both apology and pledge but we know full well that it has happened again, all over the world.

QUICK TAKE REVIEW By Beverly Creasey FAR FAR AWAY

FAR FROM HEAVEN (@ SpeakEasy Stage through Oct. 11^th) is a musical remake of the 2002 Todd Haynes movie of the same name—which itself is an homage/remake of the 1955 Douglas Sirk Technicolor soap opera, ALL THAT HEAVEN ALLOWS (which was also adapted, brilliantly I might add, by Rainer Werner Fassbinder but that has nothing to do with this). They all center round a woman whose “picture perfect” life is turned upside down—who then turns to her gardener for support, thereby scandalizing friends, family and, it seems, the whole world: Certainly, her whole world.

The scandal in the 1955 film stems from the difference in their ages and social positions: The housewife is considerably older and wealthier than the gardener. In the 2002 FAR FROM HEAVEN movie, the scandal is race and social status. I’m swept away every time I see the corny Rock Hudson/Jane Wyman vehicle (Turner Classic Movies loves Sirk) but the musical, alas, just didn’t do it for me. It should have. The book by Richard Greenberg avoids a whitewash of the 1950s. I grew up in the homophobic, racist, republican decade: No picnic if you were poor or gay or African-American. All I can say about the ‘50s is thank God for the ‘60s.

Director Scott Edmiston and music director Steven Bergman have a talented cast to interpret the material but the problem, I think, with FAR FROM HEAVEN is the material. No matter how you approach it, you’re still stuck with Michael Korie’s impossible lyrics. Poor Jennifer Ellis rhapsodizes about “Heaven [having created] Connecticut” and being “sure they broke the mold.” It’s supposed to show her naïveté but it’s so bloody bland and it works against the story. Ditto her dialogue: She wants to go to Florida because everything there is “pink!” Good Lord.

Scott Frankel’s score is so dissonant, I didn’t think I could weather another distorted merry-go-round plunge down the scale. I had high hopes for the song, “What’s it like being THE ONLY ONE” (for the white housewife and the Black gardener) but then they did it to death. Charles Schoonmaker’s period costumes (some more 40s than 50s) are gorgeous, especially the chocolate/mocha/beige cocktail dresses and I got a kick out of David Connolly’s hipster, jazzy “chair” choreography for the guys on a bench outside the office.

For me, the acid test is whether or not other musicals cross my mind while I’m watching. I’m truly sorry to say they did and when Maurice Emmanuel Parent boards the train for a better life in Baltimore, all I could think of was: He’ll meet John Waters and be in a much better musical there.

QUICK TAKE REVIEW By Beverly Creasey Funnier Than Ever

Director Leigh Barrett’s production of the Maltby/Shire revue, CLOSER THAN EVER (playing @ New Rep through Sept. 28^th) soars when the women are front and center. (Barrett has split the songs among two male and two female singers.) The men mostly have the angst ridden and sentimental songs but the women get the plum comic numbers. When you have Barrett and Kathy St. George interpreting the material you’re home free.

Well, not necessarily. A couple of months ago I saw an ill fated production of COMPANY. I could hardly wait for Barrett’s “Ladies Who Lunch.” It’s always the showstopper. I’m sure it would have been, were it not for a sinister sound system which entirely cut out the audio on the “Ladies,” leaving the audience in misery. So here’s kudos for New Rep’s acoustics and their impeccable sound system (something I used to take for granted).

Some of the songs are ho-hum but a few are inspired: Barrett’s cheeky “The Bear, the Tiger, the Hamster and the Mole” is a scientific rundown of the female of the (animal) species, where “the male has control for one moment only,” (and that would be the mating moment). We’re in hysterics even before the song arrives at the ambidextrous oyster who can fertilize her own eggs, thank you very much!

St. George acts the heck out of the not so demure “Miss Byrd” who flies away at lunchtime, unseen, to refresh her, let’s say, enthusiasm for the rest of the workday. And St. George sizzles in her sexy paean to the musicians who play the bass fiddle: She purrs, she scats and she playfully messes with John Styklunas’ hair as he’s accompanying her on base. The incomparable Jim Rice on piano makes the show tick and he even sings a little harmony.

Brian Richard Robinson gets laughs with “What Am I Doing” (up on her roof) as the guy who can’t move on and David Foley gets to tug at our heartstrings with the tender “Fathers of Fathers.” The singers spend a good deal of time pushing Jon Savage’s multiple doors into place or carrying on (what look like) heavy stuffed chairs and I began to worry that someone would pull a muscle. This is, after all, a show about “getting older” and one would hope, wiser than that.

See CLOSER THAN EVER for the ladies who are indeed funnier than ever.

QUICK TAKE REVIEW By Beverly Creasey SWEENEY TODD as EVERYMAN

A SWEENEY TODD without camp? Who knew Sondheim’s exquisite musical had so much to say about the human condition? Director Spiro Veloudos’ SWEENEY TODD (playing @ Lyric Stage through Oct. 8^th) is still Grand Guignol but this Todd is human, a reflection of the sorry state of the world.

I’ve seen a passel of SWEENEY TODDs (It’s my favorite musical) and never once did I consider Todd to be anything but the bogeyman parents invoke to make naughty children behave. Never once did I connect myself emotionally with the “demon barber.” Not once did I feel he was real. The macabre material always felt like fantasy to me—which served to keep the horror at bay. The outrageous humor, too, allowed me to distance myself. Now the musical resonates way beyond Victorian England to our very own “desperate times.”

As I watched, I thought of the Innocence Project: Todd was imprisoned for a crime he didn’t commit. I thought about the corruption which eats through our justice system: The powerful judge in the musical has gotten away with rape and more. Even Ferguson came to mind when the parish officer instructs a policeman to clear the street and “bash” a passerby’s “head” in. And I thought about the depth of Todd’s pain, losing his whole family. When Christopher Chew as Todd discovers too late a loved one’s true identity, you cannot stop his despair from passing across the footlights and into your stomach. Chew makes Todd’s descent into madness the only path he has.

As much as Todd wants to “wish the world away,” it intrudes at every turn. He’s come home from Botany Bay to find his wife and child and instead finds that Mrs. Lovett has kept his razors all these years. Amelia Broom as Mrs. L seduces him into resuming his old profession, lies about his wife and even initiates their cannibalistic partnership. (I had always accepted them as equals before. Now I’m much more keenly aware of Mrs. L’s machinations. What a difference a fresh approach can make!)

Music director Jonathan Goldberg makes Sondheim’s glorious dissonances soar. The singing is enhanced in the intimacy of the small Lyric stage and Janie E. Howland’s black, receding, almost disappearing set piece: The chorus becomes the set, moving about in Franklin Meissner’s foggy purples and muddied reds. Rafael Jean’s dark, layered costumes mirror the hues in Meissner’s lighting.

The singing is superb, with exciting performances all around but special attention must be paid to Phil Tayler as the innocent Toby who slowly realizes that Todd is killing his customers. Tayler makes Toby heroic and that’s a significant change from most productions. Davron S. Munroe, too, makes Todd’s mountebank rival a posturing know-it-all deserving comeuppance.

Sam Simahk and Meghan LaFlam are lovely together as the lovers in peril, at the hands of Paul C. Soper’s evil judge. Every musical number reverberates but I’m still humming the judge and Todd’s “Pretty Women” and LaFlam’s bird song and Simahk’s lovely “Johanna” and marveling over the two quartets. And of course, there’s the inimitable “A Little Priest.”