Speech and Debate at Lyric Stage Company

There is no reason the Lyric Stage of Boston's production of Stephen Karam's Speech and Debate should be as good as it is. The script is a send-up of afterschool specials for pomo Gen Xers placing three teen stereotypes in one room with three secrets about one lecherous drama teacher. It doesn't sound interesting or even original when you break it down, but Karam's wit and ultimate surrender to the catharsis of theatre left me ROFL-ing. It's a little John Hughes, a little John Waters, and a whole lotta fun.

What makes the play work are the easily identifiable teen archetypes as portrayed by a stellar young ensemble. First, we meet Howie, a teenage gay emigre to Salem, OR from the far more liberal shores of Portland. He is an outsider both literally and figuratively in this conservative town as he strives to find an adult who will sponsor a Gay/Straight Student Alliance. While chatting on-line, he discovers an adult who is interested in far less philanthropic activities. However, when he realizes that the screen name belongs to the drama teacher from his school, he is armed with blackmail and cursed with being exposed. Entering into this dilemma is the meddlesome Howie, an uptight, over-achieving Log-Cabin-Republican-in-the-making. Howie wants to expose the hypocrisy of Republican politicians who vote against LGBTQ legislation and then send sexually explicit text messages to same-sex pages in Congress, hypothetically speaking. Howie's journalistic ambitions are quashed by the school newspaper's teacher/mentor so he decides to take matters into his own hands. His tip comes through the "mono-blog" of Diwata, a frumpy, dramatic diva who exposes the drama teacher's pension for young boys out of spite for being cast in insignificant roles in school plays. Diwata becomes the doyenne of this trifecta of teenage angst and denial using her knowledge about both Howie and Solomon as blackmail to get them to join the Speech and Debate Club through which her dramatic talents can finally have a platform. The plot then turns to a point and counterpoint of honesty versus denial, truth versus cover-up, an orchestration of ethics against the melange of teenage baggage.

The primary reason that this play works so well is the inspired casting by director Jeremy Johnson. Chris Connor's Howie is the perfect gay outsider in skin-tight goth clothing and ghetto-gay attitude. His signature head pop and turn which communicates exasperation at his plight in life and scenes is worthy of copyright. Likewise, Alex Wyse's uptight Solomon exudes every insecurity ever felt by a teenager in denial about his sexuality. His pristine appearance coupled with physical tension and combustible vocals portray a teen who is on the edge of bursting out of the closet or hiding in it indefinitely. Likewise Rachel Hunt's performance as Diwata is the perfect annoying, self-gratifying, forensic/speech/drama diva who everyone remembers from High School. She is the drama kid archetype and fag hag in training. Luckily, Ms. Hunt's adept performance makes this stereotypical character both guffaw-inspiring and cringe-inducing. The most brilliant aspect of this production is that these cast members are young, non-Equity performers, which make it both age appropriate and give it a certain unpolished vibrancy that an entirely Equity production would lack. The characters can be summed up as Jack from "Will and Grace" meets Cameron from "Ferris Bueller's Day Off" meets America Ferrera.

Jeremy Johnson's direction of the piece is inspired beyond just casting. He does an amazing job at serving all sides of the 3/4 round theatre, which many recent directors have neglected. The set by Skip Curtiss is serviceable. A few of the choices - such as the blue wave across the back wall were distracting - but, it was otherwise sufficient for the play. The use of the classroom white board which doubles as a screen to project each scene's title is clever; if only they could have worked out a smoother tech schedule so that we didn't see the technicians pulling the curtain behind. The costumes by Mallory Frers and lighting by Margo Caddell were also suitable to the low demands of this show.

It's a shame that Speech and Debate closed this evening and that it was probably missed by a significant portion of the Boston audience. This is the type of show that speaks to younger generations and makes older generations laugh at youth's folly, both of which are admirable aims for the theatre. I sincerely believe that this is the type of educational theatre that high school and college audiences shoudl be seeing. Naturally, teachers pack the houses for student matinees of Shakespeare and "literary" performances (such as anything at the Huntington Theatre). However, my experience with contemporary students tells me that they would get more out of this play than any fabulous production of Romeo and Juliet or Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. This play speaks directly to young audiences' experiences while providing a thoroughly entertaining evening of theatre for those of us who have lived through adolescence and understand the simultaneous importance and triviality of "speech and debate."

Sorry, I've taken a haitus.
I've been writing my thesis.
Soon to return to the vitriol.

Endgame at A.R.T.

The American Repertory Theatre has a long history with Samuel Beckett's Endgame. 25 years ago, Joanne Akalaitis received both praise and criticism for her staging of the master work in a subway station as opposed to Beckett's original descriptive location. Beckett, a believer in the playwright as auteur mode of playmaking, was deeply enraged by Akalaitis' directorial liberty. As a defender of director's license to interpret, I believe a playwright who wants absolute control of his product should write a novel or make a film. The current production of Beckett's Endgame at the ART supports my theory that playwrights don't always know what is best for their work. This production, dedicated to the original intention of the author, plays merely as a museum piece within the annals of theatre history and certainly has no relevance or interest to anyone outside of theatre scholars and students.

My primary contention with this production was its insistence on authorial interpretation. I felt that the production was so limited by Beckett's intention that they neglected the poetry of the language at the expense of emotional resonance. Lines that should carry prophetic magnitude were tossed aside in favor of quippy delivery pandering to unreceived laughs. The dramaturgic information informed us that Beckett intended this to be a comedy, but nothing about the uninspired, robotic performances suggested comedy except for the rapidity through which lines were delivered.

Spalding Gray: Stories Left to Tell at the ICA

The Institute of Contemporary Art presents alternative performances that don't necessarily fit within the artistic milieu of the Boston theatre scene. Their latest presentation is the New York transplant, Spalding Gray: Stories Left to Tell. It's a beautiful and moving piece of theatre that also serves as a memorial and testament to this theatrical legend.

When I read of Gray's suicide in 2004, I remember audibly gasping from the loss of this theatre Renaissance man whose presence within theatre history had already been confirmed. Gray was one of few living performance artists whose work was canonized during his lifetime and that I studied as an undergraduate theatre major. To me, this meant that he was Dionysian and I couldn't imagine any circumstance that would make someone so successful take their own life. Spalding Gray: Stories Left to Tell addresses this very reaction and serves as a memorial and celebration of his life and work.

Spanning decades through his personal monologues, the play is created from published, unpublished, and journal writings that provide quite possibly the most personal account of his life ever performed on stage. It is ironic that his first show not to include himself as the writer and performer should prove to be the most personal, which raises interesting thoughts about performing the self, identity and/as performance, and the presentation of self versus the interpretation of others. Edited by director Lucy Sexton and Gray's widow, Kathleen Russo, this performance delves more deeply into the personal than Gray did himself in his performances. The entire performance raises existential questions as to who can tell whose story, whose reality is the truth, and what does it mean to be alive? The climax of the play includes journal entries from the end of his life that speak simply, lack humor, and provide a painfully real insight into his decision to take his own life. However, this is not an evening of tears and melodrama, but a true celebration with many hilarious stories about sex and family and life and, yes, death.

The show is performed by four actors and a local guest celebrity. Interestingly, all the performers are writer/performers in their own right who are perfectly suited to this staged reading-style of performance. I couldn't help but feel that the actors were chosen based on the sonorous character of their voices: The squeaky, almost Sedaris-like tenor of Josh Lefkowitz who reads selections from Gray's youth. The intense baritone with a soft, caressing lisp in Ain Gordon who perches at a table imitating Gray's more public, performing persona. The basso British dialect of David Cale who sits in an overstuffed chair with an afghan reading familial stories that connote the private life of Gray. Finally, is the surprising choice of Alina Troyano (aka Carmeltia Tropicana) whose slight Latina accent and compact, comic sensibility lead to the evening's most delightful monologue where she recounts Gray in a Native American sweat ceremony. Her individual sense of humor matched with Gray's incomparable wit definitely deliver the biggest laughs of the evening. However, each of the actors do a marvelous job serving Gray's delicious humor and simplistically poetic prose. I must also give credit to Ain Gordon who has the most difficult job of reading Gray's final entries from his journal. He does so with a slight catch in the throat, but with a determination and dedication to the story that you can imagine Gray had in his own life and death.

My only criticism of the evening is the use of the local celebrity as a part of the show. Luckily, the evening I attended Gideon Lester, Artistic Director of American Repertory Theatre, was the guest and so the readings were well done and Mr. Lester is always pleasant on the eyes. Although Lester did a fine job, especially in recounting Gray's experiences as the Stagemanager in a Broadway revival of Our Town, I can't imagine how well this would read with the other guests: an author, a politician, and a journalist. Lester obviously seemed less rehearsed than the other actors and his placement at a chair far downstage right from the rest of the set added another otherness to his presence. In trying to make sense of this choice textually, the guest spoke of Gray's Broadway turn and negotiating a contract with an LA-based management company - essentially, it was Gray's struggle with selling out versus staying true to his art. However, I felt that these monologues could have (and probably would have) been better served by any of the other performers. Therefore, I can only imagine that this was a device dreamed up to bring in local audiences rather than serving the script

My other critique of the evening is that it was less than a 1/4 of a house full. This was one of the most moving and profound pieces of theatre I have seen in Boston recently and the fact that it was less than half full (with ticket prices as cheap as $20) is a disappointment to the producer's initiative at filling the house and at Boston audiences for neglecting such a moving work. While Dirty Dancing plays its pre-Broadway trial down the street to sold-out houses at $88 a ticket, I am finally convinced of the old producer's adage that when the economy is bad, the people want fluff. At Dirty Dancing they get a fluffy, forgetful evening of theatre, but those who attend ICA's Spalding Gray: Stories Left to Tell will leave with a different perspective of life, love, family, success, and happiness. So, where would you rather invest your money?

Speakeasy Stage's "The New Century"

The best thing about Speakeasy's latest Off-Broadway revival of Paul Rudnick's tired and sagging comedy can be summed up in two words: Paula Plum. Paula Plum is to the Boston theatre scene what Paul Revere is to the Freedom Trail. Unlike the over-glorified Revere, Plum lives up to her legend in this recent production as the only actress who can make Rudnick's sophomoric, Saturday-Night-Live skit turned ninety-minute play work. And she does so with aplomb.

What Ms. Plum understands - that the rest of the cast and direction lack - is the ability to laugh at one's self, to not take Rudnick's one-liners and punny humour too seriously. In traditional, well-written comedies, the actor must play the comedy seriously in order for it to work. But in Rudnick's case, his sitcom-brand of laugh-track humor requires an actor who can laugh at themselves being laughed at and even laugh when the audience doesn't. Ms. Plum's introductory monologue as the quintessential New York, Jewish (or, nyewish, as I recently coined the term) mother is the only enjoyable ten minutes of an otherwise tired and tepid ninety minutes. The reason it works is because she knows it's a bad play, but has fun playing.

The play has an interesting structure consisting of three lengthy monologues by seemingly disparate characters who all converge in the final scene. It's not original, but at least it's interesting. We start with the high point: Ms. Plum's aforementioned role, Helene, who is competing for the title of best nyewish mother proven by the fact that she is open and accepting of her daughter's lesbianism, her son-turned-daughter's transgender identification, and her bubbala's identity as BDSM scatologist. If you're not sure what any of these words mean, Mr. Rudnick's overly expository writing, like Mother Ignatius, will explain it all for you.

The next monologue is titled "Mr. Charles, Currently of Palm Beach" and introduces a flaming stereotype of a queen who was 2 Gay for New York. A program note explains that Rudnick wrote this monologue as a reaction to a movement from "ten years ago" that sought to encourage LGBTQ persons that they were just like everyone else. Indeed, this monologue might have felt new and engaging ten years ago, but in this "new century" and in the hands of the robotic and unengaging Robert Saoud, it merely runs long and flat. There are witty jokes scattered throughout the monologue; the differentiation between straight men and gay men at the theatre being one of my favorites. However, Mr. Saoud tends to depend too heavily upon the material to carry him through, which is theatre built on sandy ground. Rudnick must have understood the deficiencies in this portion of the script and, therefore, added a hunky sidekick who appears in virtually every masquerade of gay fantasy (superhero, butler, military, jock, stripper, twink) including full-frontal nudity. The nubile Bud Weber as Shane, Mr. Charles' sidekick, is serviceable as scenery, if only he didn't need to act.

The final monologue introduces us to Barbara Ellen Diggs, a Midwestern arts and crafts aficionado who has devoted her life to all things brick-a-bracked, decoupaged, crocheted, scrapbooked, or appliqued. The concept is cute for five minutes, but a fifteen minute monologue ensues incorporating everything from AIDS, 9/11, Cristo's "The Gates", to designing couture for cats. Ironically, the theme of this monologue is to spoof lower culture in American society, yet Rudnick's writing is as cheap as a Hallmark card. In this monologue, he attempts to pull the sympathy vote with Barbara Ellen Diggs' description of her son dying from AIDS. Kerry Dowling definitely pulls at your heartstrings with her sincerity during the sentimental moments, but with such a shabby concept upon which to lay great emotion, it merely feels as cheap as the mocking reference to Hummel figurines. Rudnick doesn't quite grasp his device of mocking lower culture while writing for that very culture, a theme upon which Moliere based his entire career.

The final scene places all the aforementioned characters in a hospital maternity ward. Helene is there to visit her lesbian daughter's new-born, Mr. Charles is there to convert the newbies into fabulosity, and Barbara Ellen is there because she bruised her hip chasing after her cat who escaped from the fashion show. Shane appears to provide a utopian vision of the future which he sees in Century 21, a bargain-basement designer discount store across the street from Ground Zero. Attempting to force-feed a message about the hope for a new generation, Rudnick only succeeds in delivering a hasty ending to an otherwise feeble plot. Rudnick certainly peaked in the early 90s with his then-brave attempt at humorizing AIDS in Jeffrey. However, this production proves that Rudnick's sense of humor is as tired and as cheap as a whore's used mattress. If one gleans anything from this production, it's that the enjoyment level of gay ghetto theatre is in direct proportion to the amount of alcohol consumed before the performance as the drunk group behind me laughed hysterically throughout the performance. Apparently, Rudnick has outlived his welcome on the stage; however, I'm sure Law and Order would be more than happy to help him pay his rent.

A.R.T. Contemplates Art in "The Seagull"

Anton Chekhov's 1896 play The Seagull is a fascinating specimen in the unification of form and content examining the nature of art. Writing for the Moscow Art Theatre, Chekhov was attempting to (and, as time has proven, succeeding at) creating a new form of drama to service a new world. "What will be here 200,000 years from now?" Constantine asks us at the beginning of the play. It is an apocalyptic beginning to an anachronistic staging of a self-referential play that brings a contemporary sensibility to the contemplation of the state of art and the purpose of classics within our canon.

One would expect nothing less from the American Repertory Theatre which has earned a reputation for exploring the form of theatre while dedicating itself to the staging of classics, premieres, and cutting-edge work. Director Janos Szasz has eschewed traditional staging in every aspect of his production bringing forth the theatricality of the text and highlighting Konstantin's plight to create art that is new. The set consists of a bare stage - rear walls and fly rail exposed - movable theatre seats on stage, puddles of water, and a giant, cracked medieval painting that serves as firmament to the otherwise bleak environment. This Brechtian atmosphere serves the play well as we are invited suspend our disbelief to a Russian outdoor theatre, a summer home, a retreat to the city. Expository settings are eschewed for psychological embodiments of the essentialization of place. Take for example, the piles of luggage that serve as scenery for the beginning of Act II.

The concept for the show is a look into Constantine's brain in the moments leading up to his suicide. (Oops, I gave away the ending.) Therefore, the entire play becomes an exercise in concept as theatrically staged as Constantine's outdoor pageants. In this contemporary world, however, the outdoor plays are more aligned with Mimi's performance art monologue in Rent than theatrics dreamed up by any 19th century Russian aesthete. The contemporary costumes contribute to this allusion - elegant for the elders and heroine-chic for the younger generation - as does the entre act air guitar performance of "Sweet Child of Mine." This is concept directing at its most daring, most dangerous, and, in my opinion, most effective.

In most "concept shows," the actors are treated as merely puppets - disembodied, soulless automatons through which pretty pictures are created and text, voice, body, and movement can be deconstructed. However, Director Szasz uses acting technique as an integral element to his deconstruction of Chekhov's work. Centering the work in Konstatin's mind means developing each of the characters through this same perspective, which, in Janos Szasz' interpretation means adopting heightened melodrama and affected acting technique in order to dramatize the drama within his life. There was a discernible, but interesting dichotomy among the actors that made this choice work and not. The ART company members (Karen MacDonald, Remo Airaldi, Thomas Derrah, Brian Dykstra), who are superb actors in traditional, highly theatrical work , play their accustomed notes in a work that calls for a whole new tonal scale. Contrarily, the younger actors seemed to embrace the melodramatic style without the internalization and honesty of their veteran cohorts. The only performance which I felt melded the realism with stylization was Molly Ward as Nina, Konstantin's love interest. From her first entrance in a blushingly short skirt as an aspiring actress to her ultimate monologue as the strung-out, "ruined woman" her performance was riveting, daring, and evoked passion through stylization - which is the ultimate goal of theatrical conceptualization.

For me, the ultimate question of any conceptually directed show is: At the end, how do I feel about the story? In Janos Szasz's direction of The Seagull, I felt the story was far more accessible than any time I have seen it before. In a clever device, Konstantin uses a flashlight in the opening scenes to direct our attention to where he wants it. Just like these flashlights, Szasz's staging focuses our attention to the elements of the story that really matter while bringing in a contemporary sensibility. And I can think of no greater gift to leave for 200,000 years from now.

Boston does Berlin Badly: "Cabaret" at New Rep

The most memorable performances of the New Repertory Company's production of Cabaret are Cheryl McMahon and Paul Farwell, performing Fraulein Schneider and Herr Schultz, respectively. These minor characters normally serve as a subplot to provide a personal account of the horrendous effects of the Nazi rise to power against spectacular choreography of escapist musical numbers. In this misdirected performance at New Repertory Theatre, however, the love affair between Fraulein Schneider and Schultz delivers the only believable and engaging storyline of the evening.

The presumed protagonists of the show, Aimee Doherty as Sally Bowles and David Krinitt as Cliff, have the acumen of talented college performers, but feel dreadfully out of place on a professional stage. Ms. Doherty certainly has vocal talent and beauty to spare, but her Sally Bowles is more akin to an undergraduate sorority girl taking a semester abroad than the worldy-wise chanteuse whose "life is a cabaret." Her rendition of the title song is a perfect example: delivered with vocal reserve and practiced manner as opposed to the emotional intensity and abandon usually attributed to this show-stopper. Instead, the 11:00 number for this show became Fraulein Schneider's (Ms. McMahon's) powerfully delivered and emotionally wrought "What Would You Do?" which expresses every ounce of regret, dread, and reservation that the show portends to represent. Unfortunately, misguided direction, choreography, and casting make every other aspect of this version fall seriously short of the works' potential.

The other oft-cited protagonist of the show is usually the emcee, portrayed to TONY-winning fame by both Joel Grey and Alan Cumming. John Kuntz, a local celebrity in his own right, was selected to portray this iconic figure and one wonders if his reputation preceded his musical theatre ability in this casting choice. Mr. Kuntz's performance displays no musical theatre talent whatsoever, either in voice or movement. Remember that high school or college fraternity variety show where the class clown wore a dress and too much make-up? That is the best description for Mr. Kuntz's abysmal performance. The only glimmer of his talent in the entire evening is at the end of the show when the emcee is facing deportment to a Nazi concentration camp (metaphorically, of course); in this moment he delivered a passing nuance that suggests why he might have been cast in the role. Other than this fleeting second, every other moment of his performance on stage was nothing less than painful to watch.

Director Rick Lombardo apparently got lost in translation lifting artistic inspiration from Sam Mendes' 1990s revival, Fosse's 1970s film adaptation, and the original, 1960s made-for-Broadway musical by Harold Prince. The show becomes a hodgepodge connect-the-artistic-dots rather than a well-staged, original production. The Kit Kat girls, for example, wear the hyper-realistic black negligees of the Mendes production while the male chorus wear tuxedos more in line with the safe, 1960s version. The gay themes reinstated from the original text by Fosse and expounded upon by Mendes are present, but through a very limited lens. The aforementioned productions and revivals provided a post-modern, revisionist perspective thus contemporizing the show while bringing a more diverse and expansive historical truth to the story. Mr. Lombardo's direction lacks this skill and, instead, presents a watered-down version thus undermining the power of performance in times of political repression.

The perfect example of Mr. Lombardo's misunderstanding of the politics of this piece (and of performance) is his use of video projections of Hitler. Cabaret is not a play about Hitler, but about the power of one man's political and genocidal aspirations to brainwash an entire nation into servitude. The image of Hitler is far less powerful than the embodiment of a Nazi soldier or the presence of a swastika armband on stage. The cheap device of using videos of Hitler seems to be an attempt to reflect our current culture's obsession with screens and "reality." It is refreshing to observe, however, that the most powerful moment in the musical is when Ernst removes his jacket to reveal a swastika armband. This was the only moment when the audience audibly gasped as one. It should be a lesson to Mr. Lombardo (and to us all) that the subtlety and cultural unconscious of semiological embodiment is far more powerful than any image projected onto a screen can convey.

Cabaret is Mr. Lombardo's swan song as he leaves Boston to assume artistic leadership of San Jose Rep. If we gain anything from Mr. Lombardo's direction of Cabaret, it should be that embodiment on stage is far more powerful than the cheap tricks of cinematic realism that profligate our society and culture. For the embodiment of historical truth is far more powerful than the presentation of cinematic representations. And that is no small legacy to leave...