"Gutenberg! The Musical!"

Theatre review
"Gutenberg! The Musical" at The Kitchen Theatre
Ithaca Times
June 17, 2009
748 words
"Writer's Blocks"

full text here

Writer's Blocks

Mark Tedeschi

"Gutenberg! The Musical!" by Scott Brown and Anthony King. Directed by Rachel Lampert, music directed by Larry Pressgrove. Starring Karl Gregory and Tyrone Mitchell Henderson. With pianist Thomas Jefferson Peters, costume designer Abigail Smith, lighting designer E.D. Intemann, and stage manager Abigail Davis.

"Gutenberg! The Musical!," the Kitchen Theatre's final show of its 2008-2009 season, is no routine playdate with theatrical convention; it's a celebratory satire of the unbridled passion that accompanies the dramatic process. The show's kid-because-we-love send-up, though, is merely a bonus success of its larger victory: relentlessly reducing its audience to ferocious fits of laughter.

Written by Scott Brown and Anthony King, "Gutenberg!" features just two actors - Karl Gregory as the squirrelly, pliable Bud Davenport and Tyrone Mitchell Henderson as the committed, excited Doug Simon. Bud and Doug, two aspiring writers with a shared vision, stage a pared-down approximation of a musical they created for a hopefully Broadway-producer-laden audience. They preface and interrupt their performance with explanations and clarifications, wherein we learn of their intentions to tell the story of Johannes Gutenberg: Since Google informed of the "scant"-ness of specific details on the inventor's life, they take some artistic liberties. In other words, aside from medieval Germany, Johannes Gutenberg and a printing press, they make it all up.

Holding fast to the verisimilitude of a budgetless performance, the extremely minimal set consists of a backgrounded table of some 30 hats labeled with character names and a couple of other multi-use props. The Kitchen's stage appears strikingly spacious, almost barren, placing all attention and pressure on the capabilities of the two leading men.

Under Rachel Lampert's knowing direction, they deliver. Bud and Doug play every character in their show, donning a cap to let us know who they are at all times. Lampert and musical director Larry Pressgrove have collaborated for many years (recently "Bed No Breakfast" and "Tony and the Soprano"), and their seasoned partnership strengthens the subtleties in "Gutenberg!"

In a nutshell: Gutenberg works in a winery. He comes up with the idea to press words instead of wine, to the consternation of the evil Monk and his apprentice Young Monk. Monk persuades Gutenberg's coworker and love interest, Helvetica ("Her name is also a font!") to smash the new machine. I won't reveal any more, except for a few character names: Old Black Narrator, Beef Fat Trimmer, Dead Baby.

During busier portions with many cast members "onstage," their effortless transitions more than once made me forget that I was actually only watching two people.

Pianist and assistant musical director Thomas Jefferson Peters is also there, and in addition to playing an impressive range of styles to accompany Bud and Doug, he helps unleash the wonderful comic timing embedded in the music.

The songs in "Gutenberg!" adhere to a structure parodic in its strictness. The opening number, "Prologue/Schlimmer" introduces the quaint town where citizens have little to do but lament their illiteracy, evidenced in the second song, "I Can't Read." Act I closes with the ballad "Tomorrow Is Tonight," and the climactic, penultimate song in Act 2 is a medley at the biggest event of the year - the German festival, "Festival!"

Often, Bud and Doug explain theatrical terms to the audience, preceded by, "That's what people like us call..." After they perform the non-sequitur "Biscuits," they announce that that was their strategically placed "charm song." They also read set directions aloud: "The stage is filled with doom. And fog."

King, artistic director of the Upright Citizens Brigade Theatre in New York, and Brown balance "Gutenberg!" with judicious arrangement and modest wit. The story behind the Bud-Doug dynamic is hinted at a few times because it's somehow funnier filling in the rest of the blanks yourself. Any passing strife they encounter takes a back seat to their zeal for the project they've created, as it's clear they've had to compromise to get this far.

There's a smattering of unexpected profanity, but not much - Brown and King take care to capitalize on the element of surprise, and their humor stays smart and consistent instead of pretentious or cheap. However, there is some risk that comes with this brand of satire; the determined if misguided Bud and Doug insist that all great playwrights tackle at least one "important issue" in their work, so they choose the Holocaust. It's not inherently a bad decision - it's just not as likely to draw laughs as the rest of the content.

Despite having very little respite, Gregory and Henderson lose no momentum through the many dance breaks and exhaustive character changes. The quality of the show and the nature of its affection toward its audience make it a splendid summer diversion and a fine conclusion to another season at the Kitchen.


Karl Gregory and Tyrone Mitchell Henderson in ‘Gutenberg! The Musical!,’ now at the Kitchen Theatre. (Photo provided by Megan Pugh)

"Archaeology"

Theatre review
"Archaeology" at the Kitchen Theatre
Ithaca Times
April 15, 2009
711 words
"Uncovering Adulthood"

full text here

Uncovering Adulthood

Mark Tedeschi

"Archaeology," by Rachel Axler. Directed by Margarett Perry. Starring Charlie Forray, Ace Heckathorn, Jack Paque, and Kristin Wheeler. With scenic designer Norm Johnson, lighting designer Jerry Thamm, costume coordinator Abigail Smith, sound designer Ben Truppin-Brown, and stage manager Abigail Davis.

A person's mid-twenties are typically viewed as an era for rediscovery and introspection. Childhood, teenage years, and time in college all provide separate but similar playing fields for untested activity, for experimentation. Eventually, it comes time to make heavy personal choices, and newly christened "grown-ups" look back at what they've learned. They dig through the scrapbooks of their memory to evaluate varied consequences and lessons learned. The theme of young-adult historical analysis permeates "Archaeology," an impressively produced but sometimes disappointing new play at the Kitchen Theatre.

"Archaeology," directed by Margarett Perry and written by former "The Daily Show with John Stewart" writer Rachel Axler, centers on Astin (Jack Paque) and Claire (Kristin Wheeler), two best-friend twentysomethings sharing a house in Upstate New York. Early one summer morning, an earthquake uprights the foundation of their (and only their) living space. The entrance and walkway to the house are both tilted sideways, door hanging open, beside the neat Wizard of Oz-meets-Dali vortex background (Norm Johnson, scenic designer).

Astin, a once-fat, math Ph.D.-dropout sporting an orange polo and plaid pants, stumbles onto the yard, confessing to Claire that he's too hungover to remember exactly when the tremor transpired - nor, for that matter, anything about the previous night. Claire, clad in her housekeeper's uniform and sipping absently on a vodka and lemonade, offers little help; it's immediately clear she's hiding something, some possibly crucial information that remains buried for most of the play.

Soon, help arrives - sort of. Two apparently untalented musicians-cum-grocery baggers-cum-part time Red Cross volunteers, John and Jon (har, har) storm onstage with paired wagons in tow filled with myriad supplies from Twinkies to electromagnets. John, or "H" (Charlie Forray) finds use for the latter when Astin confides that he's been working on an elaborate machine kept secret from Claire - instead, he'd told her he was creating a serialized robot corn cartoon. After an astute if slapdash explanation about Möbius strips and Klein bottles, John stares drop-jawed; Astin comments on his probable lack of understanding, and H becomes insulted.

Meanwhile, Jon (Ace Heckathorn) and Claire discover a crawl area beneath some loose floorboards in the house. Through some apt set and lighting manipulation (Jerry Thamm, lighting designer), the stage's floorboard section becomes the crawl area, where they submit to their childhood instincts and begin to dig. A sizable portion of Jon's stage time is spent highlighting his surfer-dude personality; nonetheless, his affectionate spontaneity impresses Claire.

Axler's script relies on boobish lines like "Man, who knew there was so much dirt underground!" and "Oh, you mean like E equals M.C. Hammer?" for laughs. They're delivered about as sharply as they could be, but the timing feels off even on some of the better jokes, an uncharacteristic directorial departure for Perry, whose knack for strict delivery allowed this season's Dykstra plays to hit their potential.

As Astin and H reconcile and make headway on the machine, Claire and Jon dig up some peculiar artifacts. During one scene of discovery, Ben Truppin-Brown's sound design makes savvy use of some Casio keyboard music in lieu of dialogue to accent the imagination that accompanies unearthing something unexpected; the transitory music choices elsewhere in the play are equally evocative.

Claire finds out about Astin's machine and blows her stack. The hot-blooded arguments that bubble up in "Archaeology" may seem overcooked at first - but the confused emotional drive stays authentic to the almost-full-fledged-adulthood age the characters are grappling with.

The homonymy twins share little in common save their name, their volunteer uniforms, and their tendency to try really hard to sound profound. Their entrance into the disordered lives of Claire and Astin cuts into the lead characters' tangible best-friend chemistry. But inspection of the unspoken provides motivation for both journeys in "Archaeology"; Claire seeks explanation in stratification, while Astin ventures to manipulate time itself.

I won't spoil the final scene, since it's one of the most interesting in the play - certainly the best acted and featuring a laudable metamorphosis in the set design. Here, Perry returns to the superior sense of subtlety seen in, to name one, last year's "Old Times." The conclusion doesn't address every unanswered question, but Axler seems to prefer leaving the arching metaphors open to interpretation. Near the end of the first act, Jon hits something while digging. Claire says, "Ceci n'est pas une pipe," a flag that what we're seeing isn't what it looks like. Fair enough; people don't often acknowledge that the mid-twenties are mysterious, elusive years.



(Provided)

"A Play on Words"

Theatre review
"A Play on Words" at the Kitchen Theatre
Ithaca Times
March 4, 2009
807 words
"Word Matters"

full text here

Word Matters

Mark Tedeschi

"A Play on Words," by Brian Dykstra. Directed by Margarett Perry. Starring Brian Dykstra and Mark Boyett. With scenic designer Kelly Syring, costume designer Hanna Kochman, lighting designer E.D. Intemann, and sound designer Nate Richardson.

In the summer of 1995, Bill Watterson wrote what might be my all-time favorite Calvin and Hobbes comic strip. Calvin tells Hobbes that the point of a conversation is to block another person's thoughts and take the subject matter in the opposite direction. Hobbes counters that conversations aren't contests, and Calvin awards him a point.

Watterson nails the humorous side of the one-upmanship inherent in most verbal exchanges, a subject that is also of great interest to playwright/actor darling of the Kitchen Theatre, Brian Dykstra. In last year's "The Two of You," his meticulous dialogue is itself nearly a character, bringing an extra, tangible potency to the theme and tone. While "The Two of You" is a deliberation on theatrical protocol, his new play tackles the rhyme and reason of communication.

In the autological "A Play on Words," a world premiere production at the Kitchen, Dykstra distills his love of linguistics into a play about - and positively spilling over with - language. "A Play on Words" features two actors - Dykstra as Max and Mark Boyett (last seen at the Kitchen in Dykstra's "Clean Alternatives" two years ago) as Rusty - and no doubt intentionally, both characters' names have uses as other parts of speech. Best friends since high school, Max and Boyett have a backyard conversation that alternates paces quick and slow, reaches scales epic and trifling, and leafs through just about every aspect of language you can cover in that amount of time.

So, what's the story? Dkystra knows you're thinking that, too - that's why he made it the first line of his play. Rusty is trying to find out what Max is doing; it looks like he's staring riveted at a piece of cardboard, but we don't get any specifics until well after Max pesters Rusty to explain whether he actually wants to know, why he asked him in that manner, and what he was thinking immediately before he brought it up.

Max and Rusty interrupt some of each other's sidebars before they can carry on. Often the chain-reaction changes in discussion topic deviate so far from the original issue that neither character - let alone the audience - can remember where the exchange began. Consequently, we don't find out what Max's story actually is until Rusty refuses to let the conversation move elsewhere.

Max is a button-pusher, and Dykstra plays him as recurrently disagreeable. In one moment, he'll demand that Rusty elucidate on every minutiae of his contribution; in the next, he'll assert that their digressions are, simply, "not fun." Boyett reveals Rusty's enthusiasm when he finds he can jump on the offensive, often arguing for the position that "language is the opposite of communication." Max chides his naïve position and they engage in long segues on the semantics of semantics, reappropriated commercial jingle lyrics, and apocryphal stories about famous authors' writing processes.

Undeniably, though, they are good friends - what's a little jocular prodding between buddies? All the while, both deliver the incredibly thick dialogue (they even nail a portion of tongue twisters!) with expert timing and (when called for) emotional output - patently due to Margaret Perry's patient direction.

The set, lighting and sound are minimal so as to focus on the guys' confabulation. Their chinwag takes place in late afternoon, and a careful eye will catch the subtle shifts in lighting that indicate a gradual sunset. The siding of a house and a toy basketball hoop line the background; the ground is divided evenly between a sheet of artificial turf and a scattering of words enclosed in boxes reminiscent of magnetic poetry.

And speaking of words, what would a play with this wonderful title be without some euphonious vocables? Here are some of the good ones: obfuscate, curmudgeon, leviathan, ecclesiastical, moratorium, intractable, pithy. Dykstra even invents some of his own words (a perfectly cromulent thing to do) and dissects the etymology (or is it entomology?) of grog, "give a hang," and E-I-E-I-O.

Dykstra's consistently daring ambition lends itself to magnifying-glass inspection; after all, a piece focusing on language should itself boast consummate phraseology. Good news - for the most part, it does. The main problems come from Dykstra's inability to resist an injection of the same hyper-left worldview amplified in his one-man show "The Jesus Factor" last year. The potshots at "faith-addicted Christian fundamentalists," fashion models, and "alcoholic politicians" draw too-easy laughs from an Ithacan audience but distract from the best parts of Dykstrian writing.

In "A Play on Words," Dykstra's intelligence affords his work a charming wit and a strong current of thoughtful commentary. We typically take language for granted, giving it a transparency in our lives. Word junkies, behavioral scientists, phonologists - see "A Play on Words" once, even twice. You'll give your vocabulary some exercise and chuckle at the confusing, bizarre structures we've customarily adopted.


Brian Dykstra and Mark Boyett in ‘A Play on Words,’ now at the Kitchen Theatre. (Photo by Megan Pugh)

"I Become a Guitar"

Theatre review
"I Become a Guitar" at the Kitchen Theatre
The Ithaca Journal
January 22, 2009
710 words
"Kitchen's 'I Become a Guitar' juxtaposes dreams and reality"

full text here

Kitchen's 'I Become a Guitar' juxtaposes dreams and reality
BY MARK TEDESCHI • CORRESPONDENT • JANUARY 22, 2009

Consciously every day and subconsciously every night, we dream. The fantastic and intensely personal sojourns that our minds embark upon reveal a remarkable amount of our character: hopes and fears, confusions and curiosities, memories and prognostications. A new play at the Kitchen Theatre directed by Sara Lampert Hoover, "I Become a Guitar," explores the struggle of a modern Washington family plagued by persistent dreams of a different life.

Written by Kitchen newcomer Francesca Sanders of Portland, Oregon, "Guitar" focuses on the Stewarts: a father, mother and son frustrated with fate's curveballs. Each reacts to his or her situation in a different way, but all are guilty of letting fantasy take over. The 20-year-old son, Pablo (Nicholas Caycedo), though, has no choice - since he was six, he's suffered from Klein-Levin Syndrome, a rare and complicated neurological disorder that causes unpredictably cyclical episodes of excessive sleep lasting days, weeks or even months in which he'll rise only to eat or use the bathroom.

But we don't know that at first. Sanders recalled in an interview that one artistic director aptly noted of "Guitar": "This play starts out complicated and gets very simple." It begins with a narrated poem under blue and purple lights (Kelly Syring, lighting designer); Pablo sits in his raised bed, lyrically describing a Mexican village he lives in with his friend, Silvio. Pablo's bed is attached to a ladder, in front of a backdrop painted with a staircase in odd perspective that "connects" to an adjacent living room set with a dining table and armchair (scenic design by Kent Goetz).

Once he lays back down, the rest of the stage lights up and his parents, Kevin (David Moreland) and Madrigal (Sally G. Ramirez), enter; it's soon apparent that their love has dwindled due to a prolonged lack of communication and intimacy. Madrigal holds fast to the "eternal optimism" that their son could come to at any time, keeping his favorite foods ready 24 hours a day. The aloof Kevin constantly distracts (and thus distances) himself, exacerbating the difficulty of a return to normalcy. He has a recurring fantasy about a sultry sex therapist or "sexual surrogate," Catherine (Laura Ciresi Starr, bold and provocative), who consistently dares him to perform - consistently to no avail.

A striking sound design by the ever reliable Don Tindall, in cooperation with a poignant original score by Ron Kristy, deepens the emotional strain within the Stewart family. Rain falling or an elegiac acoustic guitar tune magnifies their constant, desolate uncertainty, a feeling likely had by any family with a Klein-Levin patient.

When Pablo does come to, his parents' expectations for his behavior fall flat. It takes him a while to regain what prior vocabulary he had, and he often acts moody and disoriented. Madrigal coddles Pablo, sparking an indifference in Kevin until they discover that their son has spent so much time in the dream state that he considers it his reality, and a preferred one at that. His slumberland existence with "Silvio" is odd, but Kevin and Madrigal realize that for their own happiness, they have to want for their son's as well.

The acting in "Guitar," no doubt thanks to Hoover's skilled direction, intensifies as the story decrescendos into a strange equilibrium. Moreland (recognizable as the principal in "Donnie Darko") stutters as he argues with his wife in the beginning, but his resonant voice crystallizes once Kevin finds potential comfort in accepting his family's unconventional situation. Ramirez's on-edge demeanor flawlessly fits a mother drowning in her own hope, and Caycedo surmounts the unenviable charge of playing a disabled, childlike adult. Occasionally, he hams up the cuteness, but when Pablo becomes upset, Caycedo's talent is undeniable.

"I Become a Guitar" raises questions about the nature of actual dreams versus invented aspirations (are they any different?) and further, fantasy versus reality. When her idealized vision of a family is marred, Madrigal laments, "It's not supposed to be!" Sanders shifts us in and out of each character's dream world, highlighting each family member's hopefulness that something from his or her illusion will cross over. When nothing does, it becomes necessary to adapt to unusual circumstances. Awakening doesn't have to entail abandonment of dreams - rather, as in this play, it can simply mean embracing new possibility.

"I Become a Guitar" runs at the Kitchen Theatre through Feb. 8. Tickets are $21-$36. Call 273-4497 or visit www.kitchentheatre.org for more information.


The Kitchen Theatre presents the world premiere of Francesca Sanders' play “I Become a Guitar,” with David Moreland and Sally G. Ramirez, through Feb. 8. (Megan Pugh/Provided)

"Tony and the Soprano"

Theatre review
"Tony and the Soprano" at the Kitchen Theatre
Ithaca Times
December 3, 2008
718 words
"Family Fun"

full text here

Family Fun

Mark Tedeschi

Tony and the Soprano, book & lyrics by Rachel Lampert, music by Larry Pressgrove. Co-Directed by Margarett Perry & Rachel Lampert. Starring Susannah Berryman, Jesse Bush, Robert J. DeLuca, Jessica Flood, Charlotte Senders, Erica Steinhagen, Joey Steinhagen, and Sophie Potter. Music direction by Richard Montgomery, set by Dan Meeker, costumes by Jon Donk, lighting by E.D. Intemann, scenic artist Juls Bueher, opera arrangements by Richard Montgomery, and stage manager Preeti Nash.

Three years ago, a musical cleverly titled Tony and the Soprano blew the socks off Kitchen Theatre audiences on the night of its world premiere. Sadly for me, I was not in that group - but thanks to those who have been clamoring for a repeat performance since then, I had the delight of attending one of this season's sold-out encore performances. And even better, it features nearly all of the original show's cast and crew. If you saw it then, you know it's worth a repeat attendance; if you missed it, you should catch it this time around - and you can bring your whole family along, too.

In 2006, the cast featured well-known Ithaca favorites; today, they're positively demanded at a show like this. Joey Steinhagen plays Tony, a 35-year-old auto mechanic stuck living in Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn with his mother Rose (Berryman) and spending his spare time hanging out with latchkey kid Carrol (Charlotte Senders) and impetuous restauranteur Vinny (Bush). One of the few things he looks forward to is souping up a vintage Chevy the three of them have been hoarding for the right time. Erica Steinhagen (Joey's real-life wife) plays a charming, naive opera singer from Iowa, Frances, who moves in above Rose and Tony, rattling things around for everyone she encounters. Meanwhile, Vinny racks his brain to put off paying back a loan he was given by a slick mobster called Carmine (Deluca) and strains to train his flustered, ill-equipped new waitress, Isabel (Flood).

This story framework, together with bright direction (Perry and Lampert) and blithe musical numbers (Pressgrove), sprinkles some clever herb-and-spice additions onto the traditional back-and-forth love triangles - and balances the comedy and romance with astute familiarity.

You can bet that Berryman appreciates playing the role of Rose, a part more subdued than her most recent undertaking at the Kitchen (Winnie in Beckett's Happy Days), but that's not to say she's taking a break; her Brooklyn accent and Italian-mom concern are spot-on from the opening "Hello Carroll Street" onward. From a faux upper-story window, she calls down to Tony that dinner is ready; nearby onstage, he leans against his simple ground-level stoop and calls back up.

Meeker's set, based on the show's original design, allows credible interaction by the cast for quick, easy changes - for example, when the scene switches to Vinny's restaurant, Vinny rushes around to set up the bar and tables as if he's actually getting the place ready for customers.

Bush's Vinny would be sleazy if he weren't so eager to please; he asks Tony to evaluate "Bugs Bunny," a silly, short, Barber (or Rabbit) of Seville-inspired opera number he penned to try to win over Frances. Steinhagen as Frances sports a fantastic Midwest accent and a wide-eyed adoration for opera music, despite Rose's claims that her Italian is dreadful.

Steinhagen and Senders make a chummy team as Tony and Carol. Senders - a seventh grader at Trumansburg Middle School - holds her own on stage, even (especially!) during her solo number, "Carol of Carroll Street."

Deluca certainly looks the part with a spotless suit, slicked-back hair, and mob-guy hand gestures - but his accent, a must-have for a character like Carmine, slips in some of the heavier dialogue scenes. Flood as his crony "Isabel," though, impresses on the Kitchen stage as usual. Her powerful voice matches Frances's, even when they battle during "Vedrai Carino" and match up in "They Always Get Their Way." Isabel goes through several incarnations in haphazard attempts to either draw attention or disguise her identity, and she wouldn't be able to do either without costume designer Jon Donk's handiwork.

Pressgrove's music with Lampert's lyrics, as in last year's Lampert/Pressgrove collaboration Bed No Breakfast, together provide both belly laughs and the earnest appreciation of heartfelt realization. "Oh, No It's Vinny" and "Oh, No Tony" use Intemann's quick lighting design to draw laughs, and Richard Montgomery's opera arrangements pay respectful homage to their Mozart, Rossini, and Verdi source material. The only quaky number is the first-act "Gotta Go," mostly just a set-up for the better reprises of the song later in the show.

All told, though, you'll find more quality entertainment for both kids and adults in Tony and the Soprano than in plenty of the dopey-fodder "family-friendly" movies that studios love to churn out. Tony runs until Dec. 14, so jump on the chance now - otherwise, you may have to wait until the year 2012.


Erica and Joey Steinhagen in ‘Tony and the Soprano.’ (Photo by Wendy Woods)

"Happy Days"

Theatre review
"Happy Days" at the Kitchen Theatre
Ithaca Times
October 22, 2008
659 words
"'Kitchen Theatre stages Beckett's 'Happy Days'"

full text here

Kitchen Theatre stages Beckett's 'Happy Days'

Mark Tedeschi

Happy Days by Samuel Beckett. Directed by Jesse Bush. Starring Susannah Berryman and R.M. Fury. With scenic designer Steve TenEyck, lighting designer Kelly Syring, costume & prop designer Nik Taylor, sound designer Nate Richardson, associate scenic designer David L. Arsenault, and stage manager Michal Kaufer.

"They're in purgatory," my companion said with the naivete of a neophyte "LOST" lover. "It took me a while, but I think I got it."

He posited his theory during the intermission of Happy Days, Samuel Beckett's formidable two-person, one-set play, showing until Nov. 2 at the Kitchen Theatre. Later, my friend told me that somewhere in the middle of the second act, he realized he wasn't going to get any concrete answers.

That's because there aren't answers - just situations, bizarre as they come, and ruminations running the gamut of existence.

The story begins before you enter - a 50-ish woman in a yellow dress, buried a tinge over waist-deep in a clumpy pile of dirt tanned by the harsh, unabating overhead light, rests her head, asleep. Behind her hangs a picture window for the 21st Century: a projection screen displaying drifting clouds, and later a desert landscape under blinding sun.

A piercing bell sounds offstage, waking our hero, Winnie, who throws her head back and declares "Another heavenly day!" Winnie is played by Susannah Berryman, who calls the part "one of the actors' Mount Everests;" if that's so, Berryman plants a flag on the summit. Under Jesse Bush's au fait direction, Berryman's timing and articulation of expression hold fast to the tenor of Beckett's universe. Winnie speaks at length, chiefly platitudes and observations of her surroundings, assuming that since she is able to speak there must be someone to hear.

Lucky for her, there is: her companion of sorts, Willie. Willie, older than Winnie and much less loquacious, is played by R.M. Fury with admirable devotion - not an easy task, since he spends most of the time either gravelly grunting in an out-of-sight hole behind Winnie's residence or facing away from the audience, reading selectively from newspaper headlines.

Besides Willie, Winnie has her belongings. From her bag, she pulls out and admires, among other things, a toothbrush, a music box, a nail file, a revolver. Her possessions aren't essential, but as time ordains, just like in real life, most are running out.

She indirectly mocks the audience between stretches of disorderly monologue; she remembers a man named Shower or Cooker who asked: "What's the idea... stuck up to her ditties in the bleeding ground... What does it mean...What's it meant to mean?" She imitates Shower/Cooker with a childish whine. Early on, Beckett warns the audience of the futility of insular questions like these.

The second act, believe it or not, is bleaker than the first. Winnie awakes to the echoing bell to find herself buried up to her neck, unsure if Willie is still there. Her attitude turns from desperate to resigned, as she has, now limbless, lost the ability even to end her own life.

Winnie's strange state has its brighter moments: She and Willie share a laugh at Willie's muttering of "formication" (the sensation of insects crawling over your skin) after Winnie watches an emmet (an ant) carrying an egg.

The audience laughs, too, but they have about as much idea why as do the main characters. Is it the morbid thought of Winnie covered in bugs? The simple tee-hee pun? Or something completely unrelated, perhaps an inside joke between the two? The answer isn't as important as the connection, scarce and brief, that they share. Their laughter is a microcosmic glimmer of pleasure in Beckett's admittedly fatalistic (and absurdist) view of the world.

With Happy Days, Beckett isn't after clean satisfaction; as a result, the play isn't for everyone. After all, it is what it sounds like: a woman stuck in a pile of dirt aimlessly pontificating to herself.

To understate, Happy Days is not meant to be easily comprehended. It isn't even meant to be understood, necessarily. Winnie's existence is meant to be discussed and interpreted to no end, just as our strange gift of cognition should be applied to mulling over our own existence, no less preposterous and haphazard than hers.

Susannah Berryman as “Winnie” in Samuel Beckett’s “Happy Days,” now at the Kitchen Theatre. (Photo by Megan Pugh)

"The Two of You"

Theatre review
"The Two of You" at the Kitchen Theatre
Ithaca Times
August 27, 2008
728 words
"Double Time"

full text here

Double Time
By: Mark Tedeschi
08/27/2008

"The Two of You" by Brian Dykstra, directed by Margaret Perry. Starring Matthew Boston, Heather Frase, Nance Williamson. With scenic designer Brian Prather, lighting designer E.D. Intemann, costume designer Hannah Kochman, sound designer Don Tindall, and stage manager Preeti Nath.

The Kitchen Theatre's new season has begun, and they're not wasting any time. Their premiere show, "The Two of You" - written by Kitchen staple Brian Dykstra - is, start to finish, a challenge. The devices Dykstra has applied juggle with convention and confront the audience, literally, with their implications.

The fundamental plot element in "The Two of You" concerns the emotional concomitants of a married couple's visit by a young woman claiming to be the husband's daughter.

Brian Prather's scenic design sets the space: a modern, expensive-looking apartment with a granite bar, shelves of reference books, and a background Hockney-esque photo collage of a Boston skyline. After the first scene wherein Hank (Matthew Boston), a respected academic, and his wife Parker (Nance Williamson), a politician, discuss their evening plans, Parker exits to get ready and Hank places a telephone call. Midway through the call he stops talking, looks straight into the audience, and waves. "Hello, hi, hello. As you can see, this is one of those plays," he says, swinging a wrecking ball at wall number four.

He launches into an explanation of the preceding scene, which he says wasn't in the original draft - it was rather a workshop suggestion. His elucidation - the first of many - sounds beautifully as if it's been made up on the spot, and evokes Dykstra's own penchant for verbose yet fluid jungle-gym passages of language.

The action resumes. 21-year-old January Aloha Ireland (Heather Frase) shows up unannounced and eventually reveals what Hank had probably assumed: that she was the hitherto undisclosed product of a previous, ancient-history relationship. He turns to the audience again to explain why he should have asked January to postpone the meeting before his wife returned, and January, to his disbelief, chimes in. He blurts, "You can't do that!" and she counters, "Why not? You established a convention."

When Parker does discover what's happening, she immediately becomes combative, and to us, defensive of her behavior. Who is this girl, and what business does she have intruding into their lives, daughter or no?

The characters continue walking the tightrope of direct audience address, often accompanied by lighting changes (E.D. Intemann, designer) until their arguments about the "rules" become a welcome method for plot advancement. As Dykstra has pointed out in an interview with the Kitchen staff, the characters are aware they're in a play, but "they have no issue with 'reality'" as those in, for example, Luigi Pirandello's "Six Characters in Search of an Author." "The Two of You" is instead about the inherent psychology of relationships: young and old, male and female, husband and wife, father and daughter.

Dykstra's dissection of a strange, new emotional bond stirred enough vigorous debate in the Lark Play Development Center workshop that he felt the characters needed to foreground their reasoning, and under Margarett Perry's brave direction, the characters' instincts feel credible.

On the tip of their toes and at the top of their game, the three actors give outstanding attention to the unorthodox style. Boston sidesteps and "lobbies" for sympathy from the audience ("a group of oddly accessible strangers"), and Williamson bounces between intimidation and adaptation. Frase clasps her hands and gives believably awkward responses to the on-eggshells conflict.

Art that candidly addresses itself solicits intense scrutiny; naturally, the unfamiliar format of "The Two of You" is not without a few concerns. Something especially unconventional happens in the second act, to which Hank reacts with the claim, "There's no model for this!" It's obvious that Dykstra's intention wasn't to brag that he's the first to try something new, but that possibility is inexorably attached to such a line. The frequent mentions of workshop suggestions could indicate a frustration mitigated by an easy fix (explaining his purpose directly), and January's insistence on having no agenda could be construed as an excuse for overlooking dramatic potential.

But Dykstra's aggressive, confronting (and often comedic) use of these devices beside thespian terms like "stasis," "mitigating," and "dramaturgically" is at once their saving grace; in any other case, they'd sound like the words of a playwright a bit too proud of his theatrical know-how. Instead, Dykstra refuses timidity; he takes his idea and plows over protocol. Studying the mercurial nature of human emotion, in this play, takes precedence over standardization. See "The Two of You" with a friend and you'll be talking about it for a long time.


©Ithaca Times 2008

"The Soup Comes Last"

Theatre review
"The Soup Comes Last" at the Kitchen Theatre
Ithaca Times
July 9, 2008
695 words
"East-West Side Story"

full text here

East-West Side Story
By: Mark Tedeschi
07/09/2008

The Soup Comes Last, written and performed by Rachel Lampert. Directed by Margaret Perry. Original music composed by Mer Boel, Set Design by Dan Meeker, Costume Design by Lisa Boquist, Lighting Design by E.D. Intemann.

Remember the last time you traveled to a place completely unfamiliar? Where people looked, sounded, and acted different than everyone you were used to? With a traveling partner whom you'd never met? When you, with your companion, staged a production of West Side Story with a cast and crew almost completely unfamiliar with American theatre?

No? Then you haven't seen The Soup Comes Last, Rachel Lampert's solo storytelling performance at the Kitchen Theatre about her voyage to China 11 years ago. She transports you along on a piece-by-piece recollection of the trip and all of its hilarious, uplifting, heartbreaking elements. Gather round - it's story time at the Kitchen.

Lampert, Artistic Director for the KTC since 1997, opens "Soup" with her familiar pre-show announcements, a precursory explanation, a list of things she brought with her on the trip - and you might not even notice the lights dimming, because you're into the story before you have time to realize it.

A group of authoritative Chinese theatre historians invite Lampert to choreograph and South African Joanne Gordon (the co-traveler mentioned earlier) to direct the first-ever in-China staging of West Side Story - in Chinese. Gordon, "competitive, controlling, and used to being the boss," decides early on that outrageous pantomime is the best way to communicate with non-English speakers. Lampert's enacting of Gordon's consistent, misguided zeal elicits laughs and cringes alike.

Upon her arrival, Lampert says the airport is "everything [she] expected communism to look like," setting the tone for her trek into unfamiliarity. At her hotel, people flock to the showers after an announcement about the hot water's precious few minutes of availability, the Chinese dance teachers think Michael Jackson's "Thriller" video exemplifies American dance, and in the grand event of a Chinese meal, eyeballs are a delicious delicacy.

Dan Meeker's set - chiefly Chinese stools and tables for Lampert to climb around and step on - keeps the attention on the performer and her story. E.D. Intemann's lighting design functions the same way, but with an extra-red touch. The mostly clean-white backdrop houses a small projected box, sometimes mentioning the location but more often displaying a light aphorism such as, "In a multitude of words, there will certainly be a mistake."

That one is definitely true; thankfully, Lampert and Gordon eventually are introduced to a capable, 21-year-old, "fascinated with language" translator named Emma who helps correct some of the myriad miscommunications they run into, including a late script-translation overhaul. Some concepts are more difficult than others, though: many of the actors and actresses confuse sexual liberation with prostitution and filial disobedience with political radicalism.

In time, they dig up ways to cope. Lampert separates Jets from Sharks by the idiosyncrasies of their movement and introduces the word "buffalo" as a signal for Emma to stop translating if a slip of the tongue may bring trouble.

Lampert, under the adept direction of Kitchen vet Margaret Perry, plays a handful of characters, and her changes in voice are immediate enough to recognize each. Lampert ebbs quiet and earnest when, in the story, she considers the consequences of her teaching students to appreciate freedoms they'll likely never have; and she shows off her capacity for complex delivery by recalling an anecdote while repeating a complicated dance sequence.

Eleven years ago, communication hadn't yet advanced to a point where most people took it for granted. Lampert emphasizes that "if you wanted to connect with a place, you had to go there." It's easy to sit at a computer and pretend to experience somewhere new, but then you lose all of the comfort-zone shakeup, an important component of travel that a few people I know would insist builds character (and I agree).

The title The Soup Comes Last refers both to a simple cultural dissimilarity and a treat of an ending far too enjoyable to give away. When it's time for her to head home, Lampert has grown attached to many of those she's closely worked with - it's sad to see her have to leave the environment that was initially so dissonant. But, of course, had she stayed, we wouldn't have been able to enjoy all she's contributed to the consistently reliable Kitchen Theatre.


©Ithaca Times 2008

"Souvenir"

Theatre review
"Soluvenir" at the Kitchen Theatre
Ithaca Times
June 11, 2008
727 words
"Sounding Good"

full text here

Sounding Good
By: Mark Tedeschi
06/11/2008

Souvenir by Stephen Temperley. Directed by Sara Lampert Hoover. Starring David Beach and Patricia Dell. Music direction by Thom Baker, scenic design by Ali Golden, lighting design by E.D. Intemann, costume design by Terésa Sears, sound design by Nate Richardson (REP Studio).

Some may say that I couldn't sing, but no one can say that I didn't sing." So said Florence Foster Jenkins, possibly the world's most successful and popular publicly recognized terrible singer this side of William Shatner, on one of the few occasions that she acknowledged criticism. Jenkins always wanted a career in singing, but her wealthy parents forbade it. When they both had passed away, she was free to pursue her dream... at age 60.

The earnestness of her performance and dedication to the music, as well as her lavish self-designed costumes and perpetual confidence, baffled her audience into fascination. She was either putting everyone on or at least slightly mentally detached; exploration of that question is woven into the fabric of Souvenir, a touching and hilarious play written by Stephen Temperley and directed by Sara Lampert Hoover now showing at the Kitchen Theatre.

There are only two actors (and two characters) in Souvenir, and it's the perfect number. Florence's accompanist, Cosmé McMoon, narrates the story, apropos since he's probably the closest tool we have to deciphering her psyche. Cosmé is played by David Beach, an excellent actor, singer, and pianist who has had parts in several TV shows, including "The Sopranos" and "Sex and the City." In Souvenir, Cosmé recounts how he got involved with Florence and the mental gymnastics he had to endure while he worked under her.

Patricia Dell, an accomplished opera singer and tap dancer, plays soprano socialite Florence with daring faithfulness. She contorts what is obviously a beautiful and well-trained singing voice into a precisely executed cacophony. Her consistent flats and sharps combine with arrhythmic liberties to wreak a sharp but still funny havoc on the eardrums.

Most of the story takes place in the room in which Florence rehearses. It looks cozy but refined: marbled floor, a few oriental rugs, a crisp-looking settee, etc. Cosmé and Florence discuss her career and her abilities between song rehearsals. There's a comforting mix of philosophical musings and comedic punches in the dialogue; Cosmé quotes Florence, "'Singing is a kind of dreaming in public,'" and adds, "But were we headed into a nightmare?"

At one point, Cosmé's frustration crosses a breaking point, but he apologizes as soon as he sees how much his outburst hurt her feelings. She says, "Nothing is wrong with my voice," and technically, she's right. She never claims to sing anything as it's written - instead, she says, "I'm known for my ear."

Florence's caterwauling recitals were less singing than performance art. Normally, she only performed once a year for a select audience, but her inexplicable climb in popularity eventually led to a sold-out show at Carnegie Hall that would become legendary. Much of Souvenir's second act consists of the story behind, and performance of, that show. The exceptional costume design during this portion includes a flamenco dress during "Clavelitos" and angelic wings-and-halo garb during "Ave Maria."

Also in this segment, the lighting design utilizes a hot spotlight to mimic a concert hall, and the sound design contains audience reaction noise. The sound is clever for most of Souvenir, but here is a bit too loud for how canned it sounds.

Both Cosmé and Florence seem genuinely excited about engaging in music throughout, and Florence's approach to performing makes Cosmé reconsider the preconceived notions of his livelihood. "Who made up the rules?" he wonders. He notes that those at her shows "seem to have a pretty good time," so why not embrace her singularity?

We experienced a modern Florence Foster Jenkins phenomenon a few years ago, albeit on a smaller scale and with an added element of racial controversy. William Hung, another historically awful singer, gained fame and a record deal for performing horribly in an opening round of "American Idol." The glaring difference between the two is that Hung went wherever the limelight took him, while Jenkins orchestrated her own career. But in each case, many people decided to abandon their conception of "good" music in order to shower attention on someone who was trying his or her best.

"Art may thrill the soul," Cosmé muses, "but its sole purpose is to teach." One thing we can learn from Souvenir (and, to a certain extent, Mr. Hung) is the capacity for widespread captivation by someone who persists at what they love no matter how ruthlessly he or she is criticized.

©Ithaca Times 2008

"Old Times"

Theatre review
"Old Times" at the Kitchen Theatre
Ithaca Times
March 26, 2008
738 words
"Timely Matters"

full text here

Timely Matters
By: Mark Tedeschi
03/26/2008

"Old Times," written by Harold Pinter and directed by Margaret Perry. Starring Greg Bostwick, Leigh Keeley, and Camilla Schade. Scenic design and lighting by Brian Prather, sound design by Don Tindall, and costumes by Hannah Kochman. Stage Managers, Stephen A. Wagner and Kali DiPippo.

I have a theory that there are few marks of fame that carry as much prestige as the illustrious eponymous adjective. Imagine: a word created directly from your name because your work is just that incomparable. Brechtian, Kafkaesque, and Machiavellian are a few representatives of a more exclusive, writers-only list of "auctorial descriptives."

Sometime in Harold Pinter's prolific, Nobel Prize-winning, 50-year career, he earned a spot on that list, though he's refused to admit comprehending what "Pinteresque" actually means. Asked about the word, he says, "What I write is what I write."

Pinter's words may be truer than he realizes. His work is markedly his own, and with discernible trademarks - but after seeing a quality performance of his work, such as the Kitchen Theatre's current production of Old Times, it's almost impossible to agree with such a simplistic description of the experience.

Old Times, written in 1971, comes to the Kitchen under the direction of Margarett Perry and stars Bostwick as Deeley, Schade as his wife Kate, and Keeley as her friend and houseguest Anna.

The story, set in Deeley's and Kate's London farmhouse, takes place over a single evening. They've invited Kate's former best friend and roommate Anna to their house to catch up - a task that proves taxing, since Kate and Anna haven't seen each other in 30 years. The play opens with a conversation between Deeley and Kate before their guest arrives; curiously, Anna, immobile and facing away, stands onstage through the scene, as if her imminent presence already portends the need for a conversational one-upmanship.

Kate and Deeley mostly avoid eye contact with each other while they talk about Anna, and from the get-go, Bostwick delivers Deeley's incendiary dialogue with a sharp quality of announcement that indicates Deeley's intense pride in his words; meanwhile, Kate absorbs his accusatory tone with little protest.

When Anna arrives, it's obvious that Deeley dislikes her, or at least feels threatened by her. He asks prodding questions about her husband, her house, and Kate. Anna won't be dominated so easily and makes moves to take over the course of conversation under the guise of polite responses.

Anna and Deeley recall detailed accounts of past events to "prove" how much of Kate they possess, and eventually, it's every person for him or herself; the degree of truth in their tales begins to matter less than the psychological effect the stories have on the listener. Kate's participation is generally limited to subtle physical demonstrations rather than long monologues, but fear not - she earns their full attention later on.

Pinter's precise, poetic language alternately darts and drifts out of the actors' mouths. His words are a joy to listen to, especially when they're delivered with the scrupulousness of these three players. Anna's aside of "Rather beguilingly so." Sounds a normal line for Pinter, but the subsequent incredulity with which Deeley repeats the line (and the subsequent laughter from the audience) proves Pinter's capability to procure comedy from his own style.

And no evaluation of Pinter would be complete without mention of the "Pinter Pause," a frequent and sometimes comedic signature in his dialogue that can evoke anything from gut-wrenching awkwardness to a comfortable break for thought. They must be delivered wisely for the right effect, though, and the crew at the Kitchen knows this.

The dialogue might be enough to represent an escalating ferocity in Old Times, but the other theatrical elements extend the tenseness as the story progresses. Prather's sparse set of armchairs and divans also contains a large backdrop of interlaced black wooden panels that are surprisingly responsive to his changes in lighting coloration.

Tindall's sound generates just the right amount of nervousness as the low, distant rumble of the sea coincides with a rise in the dramatic tension. And Perry's blocking throughout helps the physicality in their confrontations grow more and more pressing.

After the conversation competition in Old Times reaches its climax, the characters, rendered speechless, play out the finale over a silence too protracted to be lumped into the usual "Pinter Pause" category.

Pinter himself offers little specificity on the plot of Old Times as a whole: "It happens. It all happens." He seems to prefer that his audience interpret (and perhaps insist upon) the events and their meanings, just as his characters offer each other their own interpretations of their own fuzzy memories, coating the nuggets of recollection with an unavoidable sheen of personal agenda.

"Bed No Breakfast"

Theatre review
"Bed No Breakfast" at the Kitchen Theatre
Ithaca Times
January 23, 2008
786 words
"Light done right"

full text here

Light done right
By: Mark Tedeschi
01/23/2008

Brett Bossard, Jessica Flood, Tony Simione, Dan Kiely, Erica Steinhagen, Norma Fire and Jessica Carr in ‘Bed No Breakfast.’ (Photo provided)
"Bed No Breakfast," written and directed by Rachel Lampert. Music by Larry Pressgrove, lyrics by Rachel Lampert. Set by Steve TenEyck, costumes by Hannah Kochman, lighting by Brian Prather. Starring Norma Fire, Brett Bossard, Jessica Flood, Tony Simione, Dan Kiely, Erica Steinhagen, and Jessica Carr. Stage Manager, Stephen A. Wagner, Associate Director, Jesse Bush.

You have to go too far to find out how far you can go," deadpans Mrs. L. (Fire), the slouching, sagacious, old-lady proprietor of a B&B in Michigan's snow-encapsulated Upper Peninsula. She offers these "little sayings" intermittently in conversations with her guests, and the initial responses are almost always an awkward but thoughtful silence. Some of her maxims are borrowed, we find out, and others are her own; some are playful, others cynical, but all coax a "Hey, that's sort of true!" realization.

Her snippets of wisdom reveal a fondness for dry wordplay as well as a veiled desire to help people - to encourage them to unwind, to make them laugh, to stir their thoughts. Bed No Breakfast, the Kitchen Theatre's first production of 2008, does all of that to its audience. Also a world premiere musical by writer/director/lyricist Rachel Lampert, Bed No Breakfast refreshes as it calms.

As usual, there's a blizzard in the U.P., and six random folks have no choice but to seek shelter at Mrs. L's establishment. She voices disdain at the unexpected company, but denies entry to none. TenEyck's cozy set is mostly her living room, a nice little place with a sofa, a card table, a cluttered bookshelf, a wood stove, and ample room for candles, since the place is completely "off the grid." The candlelight/natural light cycle of several nights allows for some fluid blue-to-yellow changes in the overall homey feel of Prather's lighting design.

The first guests are Will (Bossard) and Marla (Flood), a yuppie, married couple considering divorce who tell the others they're an unmarried couple considering marriage. Their room is to one side of the set, so we can see how the awkwardness between them inflates once they're alone.

Next, there are the lone travelers: Henry (Tony Simione), an enthusiastic accountant who is less shy than but as nerdy as he claims, and Greta (Carr), a squirrelly college girl who takes it upon herself to emcee any ice breakers or parlor games she can think of.

That leaves just Jake (Kiely), a dreadlocked globetrotter, and his pregnant sister Chance (Steinhagen), a single woman raised on a farm, who arrive together but let everyone believe they're a married couple in order to avoid confusion. Naturally, that (perhaps gratuitous) decision only creates more confusion, but not too much - the story of Bed No Breakfast transcends the farcical in favor of a quieter story about six people who, without Mrs. L.'s unique brand of hospitality, might not otherwise look twice at one another, let alone develop a solid friendship.

The peculiar music in Bed No Breakfast, written by Pressgrove and directed by Montgomery, functions differently through the show. Sometimes the lyrics pronounce one or more characters' analysis of another, like in "How Bad Can It Be?", a song that gets too on-the-nose with lines like "There's something about him / He's so at ease." Other songs, such as "In The Middle of the Night," combine that internal monologue with actual conversation. "Charades," a protracted number in which the group begrudgingly commences a game of gesticulation to break up the tension and monotony, requires commitment to precise timing; because of the actors' exciting delivery, at the climax you'll become as invested in the game as the characters are.

Most of the tranquil slower songs captivate just as well as the more upbeat numbers. "Time," in particular, includes crisp harmonies and a home-hitting message of enjoying when time is ample, a real feat for the characters who can think about little else than when the state road will be reopened so they can leave. "All About the Ride" is less gripping - the imagery is nice, but its lyrics lack the variety present in, say, "A Second Honeymoon."

Fire has probably the least powerful voice (and Flood the most), but that's a flaw easy to look past; her character's subtle style has its own power that comes from understatement married with a tinge of mystery. When she speaks, attention locks on: "Dinner will be done by 8... and begun by 6." That means dinner is at 6pm exactly, but she's joking about being so insistent. Or is she?

Some characters float in and out of likeability (don't worry, they realize their flaws like any good comedic personas), but all come from dissimilar backgrounds; each of their contributions to the collective group offers a distinct and interesting flair. The all-around success of this show lies in its relaxed suggestion: Step back and appreciate what surrounds you, no matter where you are, who you're with, or what you plan to do next. I'm a sucker for light done right, and the Kitchen should be proud of Bed No Breakfast.

"Nine Parts of Desire"

Theatre review
"Nine Parts of Desire" at the Kitchen Theatre
Ithaca Times
December 12, 2007
768 words
"Lone Survivors"

full text here

Lone Survivors
By: Mark Tedeschi
12/12/2007

Shia Islam founder Amam Ali said, "God created sexual desire in 10 parts; he gave nine parts to women and one to men." (I suppose I should be offended at the blanket generalization of one-dimensionality, but for some reason, I'm not.) His quote is the genesis for the title of the Kitchen Theatre's current mainstage production, Nine Parts of Desire.

Nine Parts was written and originally performed by Iraqi-American playwright and actress Heather Raffo. Here, the actress-director team of Lanna Joffrey and Carmel O'Reilly unite again - they worked together on this piece last year in Boston - and they've collaborated with the creative staff at the Kitchen to generate a moving, intense, and overall remarkable production.

Raffo's creation of the work stems from her visits to women of different social situations in Iraq. Their stories provided the basis for the nine separate, completely unique characters in Nine Parts. Joffrey meanders, drifts, rushes, and creeps to and fro across the stage, entering different spaces and lighting schemes while drastically altering her clothing, hair, and voice dozens of times throughout the show.

There isn't a straight story to Nine Parts as much as there is an arc of immediacy to the monologues delivered. Joffrey addresses the audience as if they were a pair of ready-to-listen Western ears and avoids pigeonholing her listeners into stereotypes by avoiding them herself; she plays characters we can identify with, but who clearly have their own specific experiences and biases to relay.

Some of the memorable characters include an Iraqi woman who lost her entire family from an American bombing, a pseudo-intellectual British woman sporting a grey blazer and a flask of Scotch, a teenage Iraqi girl in an *NSYNC t-shirt obsessed with American pop culture, a nurse in an Iraqi ward, an elderly hunchbacked merchant, and an Iraqi-American woman with relatives to whom she can't get closer than a long-distance telephone call.

The women all profess a unified quality: an unquantifiable love that can only be touched upon by language heavy with imagery and emotion.

The scenery intensifies the words. The background consists of empty white frames over splashes of white, black, and midnight blue paint and a winding river that connects at the ground, where the river turns into a real-life waterway, splitting the dusty tile floor to make way for a narrow creek in the middle of the stage. Woven baskets of clothing on the ground give Joffrey a few places to extract and deposit her many fluid wardrobe changes.

Nine Parts is a challenging undertaking for an actress, to say the least, so it's almost obvious to say that Joffrey holds her own. But she knows the material intimately and, as far as I could tell on opening night, flawlessly. She visits all the corners of emotion in this show, and will surely hold your attention steadfast for 90 minutes.

Joffrey's musings and stories become most relevant, understandably, when she addresses Americans' attitudes about the war in Iraq. An American character criticizes her friend for calling the war "heartbreaking" while she enjoyed a pedicure; then the character remembers she was getting a pedicure at the time, too. "I am so stressed out," she says. "Maybe I should take a yoga class."

It's indeed depressing to think that we live in a country responsible for irreparable destruction in Iraq, and it's even more frustrating to think most of us physically can't be part of the solution -and if there were a solution, the complete arresting of daily life in America wouldn't be part of it.

The graphic description of some probably true horrors sounds a bit gratuitous - does their existence alone merit their mention? - but in a production with such close attention to language, I have to give the benefit of the doubt; Raffo is not trying to incite a revolution, but rather to stir up conversation.

I also question her depiction of Iraqi (and Iraqi-American) women's perceived glossing over of the American involvement in Iraq. Judging by all the devastation the characters have detailed, wouldn't the vast majority of Iraqis be consistently furious with Americans? But again, Raffo would know better than I; perhaps it's a temporary coping mechanism to perceive bombings in nearby towns as a form of entertainment. Few people can claim knowledge of what people in other parts of the world truly think about Americans.

There is at least one assertion that's absolute: "You have our war inside you now," she tells us. She's right; the Iraq war is already a part of our history, and historical events inspire important conversations - and so will Nine Parts of Desire.

"Adventure in Apartment G-Sharp"

Theatre review
"The Adventure in Apartment G-Sharp" at the Kitchen Theatre (Family Fare)
Ithaca Times
October 31, 2007
657 words
"Family-friendly opera"

full text here

Family-friendly opera
By: Mark Tedeschi
10/31/2007

The Adventure in Apartment G Sharp, book and Lyrics by Nathan Hilgartner & Rachel Lampert; music by Bizet, Donizetti, Dvorak, Humperdinck, Mozart, Ofenbach, Verdi & Wagner. Directed by Rachel Lampert & Tony Simione. With Music Director, Arranger, Accompanist Richard Montgomery. At Kitchen Theatre through Nov. 11.

The Kitchen Theatre's Adventure in Apartment G Sharp uses conventional elements of family-friendly storytelling, from the intermittent jokes for grown-ups to a sleep-induced fantasy world. But conventions like those exist for a reason: if executed with talent and enthusiasm, they can easily plaster smiles all over the audience's face. Smile-inducing is exactly what Adventure does for kids and parents alike, and the grins will stay for quite awhile.

Adventures was written by Nathan Hilgartner, a sophomore at Ithaca High School, and Rachel Lampert, the Kitchen's artistic director. Hilgartner helped Lampert with writing The Odyssey II at the Kitchen last year, and they decided to collaborate more closely for this show. Lampert also directed Adventures, along with Tony Simione, an Ithaca theatre newcomer. The directors' expertise shows up in the charming choreography and in the credibility of the acting performances.

Eight-year-old Erin Hilgartner (Nathan's sister) plays Bernadette, a girl visiting her Uncle Howard (Joseph Zappala) for the weekend. He loves opera music; he seizes every opportunity to croon about everyday things. Bernadette isn't a fan, and politely lets him know it. He understands ("One day you will like opera / Though right now you want me to stop-era"), but sings her to sleep nonetheless.

Bernadette wakes up as Despina, a servant girl in a fantastic dreamworld. We meet new characters: Zappala returns as Don Horatio, father of Carlotta (Jessica Flood) and Rosalinda (Maria Jacobi), both of whom receive affections from two wealthy brothers, Alfonso (Max Lawrence) and Alfredo (Larry Komrower).

The actors' relish for their characters engages the audience. Hilgartner has a particularly difficult job, playing a girl who has to keep her wits enough to save the day amidst chaos, while at the same time, making humorous asides acknowledging the fantasy ("Why am I singing?" she wonders). Lawrence and Komrower's teamwork offer a enjoyable dynamic; Alfonso coaches Alfredo on wooing women, and even the difference in their vocal range gives humor to a simple repeated line uttered dramatically by both brothers: "I neeeed you."

Horatio has arranged the marriage of Carlotta and Alfredo, an act that will make him rich (good thing Alfredo is a nice guy, too). Meanwhile, Rosalinda falls for Alfonso, but a few mistaken identities later, their paths all become crisscrossed, and Despina/Bernadette must set things right.

Music in Apartment comes from a handful of operas, most from the 19th century: "Carmen," "The Marriage of Figaro," "Hansel & Gretel," "Don Pasquale," "Linda Di Chamounix," "Tales of Hoffman," "The Valkyrie," Cosi fan Tutte," "Rusalka," "The Elixir of Love," and "Il Trovatore."

The songs have been repurposed in Adventure; Hilgartner and Lampert wrote new lyrics to fit the story. The opera numbers are short, sweet and wholly organic to the plot. They showcase impressive singing abilities all around. Carlotta's "Oh, Hateful Villain!" and Rosalinda's "Lalalalala (Alfredo's Wooing Song)" are two especially memorable performances.

The set consists of pieces from the current Main Stage production, STRANGERHORSE, but they do the trick. The lighting (design by Emily Zoss) is simple and puts the focus on the actors; it also highlights Hannah Kochmann's smart costumes.

By the end of the Adventure, almost as if she'd been tricked, Bernadette realizes that she actually does appreciate opera music after all. Have the kids in the audience been coaxed into liking it, too? Judging by the excited lobby conversations afterward, I'd answer a definite yes - for both the children and the parents.

"The Clean House"

Theatre review
"The Clean House" at the Kitchen Theatre
Ithaca Times
September 5, 2007
715 words

"The Divine Comedy"

full text here

The Divine Comedy
By: Mark Tedeschi
09/05/2007

The Clean House, by Sarah Ruhl. Directed by Sara Lampert Hoover. With Ursula Cataan, Leigh Keeley, Olivia Lawrence, Charles Stransky and Addie Walsh. At the Kitchen Theatre through Sept. 23.



We rarely realize that a well-told joke extracts more laughs from timing (or its "time signature") and style of delivery than from straight content. When a woman opens a play with a joke in Portuguese in front of the projected words "a woman tells a joke in Portuguese," it's clear that although an audience might not understand it literally, their response indicates they can recognize and appreciate a hilarious joke when they hear one. The universality of humor is as encompassing as that of love, and Sarah Ruhl's The Clean House succeeds in illustrating both.

The Kitchen Theatre opens its 17th season with the Pulitzer-nominated comedy The Clean House, here directed by Sara Lampert Hoover, a complex but enjoyable example of the passionate work that the Kitchen consistently shares.

Lane (Walsh), a doctor who dislikes giving orders and hates laughing out loud, has a prim demeanor that fully fits the set design of her immaculate, all-white living room. She hires Mathilde (Cataan), the Brazilian jokester who considers humor as crucial to life as oxygen, to keep the place clean.

The problem? Mathilde hates cleaning; it makes her sad and uninspired. The solution? Lane's sister, Virginia (Keeley), an unemployed lady with a housecleaning regimen so familiar that she can spend her spare time secretly cleaning Lane's house for Mathilde while the two of them "talk and fold laundry, as women used to do."

Lane has a husband named Charles (Stansky), also a doctor, who remains unseen (though Stansky does appear earlier in flashbacks playing Mathilde's father opposite Lawrence as her mother) until it's revealed that he's having an affair with his 67-year-old breast cancer patient, Ana (Lawrence).

Ana's moxie counterbalances Lane's inflexibility, and Charles has no apologies about being forthright with his feelings. He even brings Ana into their home in order to introduce his wife to his mistress and uses the Jewish concept of a basherte (soul mate) to justify the "metaphysically objective" choice he made - even though he's not Jewish. Fortunately, the ensuing conversations avoid painful awkwardness - they're just plain funny.

The writing and acting cooperate to create layered characters. They evolve, and so does the set - you'll be surprised at how much a few furniture rearrangements and half-eaten apples can change one's perception.

Mathilde finds a muse in Ana, and decides to split her time evenly between Ana's and Lane's houses. When she's not apple-picking with Ana or pretending to clean for Lane, Mathilde is trying to come up with "The Perfect Joke," an elusive creation with the power to make someone die laughing and an equilibrium of purity and scatology that, she says, puts it "somewhere between an angel and a fart."

The structure of The Clean House follows no conventions, but still stays coherent. We move briskly from a peaceful seashore to an Alaskan snowstorm and back, helped along by swift lighting and sound design changes. Boel's original score also moves us through time and space with rich music that, as a whole, transcends genre.

Characters' initial introductions are set aside from the story with excellent monologues and mini-stories giving clues to their backgrounds and their attitudes about life.

Eventually, they confront and challenge those attitudes; Mathilde is asked to actually tell the world's funniest joke, Lane accepts that she needs (even likes!) help from others, and Virginia revels in making a complete mess. Ana looks like a totally different person by the end of the loopy second act, and her transformation has little to do with makeup.

The acting gives credibility to the changes and helps underscore the thematic underbelly: Life is a conglomerate holding immeasurable amounts of love and death, laughter and sadness, transition and confusion. Lane chuckles at a joke, then cries, then laughs, then sobs.

The four women characters represent different schools of emotional approaches to life. Mathilde sees humor as perhaps the purest of the emotions, or at least the most worthy of attention. She wears black because she's in mourning but always thinks fondly of her parents' life together, imagining them laughing through good times and bad.

The perceived humor in the opening joke demonstrates Ruhl's command of all-embracing storytelling and sophisticated language. Only a skilled team can execute such a production, and in its opening show this year, the Kitchen has done well.