The 39 Steps

Patrick Barlow's recent theatrical adaptation of The 39 Steps comes with oceans of context. It's a retread of a 1915 novel of the same name by John Buchan; it's an homage to the stylings of one Alfred Hitchcock, who directed the 1935 movie, and simultaneously a parody of the same; it's two hours of pure playfulness that toys with the conventions of adaptation and goofs on the impossibility of bringing a film of enormous scope to the stage. Somehow, the script is incessantly self-referential in all of these respects at once. It's a credit to director Travis W. Walter and this Meadow Brook Theatre production that the play is funny on every one of these highfalutin levels, not to mention just plain funny.

The story is one of espionage and international intrigue, but really it boils down to the hotly pursued civilian Richard Hannay (Rusty Mewha), who gets in way over his head and barely has time amidst all his fleeing to investigate the mysterious organization targeting him and to clear his name. His entry point is the mysteriously sexy but frustratingly obtuse Annabella Schmidt (Stephanie Wahl), a thickly accented spy who makes her abrupt exit before any questions can be answered. Once all fingers are pointed at Richard and the chase begins, Wahl returns in two other forms, as a timid Scottish housewife and as plucky Pamela Edwards, who finds herself attached to the desperate Richard in and out of custody, like a slapstick precursor to The Defiant Ones. Little of Hitchcock's trademark agonizingly quiet suspense is retained in this whirlwind adaptation, but the production knows its strengths lie in big actions and settings that change with impressive swiftness, from the garish footlights of a London music hall to a harrowing railroad bridge to a fog-secluded Scottish inn. Mewha gives off leading-man qualities that don't preclude him from playing for laughs, and Wahl excels at pushing the idiosyncrasies of her characters; the two play off each other well, especially in truly awkward moments.

Click to read more ...

Season's Greetings 2010

Santa baby, slip a wrist brace under the tree, for me
Been a hardworking Rogue
Santa baby, and hurry down the chimney tonight

Santa baby, a proofreader and fact-checker too, please do
Timely, brilliant, and free
Santa baby, and hurry down the chimney tonight

Click to read more ...

Sonia Flew

Once upon a time, three young adults left home for good: the first fled Nazi-occupied Poland to live with relatives in the United States; the third answered a call within himself to serve his country after 9/11; and fifteen-year-old Sonia touched down alone in Miami shortly before the Bay of Pigs Invasion rocked her home country of Cuba. Melinda Lopez's complex and evocative Sonia Flew, a co-production now at the Jewish Ensemble Theatre, examines the path we expect our lives to follow, how outside forces can warp and sever that trajectory, and what happens in the aftermath. The play's internally and externally turbulent struggles of balancing opposing family and national identities is made all too palpable by David Wolber's marvelous direction and the work of a pitch-perfect cast.

In the late 2001 of the first act, adult Sonia (Milica Govich) is in the throes of an acute but nonspecific anxiety, which finds a legitimate, full-throttle outlet when her son (Russ Schwartz) announces that he has dropped out of college in order to join the Marines. Her inability to come to terms with his news blows up another tenuous situation: the apparently un-religious family's rare observance of Shabbat, in which it falls upon Catholic-born Sonia to recite the blessing. As Zak, Schwartz displays sides of conviction and adult behavior as well as the petulant self-righteousness that seems to prevent his mother from trusting his decision making. Govich's anger is solidly based in a pleading incapacity to cope, and Jon Bennett as Sonia's husband gives a subtle example of a troubled marriage eroding against both partners' wills.

Click to read more ...

If Only In My Dreams

Far more than a religious observance, Christmas is a cultural behemoth; consequently, it holds vastly different meanings to different people. Its ubiquity means nothing at all or may be a sore point for many non-Christians and Christians alike; some take pains to remember the holy roots of the day, whereas others genuinely enjoy the excesses of shopping and eating, or the too-infrequent celebration of loved ones gathering together. Similarly, theaters capitalize on the many facets of the holiday with remarkable variation, and the mainstream-ducking Blackbird Theatre has found an approach that suits it perfectly. The theater's revision/revival of If Only In My Dreams, directed this year by Patricia Wheeler, is once again a wintry mix of seasonally themed literary works as told by their authors. The production dodges orgasmically festive commercialism and done-to-death cautionary tales about goodwill to humankind, instead fully embracing a personal, contemplative view of Christmas, in particular the sharply recalled warmth and magic of those past.

For the occasion, the Sh\'aut\ Cabaret and Gallery is arranged in a semi-cabaret formation, with one prominently placed table mingling among those placed before the front row. At first sight, the setup can mistakenly suggest the eavesdroppy closeness of a restaurant setting, as though the audience and performers alike are simply murmuring Christmas-weary patrons huddled in a dark bar with obligatory tree and half-subversive seasonal soundtrack. However, Wheeler's staging thwarts this preconception: its big physicality, buoyancy, and disregard for the fourth wall elevate the writer characters to magical heights. These are not so much men as literary giants, backed up by their gorgeous, lyrical words.

Click to read more ...

F$$$ the Holidays

Who in the world gives a gallon of semi-gloss as a Christmas gift? From the outset, it's a surreal existence in Sweetlove Productions' so-called "seasonal retail story" F$$$ the Holidays, produced in partnership with the Ringwald and directed by Joe Plambeck. This one-act late-night production, written by Marke Sobolewski and Cara Trautman, is an unlikely tale of rival paint stores and their respective offbeat employees; the small story is a good fit for the short running time and leaves room for comedic character development and hilarious moments.

Trautman plays Kirsten, a frontrunner in the rat race who manages one franchise of a paint conglomerate; Sobolewski's Jeremy is the heir to his father's small-town family paint store. Their conflict plays on themes of corporate versus small business and new- versus old-school marketing, but mostly the two seem to revile each other because one lives to sell paint and the other ought to. Christmas approaches at each location, but the stores themselves don't appear to be jeopardized or locked in any do-or-die competition; the attention in this show is on the personal and interpersonal, not on holiday shoppers or the bottom line.

Click to read more ...