Two Point Oh

The success of a technology-themed play like Two Point Oh hinges on a lot of components working just right. The audio and video feeds need to precisely integrate with the action in real time. The blocking requires actors to respond to each other despite not being in the same room. And a primary character must be believable as an anthropomorphic manifestation of computer software. In this world premiere at the Detroit Repertory Theatre, there's not a whine, not a flicker, giving full attention to playwright Jeffrey Jackson's dexterous exploration of the relationship between human innovation and humanity. All this technology might sound like theater à la conference call, but the story that unfolds in this too-familiar reality, as directed by Harry Wetzel, delivers much more.

Not long after the play begins, billionaire software mogul Elliot Leeds (Monrico Ward) is dead. Much to the surprise of his wife and his business partner, Elliot has no intention to remain dead, thanks to a revolutionary computer program he developed in secret. The interactive and artificially intelligent software replicates his face, mannerisms, memories, and personality: meet Elliot, version 2.0. Ward's entire performance is logged via video feed to a giant flat-screen TV upstage, where he manages to be disarmingly human, yet unsettling — sometimes compiling exactly the right thing to say, but also nailing gorgeous glitches like buffering time as he computes and slightly inappropriate canned responses when the system misreads the situation. This stellar interpretation of what could have been just a talking head is instead the axis around which the play's many stories revolve, for as we are continually reminded, Elliot isn't real any more; the real intrigue is in the people affected by his electronic longevity.

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Jesus Christ Superstar

WHEREAS, the Rogue Critic is a known detractor of the ubiquitous Andrew Lloyd Webber, and WHEREAS, the Rogue — having heard from trustworthy people that his early stuff is worth a listen — went into Jesus Christ Superstar with an open mind, and WHEREAS, the Rogue was indeed not moved by the score of the rock opera, THEREFORE IT IS HEREBY DECREED that the Rogue harbors a black, sucking void in her heart where her love for Webber should reside. Caveat emptor, if you will.

The production now at the Encore Musical Theatre Company has a number of clear strengths. With a cast of twenty-six, staging by directors Daniel C. Cooney and Barbara F. Cullen and choreography by Kristi Davis provide constant visual stimuli without once crossing over into clutter. Thanks in no small part to the set design by Toni Auletti (whose combination of arid boulder backdrop and modern scaffolding looks like a funky archaeological dig), stage pictures are consistently dynamic and thoughtful. A thrilling wordless prologue, inspired by the Stations of the Cross, is made even more memorable by use of an effectively jarring strobe light, which recurs as the same moments play out again later. The strong ensemble helps fill the stage with energy, and some of the voices — my favorite the inhuman tenor of the priest Annas (Andy Jobe) — are exceptional. At the center of the show, Aaron LaVigne is a magnetic presence, making it easy to understand what the fuss is about.

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The Smell of the Kill

Had I been given a choice of shows to see a second time, The Smell of the Kill would have made the short list, so I was giddy for another viewing of this co-production, now at the Tipping Point Theatre. I found myself initially preoccupied with the demands of re-review: Were my thoughts too harsh? Was I noticing the wrong things? Could I make valid assessments without simply comparing the current performance with the prior one? Turns out there was nothing to fear: after very little time reunited with Nicky, Debra, and Molly, I was hooked. Again. Those three wives and their devilishly indecorous story hooked me twice.

The busy first beats seem to rattle in the space as the women handle dishes, leftovers, and exposition. Their never-seen husbands yuk it up while setting up a game of golf in the dining room and are an occasional harmless nuisance, but the gossip the women trade in Nicky's kitchen tells a more nefarious tale: these are deeply unhappy women, whose chief source of unhappiness is their husbands. Playwright Michele Lowe quickly gets to the meat (so to speak) of the plot: when the husbands are discovered to be trapped in the walk-in basement freezer, a darkly comic immorality surfaces when one wife stops her rescue efforts to muse, "How long does it take to make ice?"

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Late Nite Catechism

Because much of the content of Late Nite Catechism is concerned with Catholic doctrine, Sister asks at the top of the show who in the audience attended Catholic school. From my vantage point near the back of the Andiamo Novi theater, I was surprised by the impressive show of hands. However, given the laughs that welled up from the entire house, neither Catholic schooling, a background in the church, nor working knowledge of the Bible is a prerequisite to enjoy this winning one-nun comedy.

I had heard of this popular show before, but never seen it. My hand was not among those raised; Sister refers to my kind as "the publics," although I was brought up Catholic and knew the answers to questions on topics such as the Immaculate Conception and stigmata. In fact, for most of the two-hour performance, I found myself resisting the urge to chime in — Sister, I was sent to public school because my mother attended twelve years of Catholic school and vowed to never subject her own children to it — for the same reason as a number of my fellow audience members: to see what actor Mary Beth Burns would say. A clear veteran of this show, Burns takes the building blocks of a catechism curriculum and turns it into an interactive standup experience done utterly in character, and wearing a habit to boot.

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Enchanted April

Meadow Brook Theatre's Enchanted April requires some clarification: the word enchantment can refer to magic, but also describes the human quality of charm. In fact, the mystical enchantment touched on in Matthew Barber's script (based on the novel by Elizabeth von Arnim) turns out to look suspiciously like the real-life magic of a good vacation. The most supernatural effect of the production is that of scenic designer Kristen Gribbin and the stage crew, who deserve accolades for the transition from an intentionally drab, close London interior to the lush, spacious Italian seaside.

The plot is easily distilled: In 1922, four English women are in need of a change, go on holiday, and feel better for it. Vacations are great; this is not new. (It wasn't new in 1922, for that matter.) What makes this show endearing is its funny, warm, revealing, touching interactions. There is relatively little serious conflict; among a group of fundamentally likable characters, it's not surprising that they would all basically like each other. Even in troubling moments, the play's more than two hours are kept moving by the promise of impending pleasantness — and it abounds.

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