Theater Review Revue

God’s Ear
Washington Ensemble Theatre
Through Nov 10.

In Jenny Schwartz’s God’s Ear, a young married couple is
forced to endure the unimaginable—the accidental death of a
child—and thrown onstage to process the wreckage. In Schwartz’s
hands, this means a kaleidoscopic spray of words—poetic
proclamations, chopped-up proverbs, collections of catchphrases and
clichés, fractured bits of dialogue—addressing the play’s
brutally elemental subject from a variety of idiosyncratic angles. It’s
a bold theatrical attack on an age-old subject (more than once I had
the feeling I was watching a through-the-looking-glass version of
The Accidental Tourist). At its best, when the oddly
demanding text connects with properly imaginative actors, God’s
Ear takes flight as a richly verbose, chopped-and-screwed memory
play that’s closer to Richard Foreman than Tennessee Williams.

But God’s Ear is a delicate creation and for it to work, it
must roll out like music from an accomplished, harmonious ensemble.
Director Roger Benington has surrounded himself with
talent—notably actors David S. Hogan, Libby Matthews, and Brendan
Toner (three “WET guest artists” who give the night’s strongest
performances); and set designer Etta Lilienthal, whose ingeniously
stark installation (a telescopic series of scrims expertly exploited by
lighting designer Ben Zamora) is the star of the show. But mixed among
the accomplished ensemble is an actor whose performance sticks out like
a kazoo in a chamber group. This actor is assigned the (admittedly
daunting) task of playing a child, and she makes such a noisy mess of
it that the poetic spell is broken every time she opens her mouth.

This is a shame, because in its own obtuse way, God’s Ear has
something new and real to say about its subject and finds particularly
fertile ground in the cycles of meaningless words (and meaningless sex)
that can rise up in the wake of tragedy. But in this imperfect
rendition, what should’ve been an intoxicating hall of mirrors becomes
an ambitious, mildly exasperating recitation. DAVID SCHMADER

The Three Musketeers
Seattle Repertory Theatre
Through Nov 15.

It’s hard to fathom why a major theater like Seattle Rep is doing
The Three Musketeers right now—unless its total
irrelevance to the outside world, the reprieve it offers from
contemporary anxieties, is the point. If so, one expects a richly
imagined, temporally transporting, violent, romantic, swashbuckling
escapist fantasia, with funny asides thrown in. But it is none of these
things.

In order for it to hold anyone’s attention—what with the
gripping theater that is the election/economy swirling all around
us—these French guys would really have to go after each other
with those swords, really sweat and fight and bleed. But the fencing is
exciting none of time, and the hand-to-hand combat is embarrassing,
with huge windows of air between puncher and punchee. The costumes are
fine, but the set reverberates with the message: We didn’t have the
money to do something nicer. In the absence of rich escapism, director
Kyle Donnelly has settled on a slapstick gloss. There is, painfully,
only about 1 laugh for every 10 the actors are made to really go for.
Not even the good actors involved (Hans Altweis as Athos) can save it.
You want swashbuckling, for a lot less money? Turn on MSNBC/CNN/Comedy
Central. CHRISTOPHER FRIZZELLE

Night of the Living Dead
Seattle Children’s Theatre
Through Nov 1.

What is a child’s understanding of death? At what point do we really
grasp the concept of our grandmas and pets and selves becoming,
eventually, rotty sacks of mush? There must be a threshold where “Can I
e-mail Jingles in Dog Heaven?” becomes ridiculous and “Is Grandpa Sven
going to reanimate and eat my brains?” grows into a late-night
anxiety.

This children’s adaptation of Night of the Living Dead is
refreshingly unconcerned with coddling its kiddie audience (which, when
you consider kids’ unfettered access to TV and the internet and older
brothers, is probably just fine). The script, adapted by Lori Allen
Ohm, stays astoundingly faithful to George Romero’s 1968 horror
classic: shambling, moaning, shrieking, mass death, matricide by
trowel, unabashed munching of intestines, and—in a moment sure to
ruin a lot of kids’ afternoons—the death of the hero at the very
moment of his salvation.

Night of the Living Dead is genuinely alarming (video
projections communicate nationwide panic with simple efficiency), but
it softens its edges a bit with modernity’s requisite winking
satire—some funny, some not so. A ghoul cat, a Russian scientist,
and a blustery broadcaster all get laughs, and after all the carnage,
the closing “Thriller” dance feels like a relief, not a gimmick.

Unfortunately, the female characters in Night of the Living
Dead (play and movie) are atrocious. They are helpless and weeping,
either flying into hysterics or paralyzed with fear. They hide in
cellars and they love candy. They do not help anyone fight zombies. I
don’t fault Romero particularly (bygones), but come on, SCT. It is 40
years later. When you were shoehorning in those cutesy local
references—”Don’t shoot! We’re from Ballard!”—couldn’t you
have taken 10 minutes to carve up the gender stereotypes a bit for
today’s impressionable youth? Girls have just as much right to beat the
shit out of the undead as boys do. I have two eyes and two hands! Can I
not wield a two-by-four with a nail sticking out of it? Let me serve my
country, goddamnit. LINDY WEST