QUICK TAKE REVIEW By Beverly Creasey Another Night in Paradise

There are, I think, only a handful of restaurant plays which serve up memorable characters and genuinely funny dialogue. Add Maureen Cornell and John Shea’s hilarious slice of life comedy (running through April 4^th) to the list. The LIFERS of the title are the veteran cooks, waiters and waitresses who toil under the radar for minimum wage and the promise of big tips.

First, let me testify, having waited tables throughout college, that every word in LIFERS is gospel. In point of fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if the actors in the show had done hard time at a diner somewhere. Customs, culture and food may change, but not the folks in the trenches.

Cornell and Shea pepper the play with a rookie, a crusty cook, plenty of jaded staff, a snotty hostess and just the right amount of turmoil to keep them all busy. The only thing missing is a waiter who’s an out of work actor. What is truly remarkable about director Brett Marks’ production is the intricate timing: The interwoven exits and entrances, not to mention the cross currents of conversation are executed flawlessly. And it looks effortless.

The performers are first rate. Marks gets lovely, quirky performances: from Maureen Adduci as the well seasoned waitress with a sharp tongue, from Peter Brown as the feisty, unflappable cook, from Mikey DiLoreto as the stand up friend to Lisette Marie Morris’ overwhelmed single mother, from David D’Andrea as the poor greenhorn and from Audrey Lynn Sylvia as the universal irritant (who mellows a bit toward the end).

Marc Ewart’s set should be Zagat rated, it looks so authentic. Here’s my tip. Without reservation. See it before the kitchen closes.

QUICK TAKE REVIEW By Beverly Creasey The Ghastly Crunk Tinies

If you’re a fan of Edward Gorey’s wee alphabetical assassinations, then Company One and Suffolk University’s SHOCKHEADED PETER should be on your calendar. The original SHOCKHEADED PETER was a children’s book of verses written in 1845 by German Psychiatrist Heinrich Hoffmann to encourage (read ‘scare’) children into behaving themselves. A mere 150 years later, PETER is turned into a Grand Guignol theater piece for the London stage—with the band The Tiger Lillies signing on to compose a score which makes Hoffmann’s punishments even harsher, immensely creepier and quite Teutonic with their dark Brecht/Weil brand of music.

The current version of SHOCKHEADED PETER (at the Modern Theater through April 4^th) is the brainchild of wunderkind Walter Sickert (and his rock band, The Army of Broken Toys). Sickert’s jaunty, sardonic vocals and playful personality reminded me of Dr. John’s cheeky, laid back keyboard style. (That’s high praise from this Dr. John fan.) Sickert’s orchestrations are the perfect setting for the lethal little vignettes. (And he’s a gifted artist: His intricate, fanciful illustrations take form in SHOCKHEADED PETER as props and puppets.)

The Army of Broken Toys musicians become a vital part of the drama, punctuating the gruesome stories with bells, whistles, toy piano and concertina. They’re a Greek chorus, cheerleaders and a crowd when needed. Imagine Tim Burton’s THE NIGHTMARE BEFORE CHRISTMAS: Now that’s the spirit of SHOCKHEADED PETER, where horrors seem whimsical, even funny.

Director Steven Bogart’s remarkable actors exaggerate their movements (and their faces) so they, as well as the stories, seem surreal. A powerful, maniacal emcee (Alexandria King), channeling Joel Gray from CABARET, leads us through “the darkest recesses of human imagination” where we meet very naughty children--and Jade Guerra and Brooks Reeves as disappointed parents (when the stork brings them a strange Shockheaded baby with long nails borrowed from Edward Scissorhands. They put him out of sight in the basement). You know that every so often, we will hear scratching from below.

 The artistry involved in each little story is what elevates the production: The girl who disobeys her parents and plays with matches wears a costume (by Miranda Giurleo) which cleverly converts to disaster via her petticoats. Flying Robert is whisked into the stratosphere with a wire and pulley system. Letting us see the magic doesn’t detract at all from our enjoyment. Of course, being a vegetarian, I was delighted to see a rabbit get the better of a hunter. And the troupe even gives us a moral to the story. The emcee asks us what’s beneath our floorboards!

QUICK TAKE REVIEW By Beverly Creasey MISADVENTURES ARE THE BEST KIND

THE MISADVENTURES OF SPY MATTHIAS (skulking through April 4^th) is a heartwarming, thigh slapping, eye rolling love story. Scrap that. It’s a flagrantly naughty cautionary tale…Nah. Not unless you are inclined to heed voices from another dimension. I shall try again.

Joe Byers’ hilarious sexual (not to mention ontological) romp is hitched to the perfect production at Theatre on Fire. Terry Torres and director Darren Evans’ satirical projections (engineered by Deirdre Benson) play on three screens above the actors, punctuating and enhancing the madness beneath. Torres and Evans match every demented idea Byers throws at the play with equally absurd animations.

Greg Maraio is simply irresistible as the spy/guy who finds love in all the wrong places. Better make that ‘lust’ (until at long last, love). I laughed and laughed: Mind you, I wanted to stop, for fear of missing the next funny line, but I couldn’t despite myself. (I suspect Nitrous Oxide was somehow involved.)

Each of Byers’ characters seems to have a delightfully preposterous world to inhabit apart from any interaction with Matthias, making you yearn to see them again, rather like the caterpillar or the Cheshire cat in Alice’s Wonderland. I’m still giggling over R. Nelson Lacey’s yodeling, karaoke-loving, marvelously unprofessional physician….or Steve Auger’s brilliantly brazen, foot-whispering shoe salesman.

And I haven’t even touched on Janelle Mills’ two tour de force(s) as Matthias’ crazy, missing mother and his belligerent, gravel-voiced father…or Adam Siladi’s creepy disabled veteran or Michael Ryan’s chronically depressed actor. (Is there any other kind?)

Because Theatre on Fire has burned successfully through ten years, tix are $10 and the laughter is free. Who could resist such a deal?

QUICK TAKE REVIEW By Beverly Creasey NEITHER LIQUID NOR SOLID

My history book says that the first European to set eyes on the Greenland ice cap was Norwegian Fridtjof Nansen in l889. He designed a ship strong and flexible enough to bend under the pressure of moving ice. His revolutionary contribution to scientific exploration is the concept of drifting with the ice instead of trying to break it apart and resist its flow.

Metaphors of ice and water figure starkly in Canadian Nicolas Billon’s enigmatic play, GREENLAND (at Apollinaire Theater Company through March 15^th). Director Meg Taintor’s austere production utilizes three separate actors to tell three distinct—and yet connected—stories about people who fail to communicate, either with nature or with each other. There’s the restless young girl (Charlotte Kinder) whose twin has drowned, leaving her “at sea” wherever she turns. There’s an explorer (Dale J. Young) with frostbite, haunted by waking dreams, whose wife (Christine Power) finds him cold as ice. (Ironically, it’s Power whose story has fire.)

The actors hardly move from their triangulated positions, as if it’s all frozen in place. Billon doesn’t give up his secrets easily so I was drawn to the scenery for meaning: Hanging over the actors is Mattheus Fiuza’s gorgeous sculptural frieze which seemed to undulate like waves of icy water. I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me, as it shimmered in pale blues and greens.

The “sculpture” isn’t at all what it seems to be. It’s not one solid piece, but three or four singular gauzy layers with scalloped edges which “float” in space in front of each other and come to three dimensional life under Danielle Fauteux Jacques’ ingenious lighting. The shapes change as the air in the theater catches them—just like the icecap transforms itself in warming temperatures, leaving its solid form to liquefy into water which will then submerge our land masses, they predict, in record time. Apollinaire is offering several talkbacks on the vital subject of global warming. The next one will be Friday, the 13^th.

QUICK TAKE REVIEW By Beverly Creasey TERRA FIRMA

Ted Tally’s TERRA NOVA (presented by the Flat Earth Theatre @ Arsenal Arts Center through Feb. 28^th) is one of those dark plays of substance, wherein white men prove their mettle by invading or climbing or discovering someplace where “no one has been before.” (Of course they mean no one with pale skin.) The “new territory” in Tally’s play is Antarctica. Poor Captain Scott of the British Royal Navy: He thought the frozen landscape could be claimed for England. Then a Norwegian beat him to it.

That’s all you need to know. The rest is soul searching, some flashback scenes and a great deal of hallucination. I can clearly see why a company of men would love to get their game on with TERRA NOVA. It has lots of juicy parts and oodles of hazards for the actors to negotiate. And the company delivers. National pride, moral rectitude and colonialism all take a righteous hit from Tally: Dying for what you believe in isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

Captain Scott (Chris Chiampa) thinks, dreams and breathes his competition, so much so that Amundsen (Samuel Frank) appears to him in his imagination, taunting him each step of the way. Believe it or not, Scott’s men marched on foot for 1600 grueling miles where Amundsen took along dogs to haul his sleds (and then be slaughtered for food when provisions ran out). Amundsen dismisses Scott’s contention that the Norwegians have engaged in unsportsmanlike behavior: “There’s nothing more dangerous, Amundsen says, “than a man of good intentions.”

The one female role in TERRA NOVA is Scott’s wife, deftly portrayed by Kamela Dolinova. When he turns his thoughts to her, Scott softens and we see his restless, vulnerable side. Chiampa summons bouts of bluster to cover up his fears, where Frank as his rival towers over the Brits, physically and metaphorically.

Director Jake Scaltreto gets lovely ensemble work from his cast. Each man in Scott’s expedition is fully drawn so that we feel we know them individually. James Hayward is the principled physician on the team. Kevin Kordis is the hothead. Robin Gabrielli is so loyal to Scott and England that he makes a foolish sacrifice to keep them on track and an impish Matt Arnold always has a quip to ease another’s suffering. If only there were more evocative plays like TERRA NOVA for a company of women! (Please don’t recommend ON THE VERGE to me. I’m afraid I think it’s deadly.)

  

QUICK TAKE REVIEW By Beverly Creasey Play It Again Sam

Dan LeFranc’s roundelay, THE BIG MEAL (at Zeitgeist Stage through March 7^th), follows two ordinary twenty-somethings, named Sam and Nicole, through courtship (beginning with an impulsive hook up) and marriage to life’s tragic inevitabilities.

The trick in THE BIG MEAL is that different actors portray a character as (s)he grows up, switching at the drop of a hat. It’s a bit confusing at first (and at last) but in between it all makes sense: Little brats may mature to become (more or less) responsible adults but the conversations remain the same over four generations. LeFranc makes the dialogue banal on purpose because (I assume) most conversation is.

This leaves the emotional life of the play up to a director to fill in the blanks. David Miller deftly creates the humor and the depth between the lines, chiefly aided by Peter Brown as a crusty old coot, a feisty in-law and in his most touching turn, as a man facing down dementia. Shelley Brown, too, gives a strong performance as the mother, grandmother and best of all, as a woman alone, looking at a future without a partner. The younger actors play, well…young, which isn’t nearly as interesting as what the older actors get to play. How often does that happen! Of course, that’s from my older, biased perspective.

QUICK TAKE REVIEW By Beverly Creasey TAKE MY PANTS, PLEASE

Sometimes those George S. Kaufman or S. J. Perelman vehicles for the Marx Brothers work like gangbusters. (I could watch A NIGHT AT THE OPERA over and over.) Sometimes they don’t. Sometimes you’re aware of how simplistic the scripts are. Mostly you give yourself over to the shenanigans and laugh at the flimsiest of jokes. For example, Kaufman’s COCOANUTS works chiefly because the Brothers can put it over. When Groucho quips about prison, “Twelve years at Leavenworth or eleven years at twelve-worth,” the groaner is accompanied by his flashing eyes and those painted on house shingles which twitch like brows—and you’re more than happy to give over a giggle or two to that fabulous face.

Robert Brustein and Hankus Netsky’s klezmer musical, THE KING OF SECOND AVENUE, (based on an 1893 novel by Israel Zangwill) reminded me of those Marx Brothers scripts. The new musical (@ New Rep through March 1^st) is shot through with sardonic asides and winks to the audience, like Groucho’s conspiratorial nods, as if to freely admit that the joke is plenty lame. Like those madhouse Marx Brothers movies, Brustein et al owe a considerable debt to the zany crew who deliver the goods, especially Jeremiah Kissel and Will LeBow, who finesse any number of variations on the Henny Youngman standby, “Take my wife, please.” (Substitute fish, pants, daughter, anything you like.) Kissel and LeBow make it dance like Nijinsky.

Brustein moves Zangwill’s trickster, “SCHNORRER” plot to New York City, outside a Yiddish theater which has seen better days. He sprinkles delightful Yiddish phrases throughout (and laboriously explains them) which made me wish he had explained less and demonstrated more. His out of work actors, he tells us, performed Yiddish versions of HAMLET and LEAR back in the day. So why couldn’t we hear a line or two? If only he had trusted that his audience would get it even if they don’t speak Yiddish. (I’ll bet the cadence which is almost identical in Yiddish and English would have tripped the listeners to the familiar Shakespearean speech.)

Director Matthew ‘Motl’ Didner runs his cast from pillar to post to connect the rather thin dots of plot, which have LeBow and the Yiddish actors outsmarting a smarmy movie producer (Kissel at his very best) and talking him out of his money and his pants, not to mention his salmon (all enshrined deliciously in song), thereby bestowing enough cash on LeBow’s daughter (Abby Goldfarb) and her penniless beau (Remo Airaldi) to get married. Alex Pollock, Kathy St. George and Ken Cheeseman add their considerable comic talents to the hilarity.

Although I liked (loved) Netsky’s score a lot more than I liked the book or the lyrics, I have to admit I share LeBow’s generous sentiments when his character pronounces to Kissel, “Against my will, I’m feeling some affection for you.” That I did for THE KING OF SECOND AVENUE...in spite of myself.