AMONG THE EIGHT plays (by six different companies) that comprise Philadelphia's ongoing Irish Theatre Festival, three are by Martin McDonagh. It's a special distinction that signals McDonagh has risen to the top of the heap — in popular appeal, certainly, and with many critics, too.

His distinctive mix of dark humor, full-throttle violence and folksiness side-by-side (or, given his propensity for body parts, cheek-by-jowl) with contemporary politics feels right for our disjointed world. And though a couple of McDonagh's more recent plays are not set in Ireland, there remains something profoundly Irish about his sensibility and style.

It would be difficult to imagine anything more Irish than Lieutenant of Inishmore, which may also be McDonagh's most commercially successful play.

In a tiny cottage in small village, Donny mourns the demise of Wee Thomas, the house cat he cares for but is really the special pride of Donny's son, Padraic. (Note to the squeamish: The battered corpse of Wee Thomas is featured prominently on stage, and it's the first of many images that are not for the feint of heart.) But Donny's grief is tempered with fear — Padraic, a gun-toting member of the Irish National Liberation Army, is easily capable of eye-for-an-eye comeuppance, and is likely to unleash unbridled rage at whoever did away with the poor little kitty.

It's not easy to describe Lieutenant, and it's a piece that demands to be seen with all the surprises left intact. So let's leave it at this: The play explores an event and its retribution in a world where family, friendship and world politics are bloody battlegrounds.

Lieutenant is often hilarious, and it's also shockingly gory. McDonagh revels in Tarantino-like excesses, which doubtless has won him many fans, but it also puts off a lot of people (some of them critics). To me, the real brilliance of his work lies in the character writing. These are more than comic archetypes: They are co...]]> http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2011/02/03/david-mamet-race http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2011/02/03/david-mamet-race

Love him or hate him, David Mamet has carved a niche for himself in contemporary American culture. Hell, he's even appeared as himself on The Simpsons. The wonder of it all is that he's done it mainly by pissing people off.

His latest, Race — showcased now in Philadelphia Theatre Co.'s first-rate regional première — evokes his best work (Glengarry Glen Ross, Oleanna) by chewing explicitly and furiously on an issue (the title says it all) while telling a suspenseful story.

Lawyers Jack (Jordan Lage) and Henry (Ray Anthony Thomas) are cut from the familiar cloth of Mamet professional men: ruthless, frank and aphoristic, they (like Mamet himself) waste no time. "Do you know what you can say," bow tie-wearing African-American Henry asks Charles (John Preston), a rich white man accused of raping a young black woman, "to a black man, on the subject of race?"

"Nothing," Charles answers, correctly. But that doesn't stop anyone — including another recognizable Mamet type, the seemingly powerless woman who holds considerable sway over the men (e.g. Speed-the-Plow), young lawyer Susan (Nicole Lewis) — from arguing the delicate issue of race ("like sex," Mamet says, "a subject on which it is near impossible to tell the truth").

Mamet's rat-a-tat dialogue, perfectly paced by director Scott Zigler, often provokes laughter, but we chortle with a dark, rueful, cautiously cynical tone. Take Act 1's curtain line: Susan pronounces, "This isn't about sex, it’s about race," and Jack deadpans, "What’s the difference?" We laugh at their bluntness, cued by their impeccable timing, but the thought lingers. Is it really? Why? Discuss. Debate. Squirm.

Zigler's production excels through its superb cast (Lage and Thomas understudied James Spader and David Alan Grier, respectively, in the Broadway production last season), and Kevin Rigdon's set implies a refurbished building: expensive modern office furniture surrounded by brick walls and steel beams painted white, with an imposed opaque glass entrance. Just like the play, it's not pretty.

Race jabs our media-dulled, politically correct sensibilities with unadorned pragmatism — not only about race, but about law (the legal process is about ...]]> http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2011/01/27/lantern-theater-co-a-skull-in-connemara http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2011/01/27/lantern-theater-co-a-skull-in-connemara

Even before Lantern Theater Co.'s A Skull in Connemara starts, you know you're in Martin McDonagh Land. Is it the large cottage room with fireplace that should look inviting but somehow doesn't? The shabby attempts at creature comfort (record player, pea-green Barcalounger) that just make the place seem sadder? The large crucifix hanging over all of it? Dirk Durossette's superb set has it all, as well as a pickax hanging from the ceiling beams. There's even a graveyard that seems to be swallowing up home and hearth, which pretty much says it all.

You see, Mick Dowd, a sad-sack widower in the tiny community of Leenane in Connemara, Ireland, picks up extra cash by emptying graves from the overcrowded church cemetery, so new occupants can be accommodated. (The clergy are aware of this and mostly look the other way — remember, this is a Martin McDonagh play.) It's a dirty job, and it may be that Mick also has a dirty secret: He was a drunk driver in a car accident that killed his wife, and town gossip has it that there was more to it. Anyway, Mick plows along, willing to mind his own business as long as nobody bothers him. But it doesn't quite work that way. Instead, he suffers interruptions galore. There's Mary, a local busybody/bingo enthusiast, and Thomas, a wily but creepy cop. Most of all, there's Mairtin, the oafish village lad who occasionally works for Mick, and is prone to putting his foot in it — sometimes with shocking consequences.

Skull, the second play in McDonagh's Connemara trilogy, may be the least frequently performed of this wildly popular writer's canon. There's a reason for that — Skull lacks some of the thrust and craftsmanship of his best works, and goes on a bit too long. And of course, Hamlet set rather a high bar for darkly comic depictions of grave-digging.

Still, McDonagh's gleeful excesses are here in abundance. Not exactly the king of understatement, McDonagh is surprisingly modest in his title. I counted at least three skulls here, not to mention bones galore. How those remains are disposed of is a dazzlingly virtuosic display of comedic writing, and here Skull really delivers.

Sometimes life really is like a musical. In 2004, Jeff Bowen and Hunter Bell wrote a musical about two young guys named Jeff and Hunter who write a musical for the New York Musical Theatre Festival. That show about writing a show — called [title of show] — became a pretty big hit. Audiences lapped up the self-referential fun, and loved watching the antics of four friends (Hunter and Jeff, joined by aspiring actress friends Susan and Heidi) trying to make a living at what they love to do. Nothing big happens, but that's the point. [Show] wears its small scale as a badge of honor. "Who says four chairs and a keyboard can't make a musical?" asks the show's campaign slogan.

Through Jan. 30, $25, Upstairs at the Adrienne, 2030 Sansom St., 215-923-8909, mauckingbird.org.

At last, a genuine mind-blowing theater experience. Outside the Live Arts/Fringe festivals, plays like Theatre Exile's That Pretty Pretty; or, The Rape Play seldom happen. Sheila Callaghan's 2009 dark comedy evokes — and provokes — in ways that demand, and deserve, attention.

First, we're in a hotel room — complete with spectacular set, light and video design by Jorge Cousineau — with Agnes (Charlotte Ford) and Valerie (Christie Parker), absurdly hot women who kill a hapless john and pose playfully with the corpse, posing pics for their blog. Callaghan hints at Valerie's feminist agenda, but keeps them endearing through sugar-fueled nattering (Agnes' childlike urges range from peeing on the bed to doughnuts and playing piano) and appearances by circa-1980 Jane Fonda (Amy Smith), channeling her famous angst and activism into workout videos.

Just when we're feeling comfortable — sure, they're murderers, but so funny, and so damn hot — we find ourselves (after a clever live-to-video, video-to-live switcheroo) reliving the same scenario, but with men (Allen Radway as Owen/Valerie, Jered McLenigan as Rodney/Agnes), and it's now a sick misogynistic rampage. Maybe we wonder what this says about us — while, let's face it, getting off on the intensified blood effects.

While Callaghan resists a straightforward narrative, coherent fragments emerge: Owen and Rodney are "real," writing a screenplay based on their experiences and/or fantasies, and their fictional "feminism" is less a portrayal of "the fucked-up shit chicks go through" than a slyly twisted exploration of their own repressed femininity, climaxing outrageously when Owen, donning wig and Agnes' yellow gown, is seduced by an '80s rock star (McLenigan, also bewigged) and then gives birth. Suddenly, the misogyny turns inward: Looking in the mirror, Owen realizes, "She's so pretty I need to bash her."

Where director Joe Canuso's dynamic production takes us — with more Fonda, violence and coarse freaky humor, plus Jell-O wrestling at a formal dinner — is a hyperactive rumination about creativity. Which stories touch us, and why? Owen's film somehow makes Valerie and Agnes dignified and heroic, earning an unseen film festiv...]]> http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2010/12/02/media-theatre-annie-wanda-sykes http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2010/12/02/media-theatre-annie-wanda-sykes

I have a private wish list of star performances I'd kill to see: Bette Midler as Lady Bracknell. Mario Cantone as Willy Loman. But I never dreamed I'd find Wanda Sykes playing Miss Hannigan in Annie — and right in my own backyard, too (OK, at Media Theatre, where she alternates the role with Philly favorite Mary Martello).

Wow. Well, why not? After all, Miss Hannigan, the orphanage director you love to hate, is a droll cameo that welcomes idiosyncratic performers. Also, let's be honest — total immersion into character isn't exactly necessary. (Really, once you've reached the land of tap-dancing orphans, you're not worrying about credibility.)

Yet to Sykes' credit, she doesn't coast on her star persona. Sure, she delivers with her trademark deadpan. But she also works to be a team player, and though her vocal resources are slim, she genuinely sings the songs — more than many Miss Hannigans. Sykes' performance has its peaks and valleys, but you gotta love that she's doing it, and she's quite accomplished in "Little Girls." If ultimately she's upstaged by tiny children and a dog ... hey, that's show biz.

As for the rest of the show — it's Annie. The tunes are infectious, the kids are adorable. The book scenes? They, er, hold the tunes together (and as seen here, they would benefit from a little more energy and speed). Director Jesse Cline's production uses period photos and film — at Sunday's matinee there were some glitches, but several scenes are quite beautiful. Tori Heinlein is a vocally secure and charming Annie, and there's exceptional supporting work from Elisa Matthews (Grace) and Reggie Whitehead (Rooster). Ensemble singing is uniformly good.

Expect that this Annie will do a bang-up business with families — and, of course, the Sykes factor will draw curious adults. (I'm guessing that Mary Martello, who plays Hannigan from Dec. 15 to Jan. 10, may bring more virtuosity to the part, and either way audiences will go home happy.) Through Jan. 16, $54, Media Theatre, 104 E. State St., Media, 610-891-0100, mediatheatre.org.

Holiday theater may start inevitably with A Christmas Carol, but it certainly doesn't have to end there. If Scrooge is what you're after, the Charles Dickens classic plays in various forms all over the area, most notably in family-friendly adaptations at the Walnut Street and Hedgerow theatres, but also as a musical, Scrooged, at New Jersey's Ritz Theatre. My favorite — especially for adults — is Jared Reed's one-man interpretation, ironically re-titled (given that it's the most faithful to Dickens) A Dickens Christmas, also playing at Hedgerow.

Beyond Dickens, December theater falls into two broad categories: shows that celebrate or satirize Christmas, and those that barely reference it at all.

Foremost among the former must be the Walnut Street's mainstage production of Irving Berlin's White Christmas. The title song alone sells the show, but those who recall the 1954 Bing Crosby/Danny Kaye film (if not, catch its 97,000 cable broadcasts this season) know it's not only a cute love story, but a tearjerker about friendship and loyalty.

While the world waits for a new take on Christmas that works as well as It's a Wonderful Life (strangely absent from stages this season), lots of shows provide holiday humor. Flashpoint Theatre Co. brings back David Sedaris' The Santaland Diaries, starring Derick Loafmann as Crumpet, a cranky Macy's elf. Theatre Horizon and Fringe Festival maniacs The Berserker Residents première a family-friendly creation, The Very Merry Xmas Carol Holiday Adventure Show, about a trio of would-be heroes (snowman, red-nosed reindeer and London-town gent) battling the villainous Xmas, who threatens to devour all Christmas tales and the very spirit of the holiday itself. Frankford's Walking Fish Theatre also features a new work, A Fractured Christmas Carol, created collaboratively by professional actors and young performers. The show is directed by Michelle Pauls, who helmed the Fish's Barrymore Award-winning educational production, Of Mythic Proportions.

Foremost among the shows not referencing yuletide glee is People's Light & T...]]> http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2010/11/11/lantern-theater-co-uncle-vanya http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2010/11/11/lantern-theater-co-uncle-vanya "Have I changed much?" asks Dr. Astrov. "How did I get so old?" demands Professor Serebryakov. The community of Anton Chekhov's Uncle Vanya may not be ancient — Astrov is only 40, and Vanya himself is 50 — but they're obsessed with endings. Life's possibilities and promise dwindle as the group experiences, with eloquent wonderment, the slow march toward death.

If this was your family, and you had to spend a hot summer in their company, you'd throw yourself under a train. (I know — wrong Russian literary icon.) But it's Chekhov's genius to make the characters of Vanya not only sympathetic, but entertaining. For nearly three hours, we're gripped by their every concern. We care what happens to everybody, and ride their waves of melancholy.

Vanya is also funny, though finding the right Chekhovian tragicomic balance is famously difficult. At Lantern Theater Co.  much of it is performed for laughs, which pays some dividends early on, but ultimately the play's stature and emotional clout are blunted. Three key performances don't quite work. Peter DeLaurier (Vanya) is a charming actor, but here he undermines himself with vaudeville shtick straight out of Monty Python's Ministry of Silly Walks. Charlie DelMarcelle (Astrov) and Sarah Sanford (Yelena), also gifted actors, both adopt an offhand, sardonic delivery that is absolutely contemporary, and they don't find the necessary sexual chemistry. Sanford in particular is miscast — Yelena may be miserable, but she's meant to be throbbing with life force. Here she's as drab as everybody else. Director Kathryn MacMillan hasn't turned these disparate actors into a cohesive extended family (to be fair, another common problem in Chekhov productions)

In the plus column, there is stellar work from David Howey as a deliciously pompous Serebryakov. And Melissa Lynch is a sympathetic, lovely Sonya; due largely to her, the play's final moments have exactly the mix of sadness and radiance we've been waiting for.

Through Nov. 21, $28-$36, St. Stephen's Theater, 923 Ludlow St., 215-829-0395, lanterntheater.org.

Tarell Alvin McCraney's Run, Mourner, Run worked some powerful magic on me — but how? Why? In many ways, it just shouldn't.

The characters in this hourlong one-act are richly realized in director Matt Pfeiffer's Flashpoint Theatre Co. production, yet nearly all unlikable. Keith Conallen plays Dean, a gay sad-sack mired in a small town by his invalid mother; Brian McCann plays slimy local tyrant Terrell; and Gerard Joseph is his equally ethics-deficient rival, Brown. Terrell bribes Dean to seduce Brown for some good ol'-fashioned blackmail: an ugly, racist, gay-bashing tale.

Adapting Randall Kenan's short story, McCraney maintains the writer's omniscience: Characters slide from third-person description of themselves into first-person action. Narrating events as they occur seems redundant, but this observer's point of view reveals surprising intimacy. A line like "Ray gave a smile that could give a bull a hard-on" vividly nails a passing moment, and description such as "The very air in the room changed color" underscores action as acting (or lighting) simply can't. Distance, paradoxically, brings us closer.

The production around those words works splendidly, too. A terrific ensemble bursts into song snippets that neatly frame the action, and create vivid personalities with few lines. Melanye Finister barely speaks as Brown's Aunt Helen, but hovers ominously, as does Aimé Kelly as Brown's wife, Gloria, who makes the play's difficult ending superbly understated. Jake Blouch and Jonathan Mulhearn are ominously familiar as Terrell's attack-dog sons, and Amanda Grove makes Dean's mother's suffering palpable.

Run, Mourner, Run ultimately soars through Conallen, who bares the aching hollowness in Dean's tawdry soul. Somehow, in this most unreal style of theater, Dean's plight conjures genuine emotion.

Through Nov. 20, $18-$20, Second Stage at the Adrienne, 2030 Sansom St., 215-665-9720, flashpointtheatre.org.

Philly playwright Thomas Gibbons' eighth premiére with InterAct Theatre Co. harks back to an obscure bit of American history in a drama that's surprisingly meaningful today.

Silverhill pits sympathetic characters against each other in 1891 upstate New York, where a 247-person commune practices a "doctrine of perfectionism": no police, lawyers, churches or money "on the authority of Scripture" — in other words, Bible-based communism. Nick Embree's handsome set features huge gates — do they lock out the corrupt outside, or imprison Silverhill's citizens?

Christopher Coucill makes leader Alden a fiery prophet, tall and lean with an Old Testament white beard. His anti-property doctrine extends to relationships, promoting a free love that allows him to sexually subjugate lovely young Tirzah (Jessica DalCanton) while wife Kate (Nancy Boykin) fumes.

Inevitably, Silverhill's youth question their leader. Frank (Dan Hodge) and Tirzah are in love, but exclusivity is forbidden; after Frank defiantly buys Tirzah a brooch in the outside world, Alden orders a "criticism session," essentially a verbal stoning. In Alden's perfect community, rebellion is, conveniently, a sin.

Soon, philosophies clash: communism vs. capitalism, monogamy vs. free love, dictatorship vs. democracy, with fascinating modern parallels. A great cast brings the debate to life in personal, intimate, often humorous performances. Tim Moyer as Tirzah's beleaguered father, Pierce Cravens as a wide-eyed new recruit, and Mary Tuomanen as his comfortably polygamous lover struggle through another disputed American doctrine: evolution. Silverhill must change or die.

The lively debate about divinity and human perfection, and ideas about charismatic leaders and the inevitable lure of anything forbidden...]]> http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2010/10/21/review-jennifer-childs-why-im-scared-of-dance-1812-productions http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2010/10/21/review-jennifer-childs-why-im-scared-of-dance-1812-productions

Jen Childs may be scared of dance, but she's not scared to admit it. She's also not scared to boogie onstage in a gold skintight getup, reliving embarrassing teen dance moments. However, in her autobiographical solo show, Why I'm Scared of Dance, the artistic director of 1812 Productions seems skittish about playing herself.

How can something so personal feel so acted? Scared's familiar one-person-play patter sounds tentative, self-conscious and calculated, with seemingly off-the-cuff comments feeling rehearsed. Sometimes Childs the comedy writer drowns out Childs the human, with tidy punch lines like "Ballet, the Guantánamo Bay of the dance world." True or not, events like the inevitable white-suburban-girl-does-black-urban-dance feel like bits, not life-defining moments.

The production, directed by Harriet Power, is impeccable, with Chris Colucci's clever sound design sampling iconic songs and Shelley Hicklin's lighting defining a nearly bare stage.

Scared begins to coalesce when Childs recounts how she defeats her fears, confessing that "a funny costume hides a multitude of sins." She dances an amazing medley in a clown's baggy pants and red nose, ranging from West Side Story and Fiddler on the Roof to Madonna, Beyonce and Flashdance (choreography by Melanie Cotton, Amanda Miller, Karen Getz and Nichole Canuso). Ironically, the clownish disguise actually reveals Childs' previously absent ability to make nearly any material simultaneously funny and genuine.

Childs inexplicably omits her dance success in Getz's actor-ballets Suburban Love Songs and Disco Descending, finishing Scared with a r...]]> http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2010/10/21/review-brat-productions-carrie http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2010/10/21/review-brat-productions-carrie

Camp is the soufflé of comedy. Not for all tastes (and certainly not hearty fare), it's specialized and delicate. When executed perfectly, the result is indescribably delicious. But unless everything comes together, it's likely to fall flat. And once fallen, it's pretty tough to puff it up again.

Yet Carrie never quite achieves liftoff. The best stuff comes at the end, where the various catastrophes — all of which call for lavish special effects — are re-created on a shoestring budget with laugh-out-loud results. But though Brat Productions director Michael Alltop moves things along and engineers some nifty scene shifts, the show as a whole is (forgive me) slow to ignite, and goes on too long. And as strong as much of the acting is, camp requires a higher level of sustained energy and over-the-top delivery. Ultimately, I'm not sure Carrie itself is quite the right vehicle for this kind of parody — both the novel and the movie are a little too self-aware. But then, that's the ultimate irony of this...]]> http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2010/10/14/arden-theatre-co-threepenny-opera http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2010/10/14/arden-theatre-co-threepenny-opera

What is it about the word "Brechtian" that makes me want to reach for a gun? It's not Bertolt Brecht, certainly, nor his collaborator, composer Kurt Weill.Their work together is brilliant, rooted in complex theory, and artistically and ideologically rigorous.No, my problem with the term is its regular misuse by followers and adaptors, who think "Brechtian" is merely a synonym for "edgy," "in-your-face" or "theatrical" (whatever that means).

Consider Threepenny Opera. It's a play with songs — but not a conventional musical — that is equal parts bourgeois comedy of manners and the darkest of parables. (When Polly Peachum, daughter of a parvenu family, marries the crook and murderer Macheath, her parents are up in arms — it's bad for business.) The famously strange "Mack the Knife" pretty much encapsulates the tone, and it's important to remember the work's cultural context — Threepenny premièred in Berlin in 1928.

At the Arden Theatre Co., Threepenny gets a very snazzy production that on its own is often enjoyable (though overlong).The design work — lighting especially — is sensational. There are many fine bits of stagecraft, and the piece has an impressive sense of cohesion.And filled as it is with sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll, it certainly is edgy.

But where's the beef? This translation by Jeremy Sams and Robert MacDonald is self-conscious and anachronistic, and has blunt force rather than slyness and poetry.(Brecht's original has all of it.) Much of the acting is under-characterized, especially the amiable, TV-ready Macheath.The singing is good, but only Mary Martello (Mrs. Peachum) makes it a genuine extension of character and really relishes the words.By contrast, big numbers for Polly and Jenny, superbly done on their own terms, feel too much like Broadway diva moments....]]> http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2010/10/14/wilma-theater-macbeth http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2010/10/14/wilma-theater-macbeth

I expected a lot from the Wilma Theater's first jab at Shakespeare in 31 years, artistic director Blanka Zizka's "daring new vision" of Macbeth . Certainly the words "daring," "new" and "vision" accurately describe much of the Wilma's work.

But not this time.

While effort to thoughtfully examine the text — much of this Macbeth is clear and well-spoken — is matched by a respect for the play as ghost story and psychological thriller, neither constitutes a consistent or unifying vision, and the play peters out rather than climaxes.

That verbal clarity comes at a price: This Macbeth runs nearly three hours, often sounding over-enunciated and delicately dispassionate. While this approach makes sense — no muddying Shakespeare's verse with emoting — C.J. Wilson's stentorian title character's early moral uncertainty about fulfilling the witches' predictions of his royal ascent by murdering his king just evaporates. Likewise, his Lady's naked ambition stalls in Jacqueline Antaramian's languid performance. Even Shakespeare's blatant comic relief — Ames Adamson's clownish drunken porter — feels indulgently tedious. What at first seems a cautious approach slides into blandness.

The physical production is intermittently impressive but ultimately frustrating. Consider the witches: At first, these "weird sisters" (Nako Adodoadji, Krista Apple and Rachael Joffred) seem like refugees, haunting reminders of modern war's civilian casualties. Zizka makes them supernatural, though, w...]]> http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2010/10/07/theater-review-simpatico-theatre-project-cryptogram http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2010/10/07/theater-review-simpatico-theatre-project-cryptogram

A few sobering facts first: David Mamet, who not long ago was America's angriest young playwright, is now 62. Since the mid-'80s, film has taken up more of his time than theater. And though interviews show he can still fulminate with vigor, his energizing wrath has given way to introspection. Cryptogram, written in 1995, offers Mamet's characteristic tension, but the tone is one of loss, even mourning. A smart but distraught young boy, John, awaits the return of his chronically absent father, who's promised to take him on a camping trip. Meanwhile, John is at home with his mother, Donny, and her male friend, Del, whose relationship is fraught but ambiguous. In fact, not much is clear in Cryptogram, which traffics in dark family secrets, psychological twists and auguries that all is not well.

The play has gripping moments, but we're inundated with so many metaphors, we can't keep track. It's interesting to see Mamet trying out something different, but ultimately Cryptogram doesn't click. Nor is it free of his characteristic flaws. Director Allen Radway's excellent note observes that machismo is at a minimum, but I'm not convinced. The basic setup — a young boy comes unglued when his father abandons him — is all too Mamet-as-usual.

Still, there's some good writing in Cryptogram. Even more, it's clear Radway and his Simpatico Theatre Project believe deeply in the play; they've given it an estimable production that has the right sense of a suburban family eerily drained of vitality. The actors all do well: Janice Rowland traces Donny's growing uncertainty with nuance and sympathy; and Keith Conallen is superb as Del, making the character simultaneously off-putting and endearing. The role of John may be all but unplayable — Mamet wants a 10-year-old boy with the emotional range and language skills of a professional. Here, the very talented Conrad Sag...]]> http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2010/09/30/philadelphia-artists-collective-the-duchess-of-malfi http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2010/09/30/philadelphia-artists-collective-the-duchess-of-malfi

Molière said that for the theater, all he needed was a platform and a passion or two. The Philadelphia Artists’ Collective exemplifies this sentiment with its smart, nasty production of The Duchess of Malfi.

John Webster’s 1619 tragedy, not seen professionally in Philadelphia in more than 100 years, spins a tale rivaling the most lurid HBO series, including assassinations, betrayals, sorcery, madness, ghosts, seduction — even lycanthropy (i.e., werewolves). Charlotte Northeast plays the title character, a widow in love with her steward, Antonio (Adam Altman). Her brothers, Ferdinand (Damon Bonetti) and The Cardinal (Brian McCann), don’t want her to marry again, but she weds Antonio in secret. Her pregnancy can’t be kept mum, though, and the brothers force Antonio into exile and imprison their sister. Focus shifts to Bosola (Jared Michael Delaney), a wily assassin who begins to doubt his royal employers. All culminates in a typically Elizabethan bloodbath.

Director Dan Hodge trims the play to 11 actors, and fills every role with capable professionals: Bonetti’s plunge into madness and Northeast’s soaring emotions play spectacularly, but equally impressive are Delaney’s ethical dilemmas. McCann’s Cardinal oozes officious evil, as does Melissa Lynch as his conniving mistress in a killer red dress. Jake Blouch, Doug Greene, John Lopes, Mort Paterson and Megan Slater bring clear, distinctive roles to life convincingly.

They’re supported by J. Alex Cordaro’s daring fight choreography — no messy blood effects, but harrowingly vivid death scenes — and accompaniment by cellist Steven Duckworth and percussionist David Britton, who underscore scenes with portentous rumblings and mournful accents. Hodge’s staging in the medieval-toned Broad Street Ministry sp...]]> http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2010/09/23/curtains-walnut-street-theatre http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2010/09/23/curtains-walnut-street-theatre

It's a small miracle that Kander and Ebb's Curtains ever made it to Broadway. The original book writer, Peter Stone, died in 2003, before the musical was completed. (Rupert Holmes eventually wrote the libretto, based on Stone's original.) Lyricist Ebb also died while Curtains was aborning. There was reason to fear that the title would be prophetic.

But Curtains did make it to Broadway, and if it didn't quite reach the heights of Cabaret and Chicago (Kander and Ebb's biggest hits), the show garnered favorable reviews, eight Tony nominations (including a win for original leading man David Hyde Pierce) and substantial popular success.

This behind-the-scenes saga dovetails nicely with Curtains itself, a "show must go on" celebration as well as a backstage murder story.It's the late 1950s, and a Broadway-bound musical comedy, Robbin' Hood of the Old West, has just failed spectacularly in Boston, where the final coup-de-grace came when the leading lady died during the opening-night curtain call.Police Lt. Frank Cioffi puts both the theater and its entire company into lockdown, during which he works to solve the crime while offering unsolicited advice on fixing the show.

The best thing about Curtains is its pitch-perfect send-up of a certain kind of second-rate musical (think Destry Rides Again).They were commonplace once upon a time, but have long since disappeared — and Curtains will make you realize how much fun they were.There are also plenty of good jokes, though by Act II they become so convoluted you'll really have to pay attention.And if the songs aren't top drawer, they are tuneful and enjoyable and cover the bases from rabble-rousing ("Show People") to sentimental ("I Miss the Music").

Songs and dances are delivered skillfully at the Walnut Street Theatre, though the book scenes don't...]]> http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2010/09/23/ghost-writer-arden-theatre-co http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2010/09/23/ghost-writer-arden-theatre-co

"I come, I sit, I wait for the words," says Myra with elegant simplicity in Michael Hollinger's fine new drama, Ghost-Writer. In hindsight, this is all we need to know.

Since she speaks to an unseen "debunker" hired by her late employer's suspicious wife, however, Myra clarifies her eerie situation: Novelist Franklin Woolsey (a fictional contemporary of Henry James) dictated his work to her while she typed. After his passing, she continues to take dictation. Does his apparition appear? No. Does she hear his voice? No. Do they converse? No.The words come.

"What is a ghost," she wonders, "but a vivid memory when we least expect it?"

Hollinger's intimate, powerful work — given a superb Arden Theatre Co. production by director Jim Christy — uses supernatural mystery to explore creative inspiration. Where do stories come from? Woolsey channels them from the broiling atmosphere, spinning rich description until the flow suddenly stops — whereupon he waits in silence for it to start again. The source of what Myra types is obviously Woolsey; for him, though, it's ... what? Anyone who's ever created anything — that is, everyone — recognizes something spiritual in this process.

As we mull this question, Myra's story — a continuous monologue illustrated by scenes — unfolds beautifully, with poetry and humor. Megan Bellwoar plays the withdrawn typist wi...]]> http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2010/06/17/fiddler-on-the-roof-walnut-street-theatre http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2010/06/17/fiddler-on-the-roof-walnut-street-theatre

Another Fiddler on the Roof? Sounds crazy. But the little village of Anatevka, as seen on stage at the Walnut Street Theatre, is so full of life that the old show feels newly minted. Fiddler is an icon. For decades, the tale of Tevye, the Russian milkman "blessed with five daughters and a life of poverty" reigned as American theater's flagship celebration of that indomitable Broadway combination, musicals and Jews. Nearly everybody over 40 can sing along with "Sunrise, Sunset." So it's easy to take Fiddler for granted, to forget just how good it really is.

Consider the Bock and Harnick score, so rich in melody and sentiment, or Joseph Stein's book (based on Sholem Aleichem's stories), which by turns is folksy, funny and touching. Then there's Jerome Robbins' flavorful choreography. All these elements work together, including an opening number, "Tradition," that remains the touchstone of how to perfectly integrate story and character, song and dance.

Fiddler works so well at Walnut because everybody is vibrantly engaged. The actors seem exactly the right ages for the characters, which is critical to the multi-generational story (but surprisingly few Fiddler productions get it right). That makes for a Tevye who is more youthful than many, and — dare it be said? — even a little bit sexy. Mark Jacoby relishes every nuance of the character and his music, which he delivers splendidly, with cantorial flourishes. And the Walnut's ensemble is dotted with notable actor-singers (some of them Philly favorites) in powerhouse supporting performances. Among the best are Marcus Stevens' endearing Motel, Ben Dibble's funny Mordcha, Jennie Eisenhower's fabulous Fruma-Sarah and Lee Golden's scene-stealing Rabbi. Special kudos to the fiddler himself, Alexander Sovronsky, a fine musician and vivid stage presence. (The reduced, synthesizer-h...]]> http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2010/06/10/sunday-in-the-park-with-george http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2010/06/10/sunday-in-the-park-with-george

If you think there are no second acts in American lives, Sunday in the Park with George will change your mind. This 1983 show followed the biggest professional disaster in Stephen Sondheim's career — Merrily We Roll Along, a Broadway fiasco that almost ended his collaboration with director Harold Prince. Merrily might have finished off a lesser artist. For Sondheim, it spawned a new collaboration, and a musical that takes on nothing less than the need to create art — whatever the cost. Sunday is more than a great comeback. It's one of the wonders of modern theater.

(CLICK IMAGE FOR LARGER VERSION)

In Act 1, the famous pointillist painter Georges Seurat finishes his masterpiece, A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte, as his life crumbles. Ill health, the end of a love affair with his mistress, Dot, the jeering reception of his colleagues and the critical establishment — none of it will stand in his way. Act 2 brings us to a contemporary museum and a new artist named George (this one is fictional), who cannily achieves what Seurat couldn't — commercial success — but as with his namesake, happiness seems out of reach.

Sunday is a dazzling piece of work that's intellectually rigorous, deeply touching and full of glorious melody. Especially delightful is the clever interweaving of the two stories (where the same actors take on multiple roles), as well as the opportunity to see the artworks come to life.

There's a lot to admire in the Arden Theatre Co.'s visually elegant production, which uses video to revitalize the art. Jeff Coon (the Georges), alwa...]]>