Fall Theatre 2024
Theatre Reviews
Off-Off Broadway
REVIEW
“Poe’s Children”Presented by Permafrost Theatre Collective Days Of The Dead FestivalUnder Saint Marks Theatre 94 Saint Marks Place NYC October 31, 2024Review by KEVIN MARTIN
CAST: Jessica Banegas, Mariela Flor Olivo, Riley MacMillan, Mike Newman, and Charlotte Vaughn Raines; DIRECTOR: Christina Rose AshbyORIGINAL MUSIC: Thomas Burns ScullyASST. DIR.: Becca Canziani STAGE MGR.: Taylor Thomson
In this outing, the music by Thomas Burns Scully (far upstage corner) on a guitar emitted the exact, right mood, giving the evening atmosphere vibes that were perfectly suited for the occasion. For “Poe’s Children”, all the actors fared quite nicely in this less-than-one-hour staging in the East Village. The overall performance on Sunday, October 27 was well put and kept the audience’s – full house - attention. Collectively, the cast paid a dramatic homage to Edgar Allan Poe by way of selected passages and pieces of the great man’s haunting, romantic oeuvre, such as: Spirits of the Dead (1829), Thew Village Street (attributed, 1845), Alone (1875 posthumously), Israfel (1831), Imitation (1827), Annabel Lee (1849), A Dream Within a Dream 1850, posthumously), and For Annie (1849), all were acted out in various ways, as with onstage song and music by Mariela Flor Olivo who sang quite movingly the whole poem of “Annabel Lee”, with her own guitar in hand, and joined in by a tableaux acting out its fateful story – a bit of business that could have weakened the effort. While some of the physical movement/choreography seemed awkward, the performance of all the members of the group was, for the most part, really very good in their (assigned?) roles – along with the crisp and brightly acted contributions by Riley McMillan and Jessica Banegas, respectively.But for characterizations, the performers had no onstage names, and it was not clear why that was the case. Were they all performing as themselves? Was this part of the director’s vision? Perhaps so, for the website Permafrost Theatre page indicates “We Tell Stories”. That said, “Poe’s Children” was worth the visit.
In this outing, the music by Thomas Burns Scully (far upstage corner) on a guitar emitted the exact, right mood, giving the evening atmosphere vibes that were perfectly suited for the occasion. For “Poe’s Children”, all the actors fared quite nicely in this less-than-one-hour staging in the East Village. The overall performance on Sunday, October 27 was well put and kept the audience’s – full house - attention. Collectively, the cast paid a dramatic homage to Edgar Allan Poe by way of selected passages and pieces of the great man’s haunting, romantic oeuvre, such as: Spirits of the Dead (1829), Thew Village Street (attributed, 1845), Alone (1875 posthumously), Israfel (1831), Imitation (1827), Annabel Lee (1849), A Dream Within a Dream 1850, posthumously), and For Annie (1849), all were acted out in various ways, as with onstage song and music by Mariela Flor Olivo who sang quite movingly the whole poem of “Annabel Lee”, with her own guitar in hand, and joined in by a tableaux acting out its fateful story – a bit of business that could have weakened the effort. While some of the physical movement/choreography seemed awkward, the performance of all the members of the group was, for the most part, really very good in their (assigned?) roles – along with the crisp and brightly acted contributions by Riley McMillan and Jessica Banegas, respectively.But for characterizations, the performers had no onstage names, and it was not clear why that was the case. Were they all performing as themselves? Was this part of the director’s vision? Perhaps so, for the website Permafrost Theatre page indicates “We Tell Stories”. That said, “Poe’s Children” was worth the visit.
======== Off-Broadway
"Philadelphia, Here I Come" at the Irish Repertory Theatre
===================
Irish Rep presents “Philadelphia, Here I Come”, by Brian Friel, directed by Ciaran O’Reilly. Showing until May 5, 2024. (“P,H-I-C” is one of many plays in The Friel Project)
Irish Repertory Theatre 132 West 22nd Street NYC; Tix: 212-727-2737 Review by Kevin Martin
This particular "Philadelphia, Here I Come" production is about as perfect as stage work can get, joined in with utterly fine scenic design by Charlie Corcoran, costumes by Orla Long, Sound and Music by Ryan Rumery and M. Florian Staab, lights by Michael Gottlieb, When Madge the assiduous housekeeper (played with smart, luminous simplicity by the excellent Terry Donnelly) enters the dining area of the O’Donnell household, circa 1962, all is a place of domestic quiet. But just as she has finished setting the table – and calling out for young Gar with “Gar, your tea” !, - this young Gareth O’Donnell is already in plain sight, marching through the space and ecstatically belting out, ala Al Jolson, “’Philadelphia’, Here I Come, Right Back Where I Started From ...! Simply put, in “Philadelphia, Here I Come”, we discover playwright Brian Friel’s “public” Gar on full display, the Gar which is distinctly presented apart from the play’s “private” Gar, and as such, each part is effectively played by David McElwee and A.J. Shively, respectively. This is a kind of coming-of-age story where dreams are grand and hopes spring eternal. It is in a town called Ballybegg, in County Donegal, 60+ years ago, in which public Gar – about 25 in age - exhibits all the bursting energy of migrant expectations as to the making of a journey to promised-land America. The ensuing exchanges of mental chit-chat that occur regularly between the Public and Private Gars (2 wisely dramatized halves of the same conflicted character in search of himself) reflect an under-the-surface yearning for love from his/their truly taciturn, small businessman father, “S. B.”, played with a fantastic paternal aloofness by Ciaran O’Reilly. (O’Reilly also directed this production with just the right deftness and pacing). The play - with its stellar cast, no one excepted - might be asking us: what motivation prods a young person to leave home, family, and town and go out to seek a newer, and hopefully a better world? It takes many things of course. Things like general disillusionment, economic interest or need, a desire for a valuable professional career of some kind, an individual search for a fresh emotional something that waits elsewhere, yet to be – if ever, realized. Gar, motherless since his earliest infancy, does not feel loved by his unintimate, distant father. In moments of uncertainty and daring, Private Gar (the truest, inner self) is right nearby to praise, cajole, warn. The intelligent, caring Madge herself has been a sort of mother figure to Gar, for she knows him well. Gar’s own mother, Maire, died a mere 3 days after he was born – though decades later her spirit somehow fills the air inside the O’Donnell house. Nowadays, Gar senses positively well what his mother may have been like as a person – thanks to any recollections of Maire that Madge has shared. As well, when Maire's very buoyant, energetic sister Lizzy (already settled in Philadelphia years prior) stops by the O’Donnell house in Ballybeg for a family visit, Gar is as inspired as ever, wanting very much to come to Philadelphia and live with her, - at least for a while. It feels apparent that anybody who recalls the late Maire would likely say that she and Lizzy had very similar personality traits. The ending is crisp and believable. Earlier in that final part – Private Gar urges Public Gar to stay clear and open: “It’s the silence that’s the enemy”. Briefly, Public Gar and S.B. talk openly to each other about earlier days when he was just a lad – when father and son together enjoyed fishing on the lake, a good moment for bonding. The bond seemed to have lessened over time, interrupted by the burdens of life. But for a brief, promising moment they both cheerily reminisce. How nice it was. "TRANSLATIONS" Review by KEVIN MARTIN - Dec., 2023 “Translations”, now set up and blazingly alive (and extended until Dec. 31) at the Irish Rep at 132 West 22nd Street, is one of Irish playwright Brien Friel’s masterful, full-length works (excellently staged by the astute Doug Hughes) and it does not disappoint. Learning to know and understand it in its entirety may well be a herculean challenge for some, what with the time, location, and historical (painful too) elements given to make the story of ordinary people living in a remote place to simply hit us in our imagination with its sudden timeliness of here and now. The information in “Translations” is dense but rich for reflection. The story takes place in 1833 pre-famine, Britain-dominated Ireland in a humble and small place called “Baile Beag” – the spelling of which soon becomes Anglicized (read “standardized”) to “Ballybeg”. Ireland’s own developed culture, identity, and language are at full risk here of being ruthlessly disrupted by the Crown, only to be superseded with new (English language) applications to establish further imperial control over the land. (Does this seem familiar)? The basic details – and conflicts - of this mapping change up are lived out in the collective experience of Ballybeg’s townfolk. British authorities intend to change the spelling of all the names of all the towns and cities and that’s deep stuff indeed. The identifiable consequences of such a clear act of oppression include the harsh political and social burdens (e.g., lack of self-governance and increasingly low living standards, respectively) that are imposed on the Irish people and managed by British colonizers. All this, over time, led ignobly to this very distinct race of Irish people having to continue to live in their own native land under the yoke of outside rule, and done with a bitter control so as to keep a tight lid on violence.
Keeping in mind that Friel is reported to have said that this is “a play about language and only language”, one sees how so-called hedge schools (small, secret gatherings for Irish and religious learning that were outlawed by the British) served as a feature in this identity-sovereignty struggle. This daily, conflicting experience is acted by the locals of Baile Beag as they sort through these living challenges in the shadow of British imperial overlords. Depicting these challenges can bring to mind what Boo Sujiwaro wrote for Medium in 2021; in his article, “Anglicisation as Linguistic Violence: Brian Friel’s ‘Translations’ and the Question of Cultural Identity — A Literary Analysis” he suggests that language is not intrinsically linked to cultural identity; rather, ‘It is our (kind of) response to mud cabins and a diet of potatoes; our only method of replying to… inevitabilities’". It’s a fascinating, if sometimes wearying examination of a people being colonized through nonviolent means, namely by gradually replacing the native language with a foreign one. That’s what British officer Lieutenant Yolland (Raffi Barsoumian) has been instructed to do by his boss, the stern Captain Lancey (Rufus Collins), when he is sent to Ballybeg to Anglicize the region’s Irish placenames. Yolland is accompanied by Owen (Seth Numrich), a former resident of the town who has returned to serve as a translator. And so the entire machinery of the ruling powers that be was in full (imperial) function throughout the Irish land. Within this physical atmosphere of such happenings in Ballybeg reside some other human beings, all forciby placed under a daunting, quotidian squeeze-out of their rightful needs and aspirations. Character examples here are reflected in performances by Mary Wiseman as the bright-eyed Maire looking to go to America someday; John Keating as Jimmy Jack, a high-octane lover and chanter of ancient god and goddess things Greek and Roman, including the wonder woman of wisdom herself , Athena
Irish Repertory Theatre 132 West 22nd Street NYC; Tix: 212-727-2737 Review by Kevin Martin
This particular "Philadelphia, Here I Come" production is about as perfect as stage work can get, joined in with utterly fine scenic design by Charlie Corcoran, costumes by Orla Long, Sound and Music by Ryan Rumery and M. Florian Staab, lights by Michael Gottlieb, When Madge the assiduous housekeeper (played with smart, luminous simplicity by the excellent Terry Donnelly) enters the dining area of the O’Donnell household, circa 1962, all is a place of domestic quiet. But just as she has finished setting the table – and calling out for young Gar with “Gar, your tea” !, - this young Gareth O’Donnell is already in plain sight, marching through the space and ecstatically belting out, ala Al Jolson, “’Philadelphia’, Here I Come, Right Back Where I Started From ...! Simply put, in “Philadelphia, Here I Come”, we discover playwright Brian Friel’s “public” Gar on full display, the Gar which is distinctly presented apart from the play’s “private” Gar, and as such, each part is effectively played by David McElwee and A.J. Shively, respectively. This is a kind of coming-of-age story where dreams are grand and hopes spring eternal. It is in a town called Ballybegg, in County Donegal, 60+ years ago, in which public Gar – about 25 in age - exhibits all the bursting energy of migrant expectations as to the making of a journey to promised-land America. The ensuing exchanges of mental chit-chat that occur regularly between the Public and Private Gars (2 wisely dramatized halves of the same conflicted character in search of himself) reflect an under-the-surface yearning for love from his/their truly taciturn, small businessman father, “S. B.”, played with a fantastic paternal aloofness by Ciaran O’Reilly. (O’Reilly also directed this production with just the right deftness and pacing). The play - with its stellar cast, no one excepted - might be asking us: what motivation prods a young person to leave home, family, and town and go out to seek a newer, and hopefully a better world? It takes many things of course. Things like general disillusionment, economic interest or need, a desire for a valuable professional career of some kind, an individual search for a fresh emotional something that waits elsewhere, yet to be – if ever, realized. Gar, motherless since his earliest infancy, does not feel loved by his unintimate, distant father. In moments of uncertainty and daring, Private Gar (the truest, inner self) is right nearby to praise, cajole, warn. The intelligent, caring Madge herself has been a sort of mother figure to Gar, for she knows him well. Gar’s own mother, Maire, died a mere 3 days after he was born – though decades later her spirit somehow fills the air inside the O’Donnell house. Nowadays, Gar senses positively well what his mother may have been like as a person – thanks to any recollections of Maire that Madge has shared. As well, when Maire's very buoyant, energetic sister Lizzy (already settled in Philadelphia years prior) stops by the O’Donnell house in Ballybeg for a family visit, Gar is as inspired as ever, wanting very much to come to Philadelphia and live with her, - at least for a while. It feels apparent that anybody who recalls the late Maire would likely say that she and Lizzy had very similar personality traits. The ending is crisp and believable. Earlier in that final part – Private Gar urges Public Gar to stay clear and open: “It’s the silence that’s the enemy”. Briefly, Public Gar and S.B. talk openly to each other about earlier days when he was just a lad – when father and son together enjoyed fishing on the lake, a good moment for bonding. The bond seemed to have lessened over time, interrupted by the burdens of life. But for a brief, promising moment they both cheerily reminisce. How nice it was. "TRANSLATIONS" Review by KEVIN MARTIN - Dec., 2023 “Translations”, now set up and blazingly alive (and extended until Dec. 31) at the Irish Rep at 132 West 22nd Street, is one of Irish playwright Brien Friel’s masterful, full-length works (excellently staged by the astute Doug Hughes) and it does not disappoint. Learning to know and understand it in its entirety may well be a herculean challenge for some, what with the time, location, and historical (painful too) elements given to make the story of ordinary people living in a remote place to simply hit us in our imagination with its sudden timeliness of here and now. The information in “Translations” is dense but rich for reflection. The story takes place in 1833 pre-famine, Britain-dominated Ireland in a humble and small place called “Baile Beag” – the spelling of which soon becomes Anglicized (read “standardized”) to “Ballybeg”. Ireland’s own developed culture, identity, and language are at full risk here of being ruthlessly disrupted by the Crown, only to be superseded with new (English language) applications to establish further imperial control over the land. (Does this seem familiar)? The basic details – and conflicts - of this mapping change up are lived out in the collective experience of Ballybeg’s townfolk. British authorities intend to change the spelling of all the names of all the towns and cities and that’s deep stuff indeed. The identifiable consequences of such a clear act of oppression include the harsh political and social burdens (e.g., lack of self-governance and increasingly low living standards, respectively) that are imposed on the Irish people and managed by British colonizers. All this, over time, led ignobly to this very distinct race of Irish people having to continue to live in their own native land under the yoke of outside rule, and done with a bitter control so as to keep a tight lid on violence.
Keeping in mind that Friel is reported to have said that this is “a play about language and only language”, one sees how so-called hedge schools (small, secret gatherings for Irish and religious learning that were outlawed by the British) served as a feature in this identity-sovereignty struggle. This daily, conflicting experience is acted by the locals of Baile Beag as they sort through these living challenges in the shadow of British imperial overlords. Depicting these challenges can bring to mind what Boo Sujiwaro wrote for Medium in 2021; in his article, “Anglicisation as Linguistic Violence: Brian Friel’s ‘Translations’ and the Question of Cultural Identity — A Literary Analysis” he suggests that language is not intrinsically linked to cultural identity; rather, ‘It is our (kind of) response to mud cabins and a diet of potatoes; our only method of replying to… inevitabilities’". It’s a fascinating, if sometimes wearying examination of a people being colonized through nonviolent means, namely by gradually replacing the native language with a foreign one. That’s what British officer Lieutenant Yolland (Raffi Barsoumian) has been instructed to do by his boss, the stern Captain Lancey (Rufus Collins), when he is sent to Ballybeg to Anglicize the region’s Irish placenames. Yolland is accompanied by Owen (Seth Numrich), a former resident of the town who has returned to serve as a translator. And so the entire machinery of the ruling powers that be was in full (imperial) function throughout the Irish land. Within this physical atmosphere of such happenings in Ballybeg reside some other human beings, all forciby placed under a daunting, quotidian squeeze-out of their rightful needs and aspirations. Character examples here are reflected in performances by Mary Wiseman as the bright-eyed Maire looking to go to America someday; John Keating as Jimmy Jack, a high-octane lover and chanter of ancient god and goddess things Greek and Roman, including the wonder woman of wisdom herself , Athena
Herein Gods and Mortals Clash!
"The Half-God Of Rainfall" New York Theatre Workshop
===================
New York Theatre WorkshopReview by - Kevin M. MartinAugust 15, 2023
If there is one play anywhere in NYC during these dwindling weeks of summer that ought to summon the enjoyment of intelligent ticket-holders (hello, out there?), then the brilliant acting and striking production values that shine within this finely staged epic production should resonate well after leaving the theatre. Done as a sort of workshop motif - albeit very persuasively, with actors self-describing their characters directly to the audience - "The Half-God Of Rainfall" moves rather provocatively due to its eventual, overall unity of effect, allowing it all to come together, section by section. While not exactly perfect, it gets awfully close (perhaps the script could be slighlty trimmer). But THGOR moves along at good speed nonetheless, and it sticks to the memory for all who pay attention. And yes, attention should be paid. Nigerian-born British playwright and poet Inua Ellams (author of the successfully produced play, "Barber Shop Chronicles" at the UK's National Theatre) skillfully demonstrates a craft of both dramatic and tragi-comic storytelling and poetry as he mixes Greek and Yoruban mythology with very contemporary living. With a positively clear direction by Taibi Magar, Ellams manages to pull it off. Weaving together these elements (storytelling and poetry), THGOR tells us a tale of our half-god, Demi (acted bravely by Mister Fitzgerald); Demi did not have a very cheerful childhood; but, loving basketball, he grows to be very physically, athletically blest. In THGOR, Demi becomes an athlete of grand ability and aspiration ala Michael Jordan style and influence (who could be a mightier "flying" god-like sports hero than MJ)? Demi, it turns out, is a modern, or contemporary child version born into the world from violent rape by the god Zeus, shown as an ultimate authority symbol of expoitative power and imperialistic abuse toward powerless innocents. (Here, Zeus is played with a cold, righteous entitlement by Michael Lurence). Zeus's crime impregnated Demi's Nigerian priestess mother, Modúpé; apart from cold-blooded murder, is anything more evil than cold-blooded rape? To get away from it all (it ain't easy being victimized and stigmatized by rape), Demi is taken away from his Nigerian youth by his mother and brought to the USA where he will hook up with the Golden State Warriors (yes, those Golden State Warriors), of which the great mortal athletes themselves are god-like in their basketball prowess. Perhaps, somehow or in some way, Demi will now help restrieve his whole personhood and that of his mother by avenging the pain and abuse thrust upon them by Zeus? Modúpé - acted impressively by Jennifer Mogbok - is a single mom violated, though noble and courageous, as she truthfully, and with raw will, succeeds near play's end at sharing a powerful and disturbing memory of the past violence she endured. It is a moment of absolute, sheer anti-oppression condemnation.
In the smart overall mix of THGOR, there is Hera (well acted by Kelley Curran) as Zeus's wife. She, too, clearly has her reasons for bitterness. Here you will also meet Sàngó, Nigerian god of thunder (and ego-enemy to Zeus, watch out!), very ably put by Jason Bowen.
We also encounter the Nigerian deieties who bring forth the larger narration with a chorus sensibility. Early on, we meet both Elegba (Lizan Mitchell, who grabs our attention from the start) and Ozun (a radiant, articulate Patrice Johnson Chevannes all garbed in bright, brazen blue); each helps to narrate the eventual rise of Demi into the magic sportmosphere.
Throughout THGOR, witness the bold imagery of ancient Greek warrior-gods intermittently reflected in a huge semi-circle - as well as the swampy, rich, dirt ground surface along with real rainfall (thank you very much), - exquiste choices of scenic design; original stage lighting by Stacey Derosier is memorable and works perfectly.Effective scenic design as well as sound design come from Riccardo Hernández and Mikaal Sulaiman, respectively; Linda Cho gives costume design a wonderful fit. Projection design by Tal Yarden and stage movement by Beatrice Capote deserve praise. Above (excellent) photo is from Joan Marcus
There is much to appreciate and learn from this approximately 95 minute intermissionless work. Too bad it can't run another 6 weeks.
New York Theatre Workshop79 East 4th StreetNY, NY 10003
Tel. 212-460-5175tickets@nytw.org
If there is one play anywhere in NYC during these dwindling weeks of summer that ought to summon the enjoyment of intelligent ticket-holders (hello, out there?), then the brilliant acting and striking production values that shine within this finely staged epic production should resonate well after leaving the theatre. Done as a sort of workshop motif - albeit very persuasively, with actors self-describing their characters directly to the audience - "The Half-God Of Rainfall" moves rather provocatively due to its eventual, overall unity of effect, allowing it all to come together, section by section. While not exactly perfect, it gets awfully close (perhaps the script could be slighlty trimmer). But THGOR moves along at good speed nonetheless, and it sticks to the memory for all who pay attention. And yes, attention should be paid. Nigerian-born British playwright and poet Inua Ellams (author of the successfully produced play, "Barber Shop Chronicles" at the UK's National Theatre) skillfully demonstrates a craft of both dramatic and tragi-comic storytelling and poetry as he mixes Greek and Yoruban mythology with very contemporary living. With a positively clear direction by Taibi Magar, Ellams manages to pull it off. Weaving together these elements (storytelling and poetry), THGOR tells us a tale of our half-god, Demi (acted bravely by Mister Fitzgerald); Demi did not have a very cheerful childhood; but, loving basketball, he grows to be very physically, athletically blest. In THGOR, Demi becomes an athlete of grand ability and aspiration ala Michael Jordan style and influence (who could be a mightier "flying" god-like sports hero than MJ)? Demi, it turns out, is a modern, or contemporary child version born into the world from violent rape by the god Zeus, shown as an ultimate authority symbol of expoitative power and imperialistic abuse toward powerless innocents. (Here, Zeus is played with a cold, righteous entitlement by Michael Lurence). Zeus's crime impregnated Demi's Nigerian priestess mother, Modúpé; apart from cold-blooded murder, is anything more evil than cold-blooded rape? To get away from it all (it ain't easy being victimized and stigmatized by rape), Demi is taken away from his Nigerian youth by his mother and brought to the USA where he will hook up with the Golden State Warriors (yes, those Golden State Warriors), of which the great mortal athletes themselves are god-like in their basketball prowess. Perhaps, somehow or in some way, Demi will now help restrieve his whole personhood and that of his mother by avenging the pain and abuse thrust upon them by Zeus? Modúpé - acted impressively by Jennifer Mogbok - is a single mom violated, though noble and courageous, as she truthfully, and with raw will, succeeds near play's end at sharing a powerful and disturbing memory of the past violence she endured. It is a moment of absolute, sheer anti-oppression condemnation.
In the smart overall mix of THGOR, there is Hera (well acted by Kelley Curran) as Zeus's wife. She, too, clearly has her reasons for bitterness. Here you will also meet Sàngó, Nigerian god of thunder (and ego-enemy to Zeus, watch out!), very ably put by Jason Bowen.
We also encounter the Nigerian deieties who bring forth the larger narration with a chorus sensibility. Early on, we meet both Elegba (Lizan Mitchell, who grabs our attention from the start) and Ozun (a radiant, articulate Patrice Johnson Chevannes all garbed in bright, brazen blue); each helps to narrate the eventual rise of Demi into the magic sportmosphere.
Throughout THGOR, witness the bold imagery of ancient Greek warrior-gods intermittently reflected in a huge semi-circle - as well as the swampy, rich, dirt ground surface along with real rainfall (thank you very much), - exquiste choices of scenic design; original stage lighting by Stacey Derosier is memorable and works perfectly.Effective scenic design as well as sound design come from Riccardo Hernández and Mikaal Sulaiman, respectively; Linda Cho gives costume design a wonderful fit. Projection design by Tal Yarden and stage movement by Beatrice Capote deserve praise. Above (excellent) photo is from Joan Marcus
There is much to appreciate and learn from this approximately 95 minute intermissionless work. Too bad it can't run another 6 weeks.
New York Theatre Workshop79 East 4th StreetNY, NY 10003
Tel. 212-460-5175tickets@nytw.org
"We Were Promised Honey"
===================
Review by KEVIN MARTIN "we were promised honey"! by Sam Ward; from Brits Off Broadway; YESYESNONO Productions - until May 21 - produced at 59E59 TheaterWriter/Actor Sam Ward gives us a good look at ourselves in a one-man stage (no caps) creation: "we were promised honey"!
Sam Ward sits pre-show, pre-set quietly in an audience corner seat as theater goers arrive in dim light, while an actual audio airport ground control recording of very plaintive concerns that occurred one summer day in 2018 is piped in - giving us to hear the voices of flight aviation personnel discussing and alarming the action of a quite suddenly up-in-the-air baggage handler (the late Richard Russell), who had just absconded from the runway to the skies - in plain sight - with an empty Alaska Airlines aircraft. This is the show's starting prompt that weaves into a larger moment on the wonderings about our human futures. Ward is casually attired in a white t-shirt, plain slacks and is himself ready for take-off. He keeps everyone involved. This crisp monologue of 65 synchronized minutes is an existentialist, reflective (and very effective) offering of sorts - by the actor Ward cooly posing as part prophet, part preacher and part social counselor. In his very intelligent, theatrical oration on the modern condition, he does away with any fourth wall, and instead invites a few 59E59 audience members to participate in his proposed view of the long-term fate of our human species; like the atmosphere in this square space, it is a dim view - one that is also ultimately doomed to a sun burnout that will take place a few billion years from now. That said, he suggests that, meanwhile, amid the warming planet will be the comings of great into-the-clouds tall towers of "office blocks" along with eerie down-under-inside- the-earth shopping centers that hawk "mini-fridges and freezers", perhaps for the much needed comfort of future mankind - somehow, but all of it indicating a very clinical, soulless world; such features upon a barren earthscape would be commonplace. Ward's thought out darkish challenge: humaniity is in something of a downward spiral much of the time, though maybe not all of the time. His function is of a carny barker of the spirit.My sense is that Ward proffers us a reminder - urged by his own vision - to anyone involved in the listening (and it's all about the listening) that this life in general is frightfully possessed of a woeful destiny awaiting us - one that is clearly inevitable. But is it a terrible destiny? (By nature, each audience member has the freedom to ponder Ward's messaging). Interestingly, this did not feel like depressing stuff, but rather an imagination born of a lively, human insight on open display, worthy of, and beckoning, our common attention and concern. We all know that the strongest oak will fall, but maybe it's good to be reminded. And as per the title, the future may not be so sweet.
Sam Ward sits pre-show, pre-set quietly in an audience corner seat as theater goers arrive in dim light, while an actual audio airport ground control recording of very plaintive concerns that occurred one summer day in 2018 is piped in - giving us to hear the voices of flight aviation personnel discussing and alarming the action of a quite suddenly up-in-the-air baggage handler (the late Richard Russell), who had just absconded from the runway to the skies - in plain sight - with an empty Alaska Airlines aircraft. This is the show's starting prompt that weaves into a larger moment on the wonderings about our human futures. Ward is casually attired in a white t-shirt, plain slacks and is himself ready for take-off. He keeps everyone involved. This crisp monologue of 65 synchronized minutes is an existentialist, reflective (and very effective) offering of sorts - by the actor Ward cooly posing as part prophet, part preacher and part social counselor. In his very intelligent, theatrical oration on the modern condition, he does away with any fourth wall, and instead invites a few 59E59 audience members to participate in his proposed view of the long-term fate of our human species; like the atmosphere in this square space, it is a dim view - one that is also ultimately doomed to a sun burnout that will take place a few billion years from now. That said, he suggests that, meanwhile, amid the warming planet will be the comings of great into-the-clouds tall towers of "office blocks" along with eerie down-under-inside- the-earth shopping centers that hawk "mini-fridges and freezers", perhaps for the much needed comfort of future mankind - somehow, but all of it indicating a very clinical, soulless world; such features upon a barren earthscape would be commonplace. Ward's thought out darkish challenge: humaniity is in something of a downward spiral much of the time, though maybe not all of the time. His function is of a carny barker of the spirit.My sense is that Ward proffers us a reminder - urged by his own vision - to anyone involved in the listening (and it's all about the listening) that this life in general is frightfully possessed of a woeful destiny awaiting us - one that is clearly inevitable. But is it a terrible destiny? (By nature, each audience member has the freedom to ponder Ward's messaging). Interestingly, this did not feel like depressing stuff, but rather an imagination born of a lively, human insight on open display, worthy of, and beckoning, our common attention and concern. We all know that the strongest oak will fall, but maybe it's good to be reminded. And as per the title, the future may not be so sweet.
"THE HABIT OF ART"
===================
At the very well produced Brits Off Broadway, playwright Alan Bennett succeeds in digging deep into the world of art and thus explores 2 artists who inhabit it: W.H. Auden and Benjamin Britten.
Review by KEVIN MARTIN
The play is a play-within-a-play whilst we watch and listen and get rightly amused, and finally moved. First done almost fifteen years ago back in the UK, it is a flawless production by the Original Theatre Company - and very smartly directed by Philip Franks. ¨The Habit Of Art¨ is a play that points mainly at the creative genius of Auden - with a little glance at the vulgar or unkempt manner of his urine-stained living habits (who´s perfect? ) as well as exposing you to a cogent look - Alan Bennett style - into the hearts and minds of two always-shall-be-deeply-revered 20th century British artists: poet W.H. Auden and composer Benjamin Britten. Alan Bennett´s play presents itself as a "play" taking place in a play (the title of which is referred here as ¨Caliban´s Day¨) that imagines a perhaps final encounter in 1972 between the two men in Auden´s ¨untidy little flat in Oxford¨, in which they unpack their souls with bittersweet commentaries on craft, professional ambitions, and feelings of insecurity; all of this is well performed/rehearsed by a group of actors and they are fully up to the task. Some ¨actors¨ assigned to this task are absent, as is the ¨director¨and so the efficient, acutely aware and dynamic stage manager (Veronica Roberts) and her loyal assistant (Jessica Dennis) both fill in energetically. Neil is the¨playwright¨ (Robert Mountford), who by the way is justifiably alert to any 3rd party interferences. Within the confines of a dank, dingy backroom rehearsal space of undone, dusty furnishings (superb set by Adrian Linford), the ¨cast¨gathers for a run-through of the ¨text¨ created by Neil. This is a 2-act production and generally devoid of any boredom. Throughout this play within a play, the main characters of Fitz as Auden and Henry as Britten (Matthew Kelly and Stephen Boxer, respectively, both brilliant) feed into a litany of personal concerns over their artistic past and present lives with a shared worry that does not give in. Britten clearly frets that his new (anticipated) opera on Thomas Mann´s¨Death In Venice¨ is having real problems. Upon saying so, Auden eagerly jumps at the moment and offers to write the libretto, but it is already written. Britten´s great terror - in part - lies in his creating the musical elements, while Auden, who is getting closer and closer to his final days, desperately wants to remain productive with pen and paper: when the character Humphrey (played by John Wark) who is in the job of Britten´s official biographer but who at first is mistakenly taken by a now forgetful Auden to be his expected ¨rent boy¨, asks Auden if he has been working, the reply from the poet shows his plain sagacity: ¨Am I dead?¨, he bellows. ¨I work! I have the habit of art.¨ For both, it's all about perseverance, in spite of the slings and arrows of worry or uncertainty that hang in the shadows. There is certainly much more to seeing this production than seen here. There is one week left to see it.
The play is a play-within-a-play whilst we watch and listen and get rightly amused, and finally moved. First done almost fifteen years ago back in the UK, it is a flawless production by the Original Theatre Company - and very smartly directed by Philip Franks. ¨The Habit Of Art¨ is a play that points mainly at the creative genius of Auden - with a little glance at the vulgar or unkempt manner of his urine-stained living habits (who´s perfect? ) as well as exposing you to a cogent look - Alan Bennett style - into the hearts and minds of two always-shall-be-deeply-revered 20th century British artists: poet W.H. Auden and composer Benjamin Britten. Alan Bennett´s play presents itself as a "play" taking place in a play (the title of which is referred here as ¨Caliban´s Day¨) that imagines a perhaps final encounter in 1972 between the two men in Auden´s ¨untidy little flat in Oxford¨, in which they unpack their souls with bittersweet commentaries on craft, professional ambitions, and feelings of insecurity; all of this is well performed/rehearsed by a group of actors and they are fully up to the task. Some ¨actors¨ assigned to this task are absent, as is the ¨director¨and so the efficient, acutely aware and dynamic stage manager (Veronica Roberts) and her loyal assistant (Jessica Dennis) both fill in energetically. Neil is the¨playwright¨ (Robert Mountford), who by the way is justifiably alert to any 3rd party interferences. Within the confines of a dank, dingy backroom rehearsal space of undone, dusty furnishings (superb set by Adrian Linford), the ¨cast¨gathers for a run-through of the ¨text¨ created by Neil. This is a 2-act production and generally devoid of any boredom. Throughout this play within a play, the main characters of Fitz as Auden and Henry as Britten (Matthew Kelly and Stephen Boxer, respectively, both brilliant) feed into a litany of personal concerns over their artistic past and present lives with a shared worry that does not give in. Britten clearly frets that his new (anticipated) opera on Thomas Mann´s¨Death In Venice¨ is having real problems. Upon saying so, Auden eagerly jumps at the moment and offers to write the libretto, but it is already written. Britten´s great terror - in part - lies in his creating the musical elements, while Auden, who is getting closer and closer to his final days, desperately wants to remain productive with pen and paper: when the character Humphrey (played by John Wark) who is in the job of Britten´s official biographer but who at first is mistakenly taken by a now forgetful Auden to be his expected ¨rent boy¨, asks Auden if he has been working, the reply from the poet shows his plain sagacity: ¨Am I dead?¨, he bellows. ¨I work! I have the habit of art.¨ For both, it's all about perseverance, in spite of the slings and arrows of worry or uncertainty that hang in the shadows. There is certainly much more to seeing this production than seen here. There is one week left to see it.
"DIMANCHE"
===================
Review by KEVIN MARTIN
An enterprize of great pith and moment unfolds in BAM's presentation of "DIMANCHE"
Above: Sicaire Durieux, left, and Sandrine Heyraud in “Dimanche” at BAM Fisher
The current spasm of artistic fire in the production of "Dimanche" has been burstingly afoot at BAM's Fisher Hall since last week - albeit (sadly) for a limited run. Sitting there to witness razor sharp acting by 3 exquisitely skilled artists of body and soul, I muttered internally that I am having an "Ah-Ha" moment, where it suddenly happens (though infrequently) that the senses of the performers' air of dramatic expression (containing both wit and pathos on a physical level that is breathtaking) are so well realized, that it spills onto the entire audience. The powerful theme is environmental - as in the changing climate patterns now afflicting planet Earth along with its inhabitants, whether 2-footed, 4-footed or otherwise; one may derive a clear warning given off by these 3 chroniclers. The finely tuned message is shown to all who see/watch this uniquely conceived production: we are all at risk. Flamingoes, polar bears, and humans - and probably all living creatures - botanical and zoolligical - are really all in one, big perilous, ecological danger zone.
With its effective, economic lighting (Guillaume Toussaint Fromentin) and strong scenography (Zoe Tenret), "Dimanche" vividly reminds us that we are now being - and have been for decades perhaps - plagued by real, wild science-fictionish storms of rain and wind as well as melting ice bergs and warming/rising oceans and you name it. In presenting this universal message-of-the-moment for the masses, these utterly brave and gifted actors, Julie Tenret, Sicaire Durieux, Sandrine Heyraud (or Thomas Dechaufour) - as well as Shantala Pepe, Christine Heyraud, Julie Dacquin (or Sophie Leso), give us a series of dynamic vignettes illustrating the atmospheric changes occurring all around us - but here, it is all dramatically heightend to get the point across. Example: the great mama polar bear (puppeteer brilliance) that loses her cub when the ice-berg chunk they have both been resting upon suddenly splits apart in two to cause their ineveitable, horrifying separation from each other. Oh, yes, our great big oceans are suffering indeed. Another very powerful example: the family turkey dinner and its attendants literally getting pulled away by Monster Nature's hyper gale force roaring through the front door of their remaining home - (right through the dining room, no less), - well it's enough to forget about cooking for quite a while, for sure. I won't tell you more than that here. Suffice it to say that you will be lucky to see this production. Simply put: this very fresh and almost dialogue-free experience just might blow you away, too.
May 2023Actors, writers, and directors of "Dimanche": Sandrine Heyraud, Julie Tenret, and Sicaire Durieux: PC Stephanie Berger
The current spasm of artistic fire in the production of "Dimanche" has been burstingly afoot at BAM's Fisher Hall since last week - albeit (sadly) for a limited run. Sitting there to witness razor sharp acting by 3 exquisitely skilled artists of body and soul, I muttered internally that I am having an "Ah-Ha" moment, where it suddenly happens (though infrequently) that the senses of the performers' air of dramatic expression (containing both wit and pathos on a physical level that is breathtaking) are so well realized, that it spills onto the entire audience. The powerful theme is environmental - as in the changing climate patterns now afflicting planet Earth along with its inhabitants, whether 2-footed, 4-footed or otherwise; one may derive a clear warning given off by these 3 chroniclers. The finely tuned message is shown to all who see/watch this uniquely conceived production: we are all at risk. Flamingoes, polar bears, and humans - and probably all living creatures - botanical and zoolligical - are really all in one, big perilous, ecological danger zone.
With its effective, economic lighting (Guillaume Toussaint Fromentin) and strong scenography (Zoe Tenret), "Dimanche" vividly reminds us that we are now being - and have been for decades perhaps - plagued by real, wild science-fictionish storms of rain and wind as well as melting ice bergs and warming/rising oceans and you name it. In presenting this universal message-of-the-moment for the masses, these utterly brave and gifted actors, Julie Tenret, Sicaire Durieux, Sandrine Heyraud (or Thomas Dechaufour) - as well as Shantala Pepe, Christine Heyraud, Julie Dacquin (or Sophie Leso), give us a series of dynamic vignettes illustrating the atmospheric changes occurring all around us - but here, it is all dramatically heightend to get the point across. Example: the great mama polar bear (puppeteer brilliance) that loses her cub when the ice-berg chunk they have both been resting upon suddenly splits apart in two to cause their ineveitable, horrifying separation from each other. Oh, yes, our great big oceans are suffering indeed. Another very powerful example: the family turkey dinner and its attendants literally getting pulled away by Monster Nature's hyper gale force roaring through the front door of their remaining home - (right through the dining room, no less), - well it's enough to forget about cooking for quite a while, for sure. I won't tell you more than that here. Suffice it to say that you will be lucky to see this production. Simply put: this very fresh and almost dialogue-free experience just might blow you away, too.
May 2023Actors, writers, and directors of "Dimanche": Sandrine Heyraud, Julie Tenret, and Sicaire Durieux: PC Stephanie Berger
"Endgame"
===================
Off BroadwayAmong the very finest stage productions of 2023 (so far) is: ENDGAME, by Samuel Beckett which closed on April 16, after a lengthy and very successful run at the Irish Repertory Theatre
Top: Samuel Beckett; Center: Bill Irwin and John Douglas Thompson;Bottom: Patrice Johnson Chevannesand Joe Grifasi by Samuel Beckett Directed by Ciarán O'Reilly The Irish Repertory Theatre (Extended Through April 16) Review by KEVIN MARTIN No doubt that Samuel Beckett - as much as ever (even though he is long passed through this veil of tears), still reigns as king of the universal monarchy of fatalistic wit. This is evident in "Endgame's" ethereally wierd, absurdist playland of exisential fear and longing. The current production, which is intermissionless, is staged very persuasively by Ciarán O'Reilly. "Endgame" is a frightful, yet oft glee-contained expression of spiritual needs and wants which invariably haunt the mortally preoccupied lives of characters existing in a somewhere-shelter-like place of barren, borderline trashy surroundings. This "invariably haunt" descriptor affects all four characters: Hamm (John Douglas Thompson), Clov (Bill Irwin), Nell (Patrice Johnson Chevannes), and Nagg (Joe Grifasi). Each role is richly espressed by the actors, with seeming effortlessness. As to the play's action, we are witnessing a post-apocalptic display of poetic lamenation within the confines of a shabby, industrially rotted interior space of concrete, coldly graced by a drab pair of quite small prison-cell-ish windows, spaced widely apart from each other by several feet and fitted high up on the back wall, suggesting for sure that, regardless of the point that Clov has a step ladder on hand, any escape from this assigned realm of human futility is very unlikely, to say the least. The harsh, impressive scenic design, done brilliantly by Charlie Corcoran, kind of reminded me of many an inner city downtrodden and/or abandoned apartment building spaces (including back courtyards) that I had once often seen, first hand, upon my urban strolls in Gotham over the years. In this Endgame world environment of the same, manservantish Clov opens up the play's dialogue with a still-sleeping Hamm (blind and bound into a wheelchair of sorts, but also one who comes to domineer all things and persons effectively): "Finished, it's finished, nearly finished", says Clov, "it must be nearly finished... I'll lean on the table, and look at the wall, and wait for him to whistle me". Clov exits. Thus, the modes of behavior in the coming interaction(s) will soon become apparent; that of a bossy boss-type (Hamm) vs. an obvious "bossee" type (Clov). Hamm awakes, removes his face veil only to present himself in dark sunglasses (Annie Sullivan-style) literally opens up (read "yawning") and says to himself, "Me - to play", followed by another yawn while lamenting: "Can there be misery loftier than mine? No doubt" and then soon quickly whistles for Clov, - quickly -, as per the whistle power. Alas, Hamm starts out by berating Clov, and then asks him what time it is: "Same as usual". Exchanges ensue between the two - and then later to include Hamm's parents: Nagg (a needy fellow like his son) and Nell (more cheerful than her husband). Nell and Nagg happen to reside legless, alas!, in trash bins, and their talking brings to mind our own basic helplessness, so irretrievably knotted to the human condition. As the play barrels along smoothly to its mortal end, the conversant Hamm wags openly of his unloving (unloved) life and of the belief that perhaps no one in this world has ever suffered as much as he, we find Clov being attentive to the detail, while feeling sadly stuck in his own real time. Constant obedience to Hamm lends Clov no salvation from his circumstances. (Does Clov plan to hang around forever and ever - being so unliked)? Meanwhile, Hamm's own parents, Nagg and Nell, make periodic visits, popping up out of the trash bins (like kids' Jack-In-The-Box toys of yesteryear) - and, like the high back wall windows within view, are both spaced apart well enough that husband and wife can never touch each other. They each banter - sometimes with humor and sometimes not - with their son Hamm about life's woes and missed longings ("Oh, yesteday, yesterday...", gushes Nell as she reflects aloud about her - and perhaps anyone's dire existences that can't be helped). These moments serve as true samples of the earthly ordeal of man, and maybe even more so in this age of human alienation (a key theme in this play), pollution, income inequality, race hatred, war, nuclear threats, climate disasters, gun violence, political and social animosities, and on and on. "Endgame" is a warning system of words to anyone desirous of personal self-reflection. In Beckett's dark humor - you will hear words like: "Nothing is funnier than unhappiness" (Nell). Yet fittingly, our collective mortal fates so aptly well-put here serve to hint back to Richard II's clear lament - in part: "Let’s talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs, make dust our paper and with rainy eyes write sorrow on the bosom of the earth....". This is a production extremely worth seeing - and well rounded out with smart costuming by Orla Long, effective lighting by Michael Gottleib, and original music/sound by M. Florian Stabb.
Top: Samuel Beckett; Center: Bill Irwin and John Douglas Thompson;Bottom: Patrice Johnson Chevannesand Joe Grifasi by Samuel Beckett Directed by Ciarán O'Reilly The Irish Repertory Theatre (Extended Through April 16) Review by KEVIN MARTIN No doubt that Samuel Beckett - as much as ever (even though he is long passed through this veil of tears), still reigns as king of the universal monarchy of fatalistic wit. This is evident in "Endgame's" ethereally wierd, absurdist playland of exisential fear and longing. The current production, which is intermissionless, is staged very persuasively by Ciarán O'Reilly. "Endgame" is a frightful, yet oft glee-contained expression of spiritual needs and wants which invariably haunt the mortally preoccupied lives of characters existing in a somewhere-shelter-like place of barren, borderline trashy surroundings. This "invariably haunt" descriptor affects all four characters: Hamm (John Douglas Thompson), Clov (Bill Irwin), Nell (Patrice Johnson Chevannes), and Nagg (Joe Grifasi). Each role is richly espressed by the actors, with seeming effortlessness. As to the play's action, we are witnessing a post-apocalptic display of poetic lamenation within the confines of a shabby, industrially rotted interior space of concrete, coldly graced by a drab pair of quite small prison-cell-ish windows, spaced widely apart from each other by several feet and fitted high up on the back wall, suggesting for sure that, regardless of the point that Clov has a step ladder on hand, any escape from this assigned realm of human futility is very unlikely, to say the least. The harsh, impressive scenic design, done brilliantly by Charlie Corcoran, kind of reminded me of many an inner city downtrodden and/or abandoned apartment building spaces (including back courtyards) that I had once often seen, first hand, upon my urban strolls in Gotham over the years. In this Endgame world environment of the same, manservantish Clov opens up the play's dialogue with a still-sleeping Hamm (blind and bound into a wheelchair of sorts, but also one who comes to domineer all things and persons effectively): "Finished, it's finished, nearly finished", says Clov, "it must be nearly finished... I'll lean on the table, and look at the wall, and wait for him to whistle me". Clov exits. Thus, the modes of behavior in the coming interaction(s) will soon become apparent; that of a bossy boss-type (Hamm) vs. an obvious "bossee" type (Clov). Hamm awakes, removes his face veil only to present himself in dark sunglasses (Annie Sullivan-style) literally opens up (read "yawning") and says to himself, "Me - to play", followed by another yawn while lamenting: "Can there be misery loftier than mine? No doubt" and then soon quickly whistles for Clov, - quickly -, as per the whistle power. Alas, Hamm starts out by berating Clov, and then asks him what time it is: "Same as usual". Exchanges ensue between the two - and then later to include Hamm's parents: Nagg (a needy fellow like his son) and Nell (more cheerful than her husband). Nell and Nagg happen to reside legless, alas!, in trash bins, and their talking brings to mind our own basic helplessness, so irretrievably knotted to the human condition. As the play barrels along smoothly to its mortal end, the conversant Hamm wags openly of his unloving (unloved) life and of the belief that perhaps no one in this world has ever suffered as much as he, we find Clov being attentive to the detail, while feeling sadly stuck in his own real time. Constant obedience to Hamm lends Clov no salvation from his circumstances. (Does Clov plan to hang around forever and ever - being so unliked)? Meanwhile, Hamm's own parents, Nagg and Nell, make periodic visits, popping up out of the trash bins (like kids' Jack-In-The-Box toys of yesteryear) - and, like the high back wall windows within view, are both spaced apart well enough that husband and wife can never touch each other. They each banter - sometimes with humor and sometimes not - with their son Hamm about life's woes and missed longings ("Oh, yesteday, yesterday...", gushes Nell as she reflects aloud about her - and perhaps anyone's dire existences that can't be helped). These moments serve as true samples of the earthly ordeal of man, and maybe even more so in this age of human alienation (a key theme in this play), pollution, income inequality, race hatred, war, nuclear threats, climate disasters, gun violence, political and social animosities, and on and on. "Endgame" is a warning system of words to anyone desirous of personal self-reflection. In Beckett's dark humor - you will hear words like: "Nothing is funnier than unhappiness" (Nell). Yet fittingly, our collective mortal fates so aptly well-put here serve to hint back to Richard II's clear lament - in part: "Let’s talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs, make dust our paper and with rainy eyes write sorrow on the bosom of the earth....". This is a production extremely worth seeing - and well rounded out with smart costuming by Orla Long, effective lighting by Michael Gottleib, and original music/sound by M. Florian Stabb.
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