God of Carnage

If playwright Yasmina Reza writes what she knows, her deliciously brutal God of Carnage (translated from the French by Christopher Hampton) may make viewers relieved not to know her. True, one would be hard-pressed to get embroiled in a battle of infantilism from which there seems to be no escape. But as evidenced by this co-production of Jewish Ensemble Theatre and Performance Network Theatre, with a sublime ensemble wonderfully directed by David J. Magidson, such childishness can be as gratifying to recreate as it is deviously funny to observe.

The instigating event of the play takes place offstage and is perpetrated by characters that never appear. An incident of playground violence between preteen boys prompts the victim’s parents (Sarab Kamoo and Joseph Albright) to invite the attacker’s parents (Suzi Regan and Phil Powers) for an informal conference that will put the matter firmly behind them. Instead, initial apologies and pointedly civil discourse give way to utter amazement that people can simultaneously rise above something and shove it down another’s throat — this is but the first sign that things are not going to go smoothly. What follows is barely polite savagery at best, which continues to devolve (yes, rum is involved) through the play’s single act as the parents lash out at each others’ characters, actions, and attitudes.

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Ain't Misbehavin'

Not to be confused with jukebox musicals (and their frequently shoehorned plots), the musical revue lets a collection of works stand on its own merits. In Ain’t Misbehavin’ (conceived by Richard Maltby, Jr., and Murray Horwitz, and created/arranged/adapted by a laundry list of contributors), the music is that of Thomas “Fats” Waller, the venerated jazz performer and prolific composer. With nothing more than a set list and an after-hours impromptu feel, this Performance Network Theatre revue, directed by Tim Edward Rhoze, doesn’t require fanfare: it makes its own.

In a sunken speakeasy-type joint in 1940s Harlem, five revelers and their four-piece jazz combo aren’t ready to call it a night, so they sing and dance to their hearts’ content. Seriously, that’s all the setup this show — and this team — needs. Set designer Daniel C. Walker introduces cabaret seating to the Network stage, creating a conspicuously cramped, make-do playing space that proves boundless in the director and cast’s collective imagination. Waller’s melodies are handled superbly by this group; under musical director/arranger R. MacKenzie Lewis, expert vocal proficiency is apparent, both alone and in groups. Yet the crowning achievement of the musical performances is their abundant spontaneity, a quality equally well represented in choreographer Robin Wilson’s jovial non-lockstep movement: the fresh and unscripted feeling was never so alive as it is here. The off-the-cuff music and dancing beats actually make some spoken exchanges feel comparatively hacky; even with an unobtrusive boost from sound designer Edward Weingart, the action puts on a temporary veneer to ensure the humorous ribbing can be heard above the uproarious party atmosphere.

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Time Stands Still

Tolstoy’s contention about every unhappy family being unhappy in its own way is, quite possibly, not the whole story. There is indeed some universality to unforeseen disaster and private hardship: the mere fact of it. Every life is fractured, everyone has been thrown a curveball, and the emotional and personal atrocity of the experience transcends the particulars of the circumstance. Playwright Donald Marguiles’s difficult Time Stands Still is an extreme perspective; most people’s problems aren’t triggered by catastrophic injuries incurred while on assignment to document war-torn Iraq. Even so, in the production at Performance Network Theatre, director Kate Peckham recognizes the fear, resentment, and unfairness of entering uncharted territory and seizes on the commonalities.

Photojournalist Sarah (Suzi Regan) returns to her home in Brooklyn just weeks after fully half her body was ravaged by a roadside bomb. In some ways, convalescence agrees with her: she’s parlayed being unable to smoke into quitting smoking, and she is reunited with her longtime partner, James (John Lepard), himself a writer and reporter who had left Iraq separately before the incident. Forced to assume the mantle of homebodies, Sarah and James have time and perspective they didn’t allow themselves previously — to clear the air about past rifts, to compare the effects of her physical injuries to his psychological ones, to reassess and align their personal and professional needs, to ask themselves about their future together. Thanks to Margulies and Peckham both, the characters don’t seem strictly bound by a conventional narrative structure: major differences do not necessarily translate to exploding conflict at climactic points in the story, just as insignificant points snowball into desperate arguments without respect to rising action. Regan and Lepard form a phenomenal team committed to honestly conveying a supportive partnership that is no less immune to flaws and pitfalls. The evolving fate of Sarah and James is unpredictably happy, sad, and even cruel, but it’s true above all else.

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Marie Antoinette: The Color of Flesh

Everything old is new again: it’s trite, but true. Playwright Joel Gross draws evident parallels between now and two centuries ago in his Marie Antoinette: The Color of Flesh, but the production at Performance Network Theatre doesn’t feel like a solely or overwhelmingly political play. As directed by Shannon Ferrante, this drama is reduced to an empathetic trio whose complex class, political, and personal associations make for unavoidably difficult love and friendship, long before Facebook coined “It’s Complicated.”

Spanning nearly two decades from the beginning of the maligned queen’s reign to the brutal end of her life, this fact-influenced but imagined history finds a framework in Elisa (Jill Dion), a portrait artist and social climber who angles for a commission by Marie Antoinette (Chelsea Sadler) and becomes the monarch’s friend and closest confidante. Portraiture accordingly becomes the marker of the years, with a handful of reproductions fashioned by scenic and properties designer Monika Essen. With scenes in at least a dozen locations in Versailles, Paris, and elsewhere, Essen’s vision is somehow both Spartan and opulent, avoiding outright lavishness in favor of sparse ornate details. A massively tall setup of delicate folding French doors gives way to a painted floral backdrop, lushly predating Monet’s watercolors and serving as a willing palette for Daniel C. Walker’s dazzling lighting design, which plays with dusk and silhouette to marvelous effect. Period chamber music is provided by sound designer Phil Powers, who notes in the program that one of the pieces used is a composition by the real-life Marie Antoinette — one of many suggestions in this show that the “Let them eat cake” historical figure we know is not a complete or accurate picture.

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Next Fall

The opening scene of Performance Network’s Next Fall, by Geoffrey Naufft, feels like eavesdropping on strangers in crisis. With molecules of exposition buried in swiftly unfolding context, the viewer may feel both unease and relief at being removed from what sounds like the aftermath of a terrible accident. However, under the direction of Ray Schultz, the show quickly dispels both these sensations, and the multifaceted, ethically sticky conflict becomes all-encompassing — however much the audience is challenged to ponder and empathize with this unwinnable scenario, they are made to feel it just as gravely.

Key to the emotional grounding of the production is the charming, enduring romance between unlikely partners Adam (Andrew Huff) and Luke (Kevin Young). At opposite ends of an ideological divide, Luke takes comfort in his devout Christianity, whereas Adam pokes holes in the flawed logic of the Rapture and has no patience for a God who punishes people — especially for the supposed sin of being homosexual. Together, Huff and Young navigate the complexities of their partnership with overwhelming respect and affection, easily showing the viewer a couple that strives to manage its differences and reaps the rewards. Agreeing to disagree about their stance on the afterlife, their one sticking point is a more practical one: Luke is unable to come out to his parents and younger brother, and circumstances drive Adam to be complicit in the omission. But even as they struggle against forces that could pull them apart, these touching core performances always make the relationship feel like one to fight for.

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