I met Benazir Bhutto in 1987 when she was leading the Pakistan People‘s Party in a national parliamentary campaign. I traveled with her on a motorcade in Sailkot, in the Punjab, northern Pakistan, where she was mobbed by supporters. From the top of the reporters’ minivan in front of hers, I could see crowds along the way shouting, chanting, some holding photos of her, young men dancing to loud piped music in front of the crawling vehicles, flags waving. Women were watching from atop one and two-story buildings along the route. It took hours instead of 20 minutes to get to a stadium where she addressed a mass rally.
David Ives is a master of subtle intellectual comedy. We saw that most recently in “Venus in Fur,” a feminist reimagining/twisting of the Sacher-Masoch classic, and a few years back in “Is He Dead?,” adapted from a Mark Twain story about an artist who fakes death to elevate the price of his paintings. But earlier, he had written a series of one-acts that were presented twenty years ago and that we are lucky to see again. John Rando‘s direction is spot-on, letting no grass grow between the laughs. The actors are an ensemble and connect as if they were used to finishing each other’s sentences.
It‘s rural Ireland in 1936. The house is comfortably lower middle class, with a lace-covered table and a fireplace mantle topped with old photos. It‘s a picture of the times. And so are the personal relations. This feminist work by Teresa Deevy, an Irish playwright who wrote in the 1930s, is about a spunky young woman whose only way out was to marry an older man. Director Jonathan Bank stages it as if it were an old movie, with no modern lens.
A.R. Gurney wrote this play in 1991, when the issue of AIDS was a hot button. The story takes off when Sam (Peter Rini), a State Department undersecretary of state for political affairs, returns to his prep-school to give a commencement address. Now in his early 40s, he had been the “old boy” of a younger student named Perry, charged with showing the new boy the rounds.
This is a children‘s story that cuts to the quick and speaks to the heart, that fascinates and shocks with its creativity and is definitely for adults. Besides that, it‘s a musical, with country and blues sounds and songs about woe, jazz and modern dancing, punning wit and horrific metaphors. There‘s even a classical painting that comes alive.
Interesting how misogynistic this 1955 melodrama feels in 2013. In Tennessee Williams‘ view, the men are victims and the women are perpetrators. That fits into Williams‘ theme about Brick (Benjamin Walker), the former school football star, being a victim of homophobia. Except, in a curious turnaround, the wound is self-inflicted when his wife Maggie (Scarlett Johansson), forces Brick and his college buddy to confront their relationship or maybe just their unspoken desires.
Sharr White‘s play is a wrenching psychological mystery where the audience is kept in the dark until slowly clues emerge. Joe Mantello directs coolly and subtly so you see everything through the eyes of the protagonist until you don‘t.
This may be the most original play of the season. It‘s a Chaplinesque melodrama in the style of a silent film, done in black and white, with titles and live piano music. There‘s even a sense of the flicker of the old silents.
Attending Barry Manilow‘s new show is a nostalgic visit to the 1960s and 70s. The overwhelming mood is sentimentality. But it‘s hard to criticize this when Manilow engages in such marvelous self-parody, viz a video of foaming waves crashing on boulders.
If this play were written today, you‘d expect it to end with a murder or at least some physical brutality. The confrontation between George (Tracy Letts) and Martha (Amy Morton) in Edward Albee‘s riveting, iconic play pursues another kind of violence. Each of those expertly drawn characters, forcefully directed by Pam MacKinnon, commits sizzling, psychological mayhem on the other. It‘s a shock to discover that this college professor and his wife have been married for 23 years and haven‘t yet done each other in.
Known for delectable parody, this version of “Forbidden Broadway” starts out as a parody of itself. The talented cast of four belts out, “Forbidden Broadway is alive and kicking. Like Jesus and Judy Garland, we‘re resurrected again.” Signs declare “Bring back Mandy and Ricky Martin!”
This production of the Tim Rice-Andrew Lloyd Webber biopic of Eva Perón is “Evita” lite, stripped of politics. Director Michael Grandage doesn‘t convey the corruption and brutality of the government of Argentina during Juan Perón‘s three terms in the 1940s, 50s and 70s. While Perón sought to improve the economic and social position of the working class, he also stepped hard on the opposition.
Clifford Odets‘ stylized naturalism combined with sometimes faux poetics often edges close to melodrama in his 1937 play about the conflict between art and money. The dialogue doesn‘t wear well with time and might seem almost ridiculous on stage today. But director Bartlett Sher makes it all believable with a strong and respectful staging. This production is still a powerful moment in theater and one of the best plays by an historically significant American playwright. And the politics of the play still matters.
Christopher Durang, always clever and inventive, has taken four characters from different Chekhov plays and transported them to the countryside of Bucks County, PA. Durang‘s comic remix of Chekhov is amusing and gets laughs, even if it doesn‘t always quite hit the mark.
Wild and wonderful and definitely not only for children, Rick Elice’s play imagines what turned a mistreated orphan boy into Peter Pan. Captain Hook and the crocodile are there, too, and we find out how they got the hook and the tick-tock. While you get the history lesson, you will enjoy one of the cleverest, funniest spoofs to come down the pike in years. The direction by Roger Rees and Alex Timbers is inspired.
It seems that in 1885 two sailing ships were making for an unknown Asian country. The one captained by the brigand Slank (Matt D‘Amico) was transporting Peter (Adam Chanler-Berat), who didn’t yet have a name, and some other boys to be servants for the Asian potentate. Another ship was carrying the aristocrat Lord Aster (Karl Kenzler) to deliver a very valuable trunk to the same destination. But that ship is taken over by pirates led by the comically threatening Black Stache (the unforgettable Christian Borle) who is after the trunk, which is full of valuables, including stocks, bonds and unregulated derivatives.
Charlie Chaplin wasn‘t just an actor. He created the characters he portrayed and wrote and directed the films he starred in. There hasn‘t been anyone like him since. But his art, his life, and above all his politics were dangerous to the political system. The opening of “Chaplin” shows him on a tightrope, and he was heading for a fall. Based on a book by Christopher Curtis and Thomas Meehan and with music and lyrics by Curtis, this is the best, most powerful, most intelligent new musical of the season. It‘s a worthy tribute to Chaplin the man, inventive and often thrilling.
The most astonishing moment in this rich and nuanced play comes when the magnificent horse Joey is caught in barbed wire in a no-man’s land between World War I British and German soldiers. Troops on both sides call an unofficial cease fire so one of them can climb out of the trenches and free him.
It takes a horse, an animal with no politics, to bring out the humanity of both sides. We see that the soldiers are not born killers; they are simply obeying orders by political leaders far from the front.
This avant garde take on the Faust story at BAM is by turns inventive, surreal, quirky, gimmicky, tedious, diverting and fascinating. Inspired by the works of Goethe and Marlowe, it was produced and written collaboratively by members of the Vesturport Theatre and the Reykjavik City Theatre of Iceland. Their devil Mephisto (Magnus Jonsson), starts out looking like a moribund Andy Warhol and ends up channeling a hollow-faced David Bowie.
When I saw the promotion photos of a man lying on a woman with his hand on her bare breast, I thought this play would be erotic. It is anything but. It is searing, but it is the heat of violence not of sex. There is a lot of blood. The blood of a violent coupling. The blood of puppies that the white farm owner wanted killed because his dog mated with a local black dog, not one of the pedigreed ones. Funny that it seems exploitative and humiliating of both the man and the woman while not being erotic.
“A woman who behaves never writes history” was the motto of Aimee Semple McPherson, who beginning in the 1920s became a media phenomenon. This smashing and smartly staged production shows how the farm girl who wanted to be an actress turned Pentecostal preaching into a theatrical art form, for two decades besting envious men and winning millions of followers to her radio programs and giant Hollywood temple.
There‘s a darkness that bakes everything as if it were an old painting of the 1600s. The set and costumes are dark blacks and browns. Blackened bricks are set above white stone and arches. Jasmine branches bereft of flowers are wrapped around a trellis.
We are at a glitzy Moscow cabaret, noshing on pirogi and black bread set on small round lacey cloth-covered tables and quaffing freely flowing vodka. The walls are hung with red drapes, and chandeliers dip from the ceiling. All around us, on risers along the walls and through the spaces between tables, actors in costumes of the early 19th-century Russian military and low nobility enact the drama of love and betrayal between Natasha (Phillipa Soo) and Anatole (Lucas Steele) from Tolstoy‘s “War and Peace.”
The mayor in a small coastal town in Norway promotes a town development project that turns out to be toxic. He gets the local newspaper editor to cooperate in suppressing the truth. The doctor who has discovered the danger is the mayor‘s brother, but the politician has no qualms in trying to destroy him – to label him an “enemy of the people” — for threatening his position and the financial benefits the project would bring.
