The Duchess of Malfi

Open Circle Theater

Through April 21.

Toward the end of the 10-minute intermission for Open Circle Theater's adaptation of The Duchess of Malfi, the satanic rock and roar of Marilyn Manson's "The Beautiful People" possesses the small space. The vampire energy of the beat, and Manson's Baudelairean mix of evil and flowers, darkness and ecstasy, beauty and blood, translates into music the substance of John Webster's Jacobean revenge play, which is an intoxicating mix of fruits and poisons, violence and poetry, madmen and beautiful people. When the production resumes, however, the demon-excitement generated by "The Beautiful People" cools, and we are left with exactly what we experienced in the first half of the performance: an adequate adaptation of a 17th-century bloodbath where, by the end, all the major characters are dead and we have watched hangings, stabbings, and a priest killing his wife with a Bible.

Some of the actors are convincing—Chris Macdonald as Duke Ferdinand, and Samara Lerman as his twin sister, the Duchess. Others are not so convincing—Aaron Allshouse, who fails to complete any of Bosola's longer passages without fumbling a word or two, and Andy Justus, who seems lost in the soft haze of his character, Antonio.

Lerman's Duchess rescues the adaptation from the brink of disaster. The terrific urgency she brings to her role expresses the core matter and meaning of Webster's play—a massive social upheaval. The old aristocratic order of the church is being challenged by the new democratic order of what American philosopher Will Durant called "the feminine virtues"—science, love, and freedom. The good Duchess represents the emerging light of tomorrow, and her bad brothers, the Duke Ferdinand and the Cardinal, are the night that fell on yesterday's world. Even as her character is being strangled to death, Lerman's face glows like something good that's going to happen. CHARLES MUDEDE

(i've never Been Good at) Arranging FlowersLAUNCH dance theater at HaLo

Through April 14.

This vaguely pleasing solo performance ("welcome, help yourself to a glass of champagne") is no more than the sum of its parts. Which are: (1) intriguing, spring-loaded dance from performer-choreographer Ricki Mason, and (2) a very hastily sketched story about a boyish lesbian named Kate and her older Parisian lover, Audrey, a florist, who is reminded of another Catherine in another time. (Ah, Paris during the Nazi occupation. Isn't it so romantic?) It's as though British historical novelist Sarah Waters took a course in conversational French, got stoned, and wrote some slash fiction starring Violette Leduc and Simone de Beauvoir.

The story—comprising PowerPoint slides that don't quite match up with their clicking mechanical cues, Mason's too-quiet spoken narrative, sultry cabaret vocals from KT Niehoff in a platinum evening gown—nearly drowns out the dance. But here's what I recall: Mason's torso spasms—rapidly arching then hollowing, concave then convex—set the rhythm for most of the rest of the piece. She hits pliant edges and rebounds with care and control; favors turned-in toes that telegraph unbalance in an early segment as Kate, then little-boy earnestness as she imagines how Catherine must have sat for a self-portrait in short pants, clutching a fish. The one time Mason can't find a movement through-line is when she has to dance in a dress and heels.

Anyway, you only have so long to admire the dance before you get dragged back into the clutter of Parisian clichĂ©s. The only thing missing is a baguette—but I guess phallic symbols were ruled out from the get-go. ANNIE WAGNER

tempOdyssey

Theater Schmeater

Through April 21.

There are three themes fighting for dominance in tempOdyssey: the futility of temp work, the magnificence of outer space and black holes, and the proper way to choke a chicken to death. The bland office set is a tip-off that the first act focuses too much on the least interesting of the themes. When we first meet Genny (Helen Harvester), she's a Georgia girl who has moved to big-city Seattle to try her hand at temping. The clichĂ©s run thick for a solid 20 minutes—Genny meets a cool slacker temp (Adam El-Sharkawi, with an intriguing mix of charm and smarm) and has to deal with a clueless boss (Ryan John Spickard, shouting way too loudly for Schmeater's tiny space).

Despite these stock ideas, it's obvious that we haven't been suckered into an Office Space rip-off. The language in tempOdyssey is meticulous and beautiful—night "hits the sky hard enough to dent," and the chilling phrase "pain-free" is eerily repeated dozens of times, first as an advertising slogan for choked chickens and eventually as a justification for mass murder.

The play gets weirder and better, beginning with a glimpse of Genny's father (Brandon Whitehead, doing Deliverance-worthy smoldering hick menace), the discovery of a bomb that could turn Seattle into a black hole, and a tense and powerful hostage situation. At first, Harvester plays Genny with too much cutesy stammer, but soon enough, when discussing the confusion and glee she feels when she grabs a fearful chicken about the neck, she lets out a broad, childlike smile that alternates between pure happiness and murderous imbalance—then she single-handedly saves the play from its own office-comedy clichĂ©s. PAUL CONSTANT