Category: Theater

I know someone who once found himself in the awkward situation of having to tell our mutual friends that one of our number had died unexpectedly. That’s sort of the situation that Jean (sad sack Polly Noonan) finds herself in at the top of Sarah Ruhl’s new black comedy. Jean, annoyed by the ringing phone of a neighbor in a cafe, accosts him, only to find that he has expired in the midst of eating his lentil soup. Impulsively, she takes his phone and takes on the responsibility of explaining to Gordon’s callers—for she eventually learns his name—what has happened to him.

There’s some comedy to be found here: we learn that there wasn’t much love in the businessman Gordon (a dyspeptic Rick Foucheux), but yet Jean lies to each of his loved ones that Gordon thought well of each one in his final moments. But that’s not what Ruhl is after. Rather, she’s interested in exploring the alienating effects of technology, as she explains in a program note:

I don’t think we’ve caught up, emotionally, culturally, or physically, to the digital age. We live in an instant culture. But we don’t have instantaneous bodies.

And one of her characters in the play says, more poetically, “We’re all disappearing, the more we’re there.” The sort of business Gordon deals in is a commoditization of the body.

While the first act closes with a beautiful stage picture of paper houses descending from the flies while Polly finds a moment of connectedness, the second act plotting, with its necessity to introduce Jean to Gordon face-to-face, feels forced.

The multiple scene shifts required by this production are managed neatly by Production Stage Manager Taryn Colberg’s crew, who are dressed in suits to match Gordon’s smart three-piece number.

• Dead Man’s Cell Phone, by Sarah Ruhl, directed by Rebecca Bayla Taichman, Woolly Mammoth Theatre Company, Washington

Theater patrons of a certain age will remember Herman Raucher’s slightly scandalous film from 1971, a memoir of sexual awakening and the loss of of a certain kind of innocence. On a New England summer resort island, a stripling teenager (Hermie) becomes infatuated with a young woman (Dorothy) whose new husband has just been called away to war service in the Pacific. In the end, Hermie gets what he wants, but not at all in the way that he imagined it.

Raucher’s sea-breezed bit of sentimentality transfers to the Bethesda stage, and picks up a musical score along the way. Hermie (Ryan Nealy) is appropriately gawky, and Dorothy (Nancy Snow) is bemused, but the play gets its oomph from Michael Vitaly Sazonov’s spring-loaded portrayal of Hermie’s friend Oscy, a hormone-charged adolescent with his older brother’s sex manual.

Harmonies of the period make their appearance in the unmemorable songs, which are not well served by aggressive micing of the vocalists.

• Summer of ’42, book by Hunter Foster, music and lyrics by David Kirshenbaum, based on the novel and screenplay by Herman Raucher, directed by Meredith McDonough, Round House Theatre, Bethesda, Md.

“Don’t believe everything you read in the papers,” is perhaps our take-away from Martin McDonagh’s bitter-bitter black comedy of a fairy tale. It concerns Katurian (the indomitable Tom Story), a writer of bleak children’s stories (nearly all of them for his trunk), who is taken into custody by a pair of brutal Kafkaesque detectives when incidents in his tales begin, lethally, to come true. Most, but not all, of the ensuing violence happens in the mind or offstage. In the end, to protect his addled brother Michal (the engaging Aaron Muñoz), Katurian makes sacrifices of several kinds.

The grim outcome of this play is never much in doubt, and the work’s themes— the writer’s responsibility to his audience (Katurian tries vainly to convince that his stories are just that, that they don’t say anything), the tension between autobiography and creative invention, the preservation of his words after his death—are laid on a bit heavily at times. But the performances of Hugh Nees and Denis Arndt as the two policemen, a Lum and Abner of the Stasi set, are delectable. Nees, as the torturer Ariel, exchanges his customary teddy bear persona for one of clean-shaven malevolence; Arndt, as the so-called “good cop” Tupolski, squeezes out a deadpan sarcasm over a grit sandwich. Tupolski says, “I don’t have a world view. I think the world’s a pile of shit.”

Two of Katurian’s stories are reenacted with Taymoreseque wit by an ensemble of four, while he narrates, and after the second, we begin to think, enough with the stories, back to the plot. But Arndt/Tupolski redeems the trope with his own story, a drowned shaggy dog of a fourth-grade math problem he calls, “The Story of the Little Deaf Boy on the Big Long Railroad Tracks. In China.”

And unlike the best dark tales of Grimm, Lang, or Goose, the play leaves several loose ends. What significance does Katurian’s double name have for us? And why does Michal give Katurian the information that he does?

• The Pillowman, by Martin McDonagh, directed by Joy Zinoman, The Studio Theatre, Washington

Campbell and Columbus strip Dostoyevsky’s novel to its bones, producing 90 minutes of strong theater that zeroes in on the question of human redemption. Using just three actors in a production that recalls RHT’s similarly minimal two-person The Turn of the Screw, it remixes the story of feckless student Raskolnikov—who kills the crabbed pawnbroker Alyona, buries his robber’s booty, and ultimately confesses his crime— into a fractured narrative, one fitted around the biblical story of resurrected Lazarus. Roskolnikov cannot explain the reason for this crime to his friend, the prostitute Sonya, not even to himself, and that is perhaps his defining tragedy. Whether he can step from the grave of his crime into salvation is a question left for us to answer in the lobby.

The production is well-served by Robin Stapley’s set, a tilted disc threatening to spill its one set piece (a perilously trapezoidal chair) forward into the house, like some bleak Cezanne tabletop; the disc is surrounded along its upstage half with irregular lucite panels, slightly reflecting: the whole effect suggests a Hadean hockey rink of the soul. Likewise the show’s music, provided by the Bergonzi String Quartet, establishes the right mood of tension and introspection.

Aubrey Deeker’s shabby übermensch Raskolnikov (he is a stripling Napoleon in a long dirty coat, a Russian Dylan Klebold) evokes the right mix of emotions: sufficient disgust that we might question whether he deserves rebirth, mixed with enough pity that his saving can feel appropriate. The deft mind games played by Mitchell Hébert’s detective Porfiry Petrovich suggest a 19th-century Frank Pembleton. And RHT newcomer Tonya Beckman Ross manages her transitions from confessor Sonya to rebarbative Alyona to slightly daft Lizaveta with grace.

• Crime and Punishment, adapted by Marilyn Campbell and Curt Columbus from the novel by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, directed by Blake Robison, Round House Theatre, Bethesda, Md.

David Greenspan’s witty, very meta, very very literary masquerade of gender deception—inspired by Shakespeare, a venerable Lynn Fontanne vehicle, The Guardsman, and, so help me, Tootsie—gets off to a slightly wobbly start as Alexandra Page (Michael Russotto, a bit swishy but not at all in drag), both playwright and character in her own play, begins to sketch the action for her friend Kay Fein (a butched-up Kate Eastwood Norris). But then, that’s part of the mojo of this 100-plus-minute sprint through cross-dressing and rewrites, as Greenspan explains in a program interview:

I started the play in 1992… When I can back to it in 1999, I began to think that there was nothing wrong with having written myself into a corner—I would simply write myself out of it, but I would keep the mistakes. It’s like a canvas on which an artist has painted over a section; sometimes the underpainting shows through—a pentimento.

So sometimes Kay is an archeologist, and sometimes she is a lighting designer, one who has worked with actresses Alexandra and Alison Rose (Gia Mora, doing her best to fight off a cold last Saturday), Alexandra’s estranged paramour. And sometimes the wayward playwright typist contributes to the laughs: “She’s a treat,” Alexandra says at one point, “No, a threat! It was a typo!” At other times, a character will correct himself, and you can hear subtext and backstory leaking out through the scripted bobbles.

Alison is rehearsing an As You Like It out of town, directed by Hal Stewart (Daniel Frith) as assisted by Eve Addaman (say it backwards) (the pert Jenna Sokolowski). Alexandra concocts an alter ego, “Harry Sampson,” crashes the auditions, and slips into the cast. At rehearsals she encounters her rival Jayne Summerhouse (Norris, again, this time languidly narcissistic) and the not-really-silent Simon Lanquish (Woolly alum Daniel Escobar). Immediately we are lost in the woods of Arden and Shakespeare, who is (in the words of one character), “like a foreign language, not like Chekhov where everything is spelled out.”

Greenspan uses a wild spring mix of literary styles to tell his story. Characters speak their own stage directions. What would ordinarily be the climactic sex farce scene between “Harry” and Alison (with a drunk Simon sleeping in a chair) is related catechistically, à la Ithaca chapter of Joyce’s Ulysses.
Norris plays a showstopping scene with herself as both Jayne and Kay. (Director Howard Shalwitz pulls this scene extremely downstage onto a thrust where row A normally is, the whole framed by an artificial carved-wood proscenium, and witnessed by the other five characters/actors.) And Escobar has an equally strong punctuated monologue, “Who needs a play about…?”, an oxygenated rant about the standing of gay characters in contemporary theater.

Greenspan likewise pays tribute to a broad spectrum of influences: props are given to Irma Vep; when she’s not tearing spike tape with her teeth, Eve plays Gershwin’s “Someone to Watch Over Me” to accompany a scene.

It’s too bad about the poster design for this show, for it doesn’t convey how intelligent (and fun!) this production really is.

• She Stoops to Comedy, by David Greenspan, directed by Howard Shalwitz, Woolly Mammoth Theatre Company, Washington

A powerful, compact, thought-provoking piece of theater: at St. Nicholas Church School in the Bronx, academic principal Sister Aloysius (the heralded Cherry Jones) becomes convinced that the parish priest Father Flynn (genial, robust Chris McGarry) has made inappropriate contact with one of her students. The time is the early 1960s, when the Catholic Church was undergoing the reforms accompanying the Second Vatican Council, taking steps towards accessibility, tolerance, and openness.

Yet flinty Sr. Aloysius, for whom even “satisfaction is a vice,” remains committed to the severities and regimen of the past. She gave up sugar for Lent one year, and when the season was over, forgot to resume the indulgence. She is convinced of Fr. Flynn’s misconduct on the merest shreds of evidence—and yet, she would ask, how much proof is needed when the exploitation of a twelve-year-old boy is at stake?

Fr. Flynn, for his part, answers her from the pulpit with a homily about accusations: as impossible as it is to catch the feathers of a torn pillow scattered to the wind, just so is it impossible to unsay a word of unsupported suspicion. As solid as Aloysius is in her certainly, Flynn finds comfort and a reminder of his own humanity in doubt. Of himself and his blamelessness? Perhaps.

Between the two stands Sister James, a young teacher at the school, played particularly effectively by Lisa Joyce. This is a role that in lesser hands would reveal its structural nature of providing exposition and comic relief, but Joyce gives the role reality. Despite her stated convictions, first on one side and then the other, it’s clear that she remans troubled with her own doubts.

As directed by Doug Hughes, there is a certain judiciousness in the early scenes, which play out for the most part in Aloysius’s cinderblock office and in the plain flower garden that separates the school from the priest’s quarters. Blocking is minimal. Jones keeps her hands bundled inside her habit, so that when she reveals them to ask for support or to make a point, the simple gesture has a lot of punch.

So it feels a little too much when emotions get the better of Flynn and Aloysius and the proceedings culminate in a shouting match between the two.

All around, dialects were sometimes difficult to place, sounding more Boston than Bronx.

But the closing moments of the play are perfectly modulated and genuine.

John Patrick Shanley’s notes to the play include an epigraph from Ecclesiastes 1:18: “…in much wisdom is much grief: and he that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow.”

• Doubt: A Parable, by John Patrick Shanley, directed by Doug Hughes, The National Theatre, Washington