Theatre Babylon at Union Garage
Through Aug 9. In the myth of the phoenix, a great bird ignites its own nest and burns to ashes. From these ashes, a protected egg hatches and rises from where the flames once were. This year's edition of Theatre Babylon's long-running evening of short new works, NineHoles, follows the myth in both content and form.
All nine 10-minute plays take the idea of resurrection and run with it, to varying degrees of success. Half the plays are ash--useless, burned out, and futile. John Longenbaugh's After/Before is about a woman who finds herself obsessed with watching a videotape of the World Trade Center bombings in reverse and speculating about how beautiful life would be if actual history could be reversed as well. It's a particularly amateurish rant about the September 11 attacks, so obvious and whiny that it's not even fit for an open mike.
But the inclusion of that piece (and a couple of others not worth mentioning) is fully redeemed by the few that burn brightly, like a cleansing fire. Wesley Middleton's Good Thing in the Land of Bad mesmerizes the audience with the musical fairy tale of a bad queen (played perfectly by Amanda Wiehe) searching for her one true love (the very talented Josh Hartvigson) after nearly losing her queendom. Truly the standout of the evening, this play alone is worth the 80-minute wait. GREGORY ZURA
A Roomful of Strangers
Burnt Studio Productions at Live Girls! Theater
Through July 19. Pedantic, improbable, and dull, A Roomful of Strangers has the audacity to pose questions like "What Is Art?" but lacks the wit to give anything but the weariest answers. The acting and direction were on the better side of mediocre, but it would take the artistry of Apollo to make a silk purse out of this sow's ear.
Vincent and Paul, American equivalents of van Gogh and Gauguin, meet in Arles to rediscover their youthful ideals of living productive artistic lives. Enter the ham-handed parade--patience-fraying arguments about the meaning of Life and Art, shady dealings with a Mephistophelean cafe owner/art dealer, and some jealousy over a hollow muse named Margeaux.
The characters are fuzzy metaphors rather than people, and behave with maddening improbability. Some examples: The cafe owner invests huge amounts of money in Vincent and Paul's art show before seeing a single painting. Margeaux gets angry, then inexplicably aroused because Vincent is a selfish prick. Paul paints, unperturbed, while Vincent waves a gun and rants about killing himself. And, in one of my theatrical pet peeves, Margeaux and the cafe owner speak an impossible foreigner's English--perfect colloquial fluency with some token Frenchisms for exotic effect. C'est crappy, no?
These elements would be acceptable if they were part of some overall abstract or allegorical scheme. But they aren't. Strangers isn't experimental, it's just bad. BRENDAN KILEY
The Spitfire Grill
Taproot Theatre
Through Aug 9.
It flopped on Broadway and they blamed 9/11. That sounds like two loads of BS served with a side of crap, but the excuse might hold water. Something this derivative and formulaic should have been far more commercially successful.
In The Spitfire Grill, Percy, a mysterious yet spunky stranger with a checkered past (Francile Albright), comes to a drowsy little burg in the middle of nowhere called Gilead (is someone kidding?), gets a job at the local (and only) greasy spoon (run by the requisite crotchety old woman, played by the fabulous Pam Nolte), and interfaces with small-town characters (the gossip, the sheriff, the misused wife); mild amusement and mass predictability ensues.
The country-fried music was copious (15 songs in the first act alone!), much of it a repetitive monotone and not very useful in scooching the plot along. All the time the cast spent singing "The colors of paradise coooome!" with a Dolly Parton twang could have been better spent developing character relationships. There was some sort of amour intimated between the ex-con Percy and the yokel sheriff (Jonathan Martin), for instance. But it just didn't play. Nor did Percy's big moment of self-forgiveness. By its nature, this show is supposed to be crammed from crack to cranny with grand personal triumphs wrapped in euphoric, bleary-eyed breakthroughs topped with big bows of redemption. And in the end, everyone grew as a person and it all worked out for the best. But I still don't know how. Mostly everyone just stood around singing about leaves. If only personal growth were that simple. ADRIAN RYAN
Who Am I Now?
Northwest Actors Studio
Through July 26.
Don't get the impression that this is the worst show I've ever walked out on. It had some bouncy and enjoyable moments. And I did wait until intermission. But I'd rather spank an angry porcupine than sit through two hours of musical whining by three flopped actresses. And then there were the characters....
Evidently there comes a point when many no-longer-in-their-second-youth former (read: unsuccessful and bearing a grudge about it) actors have two options (besides jumping off cliffs): Fade gracefully into obscurity, or write and produce plays about being no-longer-in-their-second-youth unsuccessful and grudgy actors. Many choose poorly.
The setup for Who Am I Now? was pap, squared: three old friends--one facing divorce, one facing death, and the third... well, I'm not sure what she was facing, but she sure was facing it--get together to rediscover their friendship and themselves (yack) over many bottles of wine. And whine. The show had spunk, color, and goodwill, but during the smarmy opening title number--in which the three characters lament pathetically over yearbook photos and croon like wounded loons--something like "Pollution... terrorists... what if MY kids are the next victims?" was sung, and a little voice in my head said, "That's it, get the fuck OUT of here." At intermission, I obeyed.
Ironically, I loved and adored Ellen Hastings, the writer/composer/star. She has a fresh, natural, pixieish charm, a Mia Farrow-meets-Mary Tyler Moore quality. I'd sincerely love to see her in someone else's work. Anyone else's. ADRIAN RYAN
