DRINK UP ME HEARTIES - 'Pirates of Penzance' at The Chopin Theatre

"The most wonderful time of the year" in Chicago is probably late June. Winter in this city sucks. And although a basic understanding of geography would imply that the Midwest should lie temperately between Maine and Los Angeles, it's a whole lot more of a bitch than that. Thanks to some particularly off-color polar jet streams, Chicago winters could warmly be described as frigid. And much to my dismay, the theatre willingly falls face-first into that pit of icy, grossly commercialized, Judeo-Christian, anti-artistic depravity. Come Black Friday, playgoers are accosted by a rigorous onslaught of nutcrackers, reformed Dickensian curmudgeons, and cotton balls lazily whoring themselves out as virgin snow. (Note: Christmas is the only time of year in Chicago when a "bear" in a tight red suit is truly appreciated outside of Andersonville.)

But beneath the salted streets, in a cozy basement theatre appropriately reminiscent of a Prohibition-era speakeasy, a treasonous troupe of actors is ushering in the holidays the right way – with mai tais! At the Chopin Theatre, The Hypocrites Pirates of Penzance is an eighty-minute non-stop beach party, raging with riotous laughter, catchy music, and cheap booze.

Last winter when I took in Pirates of Penzance the first time around, the ingenuity of the small company's counter-intuitive seasonal programming went right over my head. Rather than beating the proverbial dead reindeer, Pirates of Penzance is high-fiving its audience with tropical, umbrella drink-laden frivolity, the likes of which could only otherwise be found on some sort of awesome hipster lido deck.

Director Sean Graney has adapted the original, much longer operetta into a condensed, but considerably more satisfying, intermissionless eighty minutes. The fast-paced brevity of the performance makes for an experience of perfect length, and includes just enough dialogue to keep the plot clear and moving. Graney’s additional quips make the funny hysterical, with a dutiful literary motif somehow becoming one of the heartiest repeated laughs of the evening.

The operetta is staged in promenade style, meaning the action occurs unexpectedly all around you. While there is a runway stage that crosses the room diagonally, the entire space is utilized. At any moment, your safe haven of quiet introversion could become a dance floor. This theatrical immersion is nicely complimented by Tom Burch’s backyard set, which surrounds the participants with beach balls, swimming pools, tiki torches, and drink coolers – a summer playground for the actors and audience.

The cast is adorned with vibrantly colored swimtrunks, flippers, and other varieties of garish-but-sexy beachwear designed by Alison Siple. And Jared Moore’s lighting design imbues the play with unexpected moments of solemnity amidst all the fun.

Kevin O'Donnell has cleverly reduced the typically lush orchestrations of Gilbert and Sullivan to a hodgepodge cacophony of acoustic guitars, accordions, and found object percussion. The result is a plucky, quick moving soundscape whose irreverence sets the tone for the farcically frenzied production.

Jamming out to the music is a tight, wild cast of ten. They run around the room with jovial childishness, playing with just about everyone and everything they can. But don’t worry! The nature of the audience interaction is such that it never becomes intimidating or inadvertently victimizing, but more socially akin to a superbly witty kegger. Matt Kahler as the Major General has an ease with dry witticisms and one-liners and finds humor in the unlikeliest of places. Christine Stulik does double duty as the as both the aging matron, Ruth, and the puerile flower, Mabel. Stulik navigates through youthful promise and forlorn spinsterhood with skillful malleability and punch. While some voices lack the maturity to tackle opera seriously, this production is anything but serious and everything but mature. And its better for it! The majority of the cast has returned from last season’s production, and their newfound comfort and enhanced enthusiasm makes them absolutely thrilling to watch.

This is the second year The Hypocrites have produced The Pirates of Penzance, and I would not be surprised if it became an annual holiday offering. It is a show that, like only the best of drugs, demands repeated indulgences in order to once again experience that amazing feeling you got the first time. Pirates also makes for a shockingly good family outing. On opening night, I noticed four kids in the audience. Having never seen any children at The Hypocrites before, I was super curious as to how they would react…

Near the end of the performance, one small girl, probably about five years old, walked bravely onto the narrow runway stage as Rob McLean, the Pirate King, sang a couple of feet away. She stared up at Rob in dough-eyed rapture as he, perhaps unknowingly, serenaded her. After a few seconds, she scampered back to her mother, realizing that she, not the actors, had become the audience’s focus. It was an adorable moment; a breathtakingly beautiful moment; and an uplifting reminder to us pessimistic Scrooges in the audience that great theatre has the intangible power to reach just about anyone, regardless of how many TVs they own.

Not all children will react the same way, of course. The other three youngsters, while visibly engaged, sat the whole time. But the important thing to remember is that this Pirates is not an adult show, nor is it a family show, nor is it a twentysomething show; it is an everyone show. And there is something in Pirates for everyone to enjoy and appreciate.

Gilbert and Sullivan were writing in the middle of the Victorian-era, a seventy-year stretch remembered primarily for imperialism and widespread urban industrialization. So, with their comic operettas, the duo allowed their audiences a brief escape from the day-to-day banalities of cultural enslavement and the inhalation of borderline toxic air. Yum.

With their Pirates of Penzance, The Hypocrites are offering essentially the same service to those of you wishing to temporarily forget the daily doldrums of mile-long Starbucks lines, Outlook Express, and that most grandiose of Chicago villains, Rain-Snow. So strap on your onesie, break out the Ray Bans, and drink up me hearties, yo ho.

The Hypocrites' Pirates of Penzance plays through January 22 at The Chopin Theatre

THE UNKNOWN WAR - 'Clybourne Park' at Steppenwolf Theatre

I know nothing about the Korean War!


I came to that rather startling realization while watching Clybourne Park, which opened Sunday at Steppenwolf Theatre. And no, I didn't actually yell it out loud. I'm much too cowardly. You see, the play is set in post-Korean War America. And while a fundamental knowledge of American history is not a prerequisite to enjoying Clybourne Park, this glaring omission in my own historical reservoir really rubbed me the wrong way.

As soon as I got home from the performance, I frantically leapt onto Wikipedia. And after some furious skimming, I can say with shy patheity that I now know next-to-nothing about the Korean War.

One nifty tidbit I did pick up from the ‘Pedia was a quotation, “The Unknown War”. That creepy, ambiguous phantasm of verbal terseness is the designation that many U.S. historians have given the faintly remembered conflict in Korea. World War I was "The Great War", World War II was "The Good War", and the Korean War was "The Unknown War". Good, Great, ...Unknown? Marsha, Marsha, Marsha! Is the Korean War really history's Jan Brady? Is Clybourne Park an allegory for The Brady Bunch?!



Since seeing Clybourne Park, I have been banging my head against a wall trying to figure out what this extremely divisive play is all about. Well... it's about a lot of things. Steppenwolf's own marketing campaign uses the tag-line, "Why can't we just say what we mean?" and while there are shades of P.C-criticism in Bruce Norris' multi-layered script, there is also that ever-present fog of war. Maybe the play isn’t so much about about race and prejudice as it is about people’s petty differences and the irreparable social damage they caused; that they still cause. With Clybourne Park, Norris takes the oft-proclaimed conception that society is on the verge of a cross-cultural nirvana and rips it a new Buddha.



The play exists in the same theatriverse as Lorraine Hansberry's classic, A Raisin In The Sun, however to call it Raisin’s sequel, prequel, or sister-script would be a mistake. It's more of a cynical, fiercely intelligent second cousin, related in circumstance, but opposing in tone and theme.



Act One of Clybourne Park takes place in 1959, concurrently with the events of Raisin. The only overlapping character, (the Mrs. Garrett, if you will) Karl Linder (a nerdily precise Cliff Chamberlain) tries with all his might to keep the Youngers, Raisin's protagonists, from settling on Clybourne Street: a completely white neighborhood. Same basic plot as Raisin, but turned entirely inside out.

In Clybourne Park, Linder appeals to Russ and Bev (Kirsten Fitzgerald and John Judd), the married owners of the Younger’s prospective home, to not allow this well-meaning black family to move in. As friends, neighbors, and hired help get involved, stuff goes down. Norris unmasks the drippy, nostalgic yesteryear persona of the fifties, and reveals a gnarly monster of deep-seated hatred, paranoia, and neighborly contempt. Sounds fun, right? Surprise! The craziness that plays out onstage is jarringly funny and constantly provocative.



Act Two occurs half a century later; one year after the United States elected its first black president. The actors return to the now dilapidated room of the same home, but as different characters: Prius-driving, color-blind, young "urban professionals”. An initially civil discussion on property law quickly breaks down into barbaric hysteria. I can see your true colors shining through!



The 2011 winner of the Pulitzer Prize for Drama, Clybourne Park has already played a slew of major cities including New York, London, and Washington D.C., with a Broadway run planned for this spring. But Steppenwolf Theatre's production is the first time the play has been given life on a Chicago stage. Funny, as the play by Bruce Norris, a playwright with many ties to Chicago, is set right here...in Chicago.



Steppenwolf's heart wrenching, horrific, and hysterical Clybourne Park is fashionably late to the party, providing audiences with a kind of full-bodied discombobulation that only a Chicago production of this play can. Uniquely at Steppenwolf, located just a hop, skip, and a jump away from the play’s setting, the performance begins and ends offstage, outside the theatre doors.



A community with a rich history of diversity, activism, and politics, Lincoln Park is now one yuppie short of an L.L. Bean catalogue. Of course, I say that with a haughty air of judgement, but seriously... I would love an apartment in Lincoln Park. Who wouldn’t? It’s that sort of hypocritical thinking that provides the playwright with his richest material. The enormous frustration and satisfaction this play simultaneously elicits comes from Norris’ eerily pitch perfect (verging on mean-spirited) observations about you and I, two people he has never met. The moment you realize he’s right might come during the performance or right before your 30-and-over racquetball league practice on Wednesday afternoon, but when it does, it will freak you out and ruffle your feathers.



While the text is, for the most part, stronger than the acting company, John Judd's portrayal of Russ, a father mourning the loss of his veteran son, uncovers an astonishing amount of warmth, humor, and empathy in what could, in the hands of a lesser actor, be an icy cold character. Judd deftly navigates the many rapid changes of mood with graceful ease and skill, showing the audience that, for lack of a better phrase, he just... gets it.

As Lindsay in the second act, Stephanie Childers captures the North Shore attitude like a freaking Nikon. I found her to be the most uproariously funny member of the cast, but I also know that attitude all too well. Much of the acting is rooted in stereotype, which works more often than not, but in conjunction with Todd Rosenthal's too-true-to-life set, some moments come off as confuzzled. The set is visually akin to those old fixer-upper apartments that were once so popular, but doesn't evoke much emotionally or, for that matter, intellectually. It just doesn't evoke. It's just big and expensive.



Despite the oddly mammoth set, Amy Morton’s direction is scintillating and detailed, yet leaves no visible evidence at the scene of the crime. She stages this war of words with the physical muscularity of a WWE match and the speed and intellectual potency of The Daily Show. The timing of the occasional loud, bombastic interruption is notably super awesome.



Clybourne Park is a tough play to take in on many levels. It is a comedy of racing pulses, nervous sweating, and extreme discomfort. It's vulgar, it's racist, and it shines a vivid spotlight on humanity's potential for apathetically accepted evil: evil in our own homes; our own living rooms. Bickering with strangers; quarreling with friends and neighbors; screaming at our lovers. Fighting all these Unknown Wars.

Oh, I get it.







Clybourne Park plays Steppenwolf Theatre through November 6

THE TIES THAT BIND -- SOPHOCLES: SEVEN SICKNESSES

“Disrespectful.” “Lacking grandeur.” “Midwestern.”

Listening to intermission chatter is always a riot, not to mention a unique learning opportunity for a theatergoer. Lobbies become limbos of corroded expectation and loudmouthed brainiac assertions; factoid minefields.

This show is good/bad because [fill in the blank].

Of course, everyone is entitled to their own distinct opinion (well, other than Ann Coulter...), but what really struck me during the first intermission of The Hypocrites' Sophocles: Seven Sicknesses (currently running at the Chopin Theatre) was the depth of the audience commentary. Folks were really confused, and considering we were all stuffing our faces with yummy vegan eatables, they were downright befuddled. They all knew what a Greek play was, and yet they had no idea what they were watching.

So, what is it? Is Greek a genre, style, both, or neither? Well, first and foremost, it's delicious. But all saganaki aside... What truly characterizes Greek theatre? A seasoned gentlemen seated on the plush couch to my right in the Chopin's eclectic basement lounge believed grandeur to be a key player. Eh, kinda. What is grand to us size-wize was par-for-the-course in ancient Athens. And as for the perceived formal grandeur of Ancient Greek, much is lost in time and translation. British people certainly sound formal, but have you ever had dinner with one? Better know your favourite football club... So those are all legitimate, I daresay, commonplace conceptions as to what Greek theatre is all about...

...But The Hypocrites get them there Greeks a whole lot better than any Mr. Moneybags regional theatre or grossly overpriced textbook. This innovative company knows that, at its core, Greek theatre is a reflection of community, togetherness, and culture. With Sophocles: Seven Sicknesses, director Sean Graney has adapted and conceptualized the remaining seven texts of (you guessed it) Sophocles, and given them voice for our community, our culture, our heartbeat.

Sophocles: Seven Sicknesses is a work of staggering conceptual scope (including Oedipus, In Trachis, In Colonus, Philoktetes, Ajax, Elektra, and Antigone), running about four hours, yet someway, somehow it is more intimate and more inclusive than my primordial cave-like studio apartment. Graney, his cast and crew go out of their way to cultivate a warm, familial environment for their audience, and it is absolutely integral and vital to the success of this production. Seems a teensy bit strange to feel enveloped by waves of group positivity, feel good vibes, and a communal meal as you observe a woman's esophageal lining become acquainted with the acidic burn of bleach... But then again, I imagine you have, at some point in your life, watched a horror movie with friends. Greek theatre should be kind of like a horror movie. Skream.

And this horror movie is most definitely a Chicago-based horror movie. It takes place in a hospital. Like Chicago Hope and ER, these tiled floors see a whole lot of blood, saliva, vomit, dirt, sickness, and any number of other unpalatable yucky messes, but they always get mopped up. Greece always rebuilds. Thanks to two saucy nurse-chorus members played with eye-roll-larity by Sarah Jackson and Shannon Matesky. The entire company of actors is completely in-tune and fantastically transformative. Character changes happen seamlessly, and the performances are uniformly vibrant. Tien Doman’s portrayal of Denjanira, the tragic wife of Heracles, brings new life to a text that is given the cold shoulder far too often. Same goes for Walter Briggs’ sexually-charged, powerful Ajax.

The design team beautifully imposes story and personality onto a sterile hospital scene. The colors of Tom Burch and Maria Defabo’s runway stage are stark white, robin’s egg blue, and sickly green, evoking not the Mediterranean, but the Mediterranean’s subterranean underbelly. Jared Moore’s lighting design burns lasting images into your retinas, and Stephen Ptacek’s sound design marries oddly, and chillingly well with the godly rumble of the Red Line below.

The real star is Sean Graney’s unpredictable adaptation. Graney's whipsmart dialogue zigzags between the colloquial (“Like, ya know”) and the formal (“plow her fields”) , often using abrupt shifts to make light of the overblown tragedy playing out before us. There is a clever, invisible purpose behind the jawdroppingly funny humor though, and that is the genius of this compilation.

Audiences today cannot sob together. Nope. We’re just too scared. We have been woefully, yet successfully conditioned to stifle honest tears, and if you're anything like me, you actually consider getting measly watery eyes to be full-on "crying".

But we sure do love to laugh, don't we? Laughing has got to be one of the few universal human constants; one of the few 'Ties That Bind' (the first track of Bruce Springsteen's "The River" from which the evening's music is mined from). Here the tragic is symbiotically bound to the comic, achieving a modern equivalent to the original Greek audience's response. Pretty damn cool. The performance I attended was chocked full of critics and Jeff Award voters. Not exactly a rowdy, happenin’ bunch, but you’d never know that from the roars. Graney’s text and the ensemble’s quirks are so bellysmackin’ funny that as you watch the play...on a couch...spattered by blood, your neighbor becomes your friend. A lovely and all too infrequent sensation.

For a production to captivate an audience for even ten minutes is a sadly reserved luxury in today's theatrical climate. But for an entire hour, the climactic end of Sophocles: Seven Sicknesses grabs you by the jugular, beckoning you forward without option. That being said, the pleasures and sensations brought forth by Sophocles are more akin to those achieved through sadomasochism than through your run-of-the-mill “wah! wah! wah!” production of Antigone. This creative team has a paddle, a whip and a ball-gag, and the safe word is ‘Sickness’. The slap-in-the-face final sixty minutes of Sophocles: Seven Sicknesses solidifies The Hypocrites’ season opener as the theatrical event of flu season.-Johnny Oleksinski

Sophocles: Seven Sicknesses runs at the Chopin Theatre through October 23.

WOYZECK? YES PEAS! - 'Woyzeck' by The Hypocrites at The Chopin Theatre

Early German Expressionism.

On paper, it is about as exhilarating a string of words as 'Discount Oil Change'. Historically however, German expressionism onstage is the artistic product of one of the most tumultuous eras of modern European history.

The more you know ~~~~~*


During the mid-to-late nineteenth century, Germany was experiencing a radical wave of militant ethnic nationalism that would result in, not one, but two devastatingly destructive world wars. Pretty retrospectively exciting, right?
In 1836, a young Georg Büchner, one of Deutschland's most enduring dramatists, wrote his masterwork, Woyzeck. A heartily theme-laden and purposefully abstract piece, Woyzeck tragically tells the tale of power, religion, class, obligation, and jealousy through the eyes of a demeaned soldier.


Sounds like ideal fodder for The Hypocrites, a company founded on the principle of providing honest live experiences that put the theatricality back into theatre. Performed in collaboration with About Face Theatre, Sean Graney's visceral production of Woyzeck at The Chopin Theatre reinvents German expressionism from a genre lathered in soapy pretension into something titillating and treacherous.

Woyzeck was notably left unfinished by Georg Büchner at his death - a fact that many directors, editors, and writers have mined as a mandate to impose their own, oft-misguided visions over Büchner's prevailing voice. Unlike many of these artistes, director Sean Graney, in his work with The Hypocrites, has repeatedly proven himself an honorable adapter, nearly always keeping true to the spirit of the play at hand. While so many of his contemporaries lazily pull the trigger at aging dramas, Graney instead employs a sharpened scalpel for cutting the text - with the finesse and the respect of a Dexter-like serial killer. Like the final line of Büchner's play, this adaptation certainly is "a beautiful murder".

Sean Graney's thoughtful adaptation successfully captures the unique iron rigidity of nineteenth century Germany, while his direction imbues the world of the play with whimsy, shocking humor, and striking imagery - all at once bizarre, flamboyant, and luxurious. Imagine a blood soaked murderer eating peas over a fallen corpse while a woman upstage calmly strokes a fake deer. I would call that cross-section one of the more straightforward moments of the evening.


Woyzeck can be a difficult play to wrap your head around initially, but the plot itself is actually quite simple. Woyzeck, a soldier and government scientific experiment (he is forced to only eat peas!), kills his wife out of jealousy, believing that she had sex with another man (which she did). Easy enough. The trouble comes when one tries to make logical sense out of every single minuscule bit of minutiae that pierces the eyes, ears, and other less activated theatrical senses.


Woyzeck, and particularly this Woyzeck, requires willingness and patience from both the audience and performers. Woyzeck washes over the audience like the tide. You can stare out at the ocean for hours and hours and guess how far inland it will eventually encroach, but you will only truly know once it has arrived. I encourage you to allow Woyzeck to arrive. You will not be disappointed.

As you stare out at the proceedings, you will find yourself lost in a world that effortlessly fits the play, the performers, and the space. Every onstage facet is seamlessly welded together like a well-built German car. The scenic design by Tom Burch employs thick chopped logs as the primary element, and they are used with swiftness and rigor by the cast. The remainder of the stage is covered in obscured plastic sheets and sickly lime green. The phrase gorgeously yucky comes to mind.

Less Fiskness's lighting design marries with the scenery in a way that is so perfect, it seems at times that the light itself is emanating from the stage and the actors rather than from some hanging metal instruments above our heads.
The costumes by Izumi Inaba evoke the layered, worn clothing of old Germany, but reinterpret it as svelte, sexy punk wear. The characters that we like and the characters that we loathe all reek of something sinister.

One of the few (and believe me, there are very few) qualms I had with the production was the, at times, overpowering sound design by Mikhail Fiskel. I adored the bouncy Bavarian music (by Kevin O'Donnell) that transported me onto Willy Wonka's messed up boat, but the actors had to compete with it, and like the Triple Alliance, they lost.


Like most of the technical elements, the actors form a cohesive, yet playful and joyous unit - each establishing unique and quirky characteristics while still remaining one unified being. As Woyzeck, Geoff Button bleeds likability and hardship. His character has been trampled mercilessly by those in power around him, and the woman and child he works so hard to support do not truly love him back. Through all this, Button never plays the victim, which would be the easy way out - but like all the characters in this production, he exudes energetic innocence.

A fascinating choice by Graney involves a character named Jude-Marktschreier, played with a Cheshire Cat grin by Zeke Sulkes. Known in many productions as the Charlatan, Graney evolved this role to personify everything that is corrupt and paranoid about Woyzeck. Each time Woyzeck requests Maria to take his money, the Marktschreier says, "She will always,' signaling Woyzeck's insecurities right from the get go. The inclusion of this role gives enhanced rationale for Woyzeck's eventual murderous actions, and firmly establishes the play as a tragedy.

Of course, this all sounds super duper serious - but surrounding the blood, the horrific trauma, and the psychological exploration is ample hilarity and fun. There are jokes abound, and although the woman sitting in front of you might occasionally give you a judgmental glare when you laugh at them, laughter is indeed welcome. I mean, c'mon! Within two minutes of a disgusting, grotesque murder, the entire cast is singing Cyndi Lauper's 'Time After Time'. How silly!

After fourteen years as The Hypocrites' artistic director, Sean Graney is stepping down at the end of this season and opting for greener pastures. Woyzeck was part of his first season at the Hypocrites, and this production will be his final show at The Chopin - his tenure coming full circle. Woyzeck embodies everything that The Hypocrites have come to represent - excitement, danger, sexuality, honesty - and I cannot implore you enough to take in this incredible production by one of the best companies in Chicago - equity or non-equity. So even though it has a funny title, even though you may not know anything about it, even though it's early German expressionism - put all those old stigmas aside and see this positively electric show. Discount oil change, my ass.-Johnny Oleksinski

Woyzeck plays the Chopin Theatre through May 22.

GOD OF STUPEFACTION -- 'God of Carnage' at The Goodman Theatre

GOD OF CARNAGE is a somewhat deceptive title for the Chicago premiere of Yasmina Reza's new play at the Goodman Theatre, which is about as emotionally saturated as an episode of Dora The Explorer.

God of Bored Stupefaction might be a more appropriate label for this ill-conceived and often yawn-inducing production. The show aims to be neither riveting nor particularly funny, but is still a notch above doing your laundry.


Yasmina Reza's intelligent comedy advantageously exploits an audience's longing to witness the actions of people who are worse than they are, and then to further ridicule those people with their loud guffaws. What separates this play from the other famous play about two warring couples, is that by the end, the audience is supposed to come to realize that the proscenium is only just a fun house mirror. They are or have been those characters at some time and place, and have been driven to similar acts of animalistic desperation. Humans are not greater than animals;

Humans ≥ Animals.


WHO'S AFRAID OF VIRGINIA WOOLF is Edward Albee's 1962 masterpiece which, coincidentally recently received its own high-profile Chicago production at Steppenwolf Theatre featuring Tony winner Tracy Letts and Tony nominee Amy Morton. God of Carnage on Broadway was a vastly different experience than at the Goodman. So different that any parallels to Virginia Woolf were lost on me at the time. I ended that side-splittingly hilarious evening concluding that the behavior of adults is really no better than the behavior of their children - if not worse. At the Goodman Theatre, director Rick Snyder has misguidedly imposed a number of rather dramatic changes that morph this lovely play and its message into a Woolf-Lite. A Diet Woolf. Woolf Zero. Caffeine-Free Woolf.


Unlike God of Carnage, Who's Afraid of Virigina Woolf is a dramatic singularity, an event that is specific to those four messed up people, on that one messed up night, in that specific messed up living room. Albee hops in a Hummer, and really drives that point home by putting twenty years of age between the two married couples.


Yasmina Reza specifies that her four characters are all in their forties, which should be noted, is the median age of theatre-goers (according to a 2006 report released by the League of American Theatres and Producers). God of Carnage is universal. The conflict is vague, the characters are stereotypes, and the design should have no elements of realism (as specified by Reza). It is a situation that I fit into, you fit into, and your second cousin Clarence could swear was written about himself. Talking to some playgoers after the show, many were under the impression that God of Carnage centers around an older couple and a younger couple, and I couldn't help but agree with that perception. Actors Mary Beth Fisher and Keith Kupferer appear much older and act more world-weary than their onstage counterparts, Beth Lacke and David Pasquesi, who bustle around with frenetic modern sensibilities. Snyder has set up a generational conflict - detracting from the plot and humor, while also also drawing nagging similarities to Virginia Woolf.


Snyder and his actors have embraced the lazy fallback Chicago method of acting -- "letsseehowfastwecantalktomakethisplayseemmorerealisticandgutsy" -- around a text that does not ask for it. God of Carnage began its life in Zurich as Le Dieu du Carnage, eventually moving to London where it won the Best New Comedy Olivier Award. The Broadway and London versions were translated by Christopher Hampton, the British playwright best known for his past collaborations with Reza and his oft-performed adaptation of Les Liasions Dangereuses. While the London version of God of Carnage was, of course, performed in English, the characters still retained their original French names (Alain, Veronique, Michel, and Annette) and location (Paris), giving logic to the strange cadence of their speech.


"Strange?" you ask? The four characters are upper middle class parents discussing a playground fight between their two young sons. One father matter-of-factly states, "Our son is a savage."
The text is chock-full of similar not-quite-right phraseology that, spoken realistically, never allows an audience to become fully immersed in the play. Speaking it at break neck pace, as if it was completely ordinary, makes it that much more conspicuous.


The company of Chicago actors drearily walk through the play, occasionally elevating their volume to underscore a point. In a play that gives them full on license to freak, they are all satisfied instead with rigid physical restraint. The one exception is Beth Lacke's Annette. Her character, who is not written to be noticed, was on the constant verge of eruption (No, I am not talking about that...), and to see her character let loose, provided some much needed respite from the rest of the procession.


Reza's expressed desire for the set to contain "nothing superfluous" and to be without realism has been unapologetically ignored by designer Takeshi Kata who has created a stark white, annoyingly modern apartment that is all too common in wealthy New York neighborhoods. The space is simultaneously so bright and yet so drab. It becomes rather difficult to watch at times - a feat in a play of only seventy-five minutes. Accompanied by Birgit Rattenborg Wise's black and white costumes, God of Carnage appears as less of a play and more of an uncharacteristically boring funeral.


God of Carnage at The Goodman Theatre is truly a celebration of the mundane, dull, and tiresome. In Snyder's purposeful or accidental efforts to create a watered-down sequel to Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf, he has retained but a fourteenth of the script's comic edge, and makes a measly seventy-five minutes drag on like a chemistry course.


So, if you're short on cash and/or time, you're probably better off seeing Roman Polanski's film version of God of Carnage due out in 2012.

See! It's already edgier!





God of Carnage plays The Goodman Theatre through April 17

'AS YOU LIKE IT'? NOT SO MUCH -- 'As You Like It' at Chicago Shakespeare Theatre

How would you like your Shakespeare?

Cliché with a side of yawn? Or perhaps Pretentious stuffed with some hot, steaming Concept?

Ah yes, of course - Drinks first. I recommend the Coy-smile-tini.
Enjoy your time at The Chicago Shakespeare Theatre.


I'm sorry. I couldn't resist...


The Chicago Shakespeare Theatre on Navy Pier is currently serving up a detestable, cookie cutter production of Shakespeare's As You Like it, ensnaring audiences with three long hours of lame giggles and wishy-washy indecisiveness.


WARNING: If you purchase a ticket to As You Like It with the intention of enjoying a play by William Shakespeare, you will fail in this effort. You might enjoy something, but I can assuredly guarantee you that it will not originate from the text of the play.

But is there really anything wrong with that?

No. Absolutely not.


Many, many entertaining and poignant adaptations of Shakespeare's plays exist that transfer primary focus from the text to some other element in order to tell a specific story. No prob.
However, Chicago Shakespeare's website misleadingly states that "[they] are known for [their] devotion to preserving the integrity of Shakespeare’s language, while at the same time making the work clear and understandable to a modern American audience."


Can anyone tell me what that even means?


If one preserves the "integrity of Shakespeare's language," the play should be inherently understandable to anyone who speaks English. It is only when a condescending effort is made to pander the text to a "modern American audience" that clarity is lost. Such is the case with As You Like It.


Director, Chicago native Gary Griffin, has achieved phenomenal international success, most notably with his stagings of The Color Purple (Broadway/Tour), Pacific Overtures (Chicago/London), and West Side Story (Stratford Festival) - a production that was far superior to the simultaneously running Broadway revival.
Yes, Griffin is a proven director, but if you review his metaphorical highlight reel, you'll be hard-pressed not to find someone a' singin' and a' dancin. Although he is employed by high-profile Shakespearean institutions like Chicago Shakespeare Theatre and The Stratford Shakespeare Festival, Griffin almost always directs the musical.

Don't worry. I hear all of you seasoned Chicago theatre veterans out there yelling

"Hold the phone! I saw Griffin's Amadeus in 2008!"

I did too. And Chicago Shakespeare's production was lovely. But remember, Amadeus is play driven by music.


In an interview in the program, Griffin states that As You Like It has been called Shakespeare's most musical play" and that "Rosalind...is the musical heart and soul of the piece and the music is her soul". That is all well and good, but here music is used as a crutch - a means of propping up a play that the creative team feels cannot stand on its own. I'm saying that it can, and it wants to.

The music, while well-sung, is also noticeably out-of-place. The score is reminiscent of an Anime cartoon credit sequence. Lone, slow, staccato piano music conjuring up images of pastoral hills...and goats.


Speaking of goats (No, Edward Albee. You can put your ego away. This has nothing to do with you. [And I can put my own ego away. Like Edward Albee would ever read this]) , the sound design is packed with on-the-nose animal noises and nondescript nature sounds. Coupled with a set whose major element is a Tim Burton-esque tree of mangled boards and a straight forward Regency Era costume design (think Jane Austen), there is ample confusion abound.


And this confusion does nothing to help the actors.
I have not brought up acting yet because there is not much to say. Understudy Steve Wojtas as Orlando and Kate Fry as Rosalind are very endearing, but that is the highest praise I can give. Ross Lehman's Jaques, in an unintentional nod to his "All the world's a stage..." speech, chews the scenery like a teething baby. For the most part, they are a clearly competent group of actors placed into an extremely misguided production - forced into doing their best "Shakespeare Voices" ...You know what I mean.

There is very little to enjoy about this soulless production. At times it truly seems as if a group of equity actors were abducted and tricked into performing in an oddly well-funded community theatre. As You Like It is up there with A Midsummer Night's Dream and Much Ado About Nothing in terms of hilarious comedies. It is an extremely funny play, but here...eh, not so much.

So my Shakespearean rant aside, at $70 a ticket, you are being charged an extraordinary amount of money to be cheated of the experience you deserve: a light-hearted, whimsical comedy filled with twists and turns. The kind of story that we yearn for. Instead, all you get is a chair and an illusion of cultural fulfillment.

You can get the same thing for free by tuning into 'Barefoot Contessa' Saturdays at Noon on the Food Network.

'BEING HAROLD PINTER' - A TESTAMENT TO THE NECESSITY OF ART

Politics in American theatre is an iffy subject. If you take a long hard look at the performances you have seen, been a part of, or read about, you will probably find very little, if any, topical political material in that repertoire. The major exception, or course, being satire (the likes of Second City), which takes a humorous, "let's laugh at ourselves!" look at current events - but nothing too heavy.

No, Americans do not like to seriously evaluate their actions onstage or in films until long after the repercussions have been felt. Retrospective representations of past presidents and other important politicians are frequently lauded for their nuanced accuracy and subtle parallels to today. But don't go touching living figures...

Lucy Preble's Enron, a massive hit in London's West End, opened and closed last year on Broadway after a measly sixteen performances - simultaneously surprising and disappointing many theatre-goers. Some critics and audience members decried the work as 'anti-American' - as if the crimes of Kenneth Lay and other Enron executives were justifiable and right.

To witness respected, topical political theatre in the United States is a rare and exciting opportunity. Chicago audiences are fortunate enough to have that opportunity for the month of February thanks to The Goodman Theatre, Northwestern University, The League of Chicago Theatres, and Chicago Shakespeare Theatre. These theatrical powerhouses have combined forces to bring Belarus Free Theatre's production of Being Harold Pinter to Chicago.

In December, BFT secretly left their homeland of Belarus to perform Being Harold Pinter at The Public Theatre's Under The Radar Festival in New York City - escaping persecution and possible imprisonment. After their well received run finished in New York, the ensemble's only options were to find work or go home. Luckily for these artists (and audiences), Chicago has taken them in temporarily as they await their next engagement in Hong Kong.

A company at risk of being put in jail, assaulted, denied employment, and having their homes and the homes of their loved ones raided by the KBG -and all for persuing their art.

But they still do it. They must do it. And what occurs onstage is theatre at its most raw, gutteral, and honest.

Now, admittedly, the performance began slowly for me. There is a language barrier (with the actors speaking in Belarusian and Russian with English subtitles projected behind them) that takes time to adapt to, but the company understands that. The most poignant moments take shape later in the play with scenes from Mountain Language and One For The Road intertwined with first hand accounts of actual Belarusian political prisoners. These scenes were terribly difficult to watch as the actors' unfortunate insight into political oppression was obvious. The performance also includes snippets from other Pinter plays like The Homecoming, Old Times, Ashes To Ashes, and New World Order as well as Pinter's Nobel Prize Lecture. From all parties, the acting is quite fine and the ensemble is crisp - but this performance involves something much greater than what is simply presented in front of us, or how we feel about the characters.

In this extremely unique theatre environment, the audience's attitudes towards the fictional people in Pinter's plays and the very real actors onstage - become one - and the compassionate tension felt throughout the room is electric. Sections involving horrific torture gained incredible poignance, and for BFT to share their true life experiences with us is remarkably brave.

Audiences used to only attending the 'big three' (The Goodman, Steppenwolf, and Chicago Shakespeare) might also find themselves somewhat taken aback by the groups' ample use of simple stylized elements (common in European theatre) like the ethereal sound of several crystal glasses ringing at once, each actor's right hand drenched in stark red blood, or the sight of seven people trapped under a translucent plastic tarp, effortfully banging - trying to escape.

These grotesqueyly beautiful images resonate strongly within us, and contain power that words alone cannot achieve. During these scenes, there is no need to keep one eye glued to the subtitle screen - because you know, in your heart, exactly what is going on.

I did not come to the theatre as a Pinter scholar, and I did not leave it as such - so for those of you who are only lightly familiar with his plays, or perhaps not at all familiar, be not afeared. Being Harold Pinter, while most definitely an exploration of the life and work of Pinter, is much more a celebration of humanity - the forces that bring us together, the evil that rips us apart, and the artist's central role in interpreting the human experience.-Johnny Oleksinski


Being Harold Pinter continues performances in Chicago at Northwestern University’s Struble Theatre on February 4-13 and Chicago Shakespeare Theatre on February 18-20.

'THE PIRATES OF PENZANCE' - SEX, DRUGS, AND THE HIGH SEAS!

Sex

...is certainly not the first word that usually comes to mind when pondering Gilbert and Sullivan. I always visualize two white-haired, elderly Englishmen with stereotypically profound mustaches plastered to weathered faces, repeatedly congratulating each other on their combined cleverness.

And don't forget the monocles!

But at the Chopin Theatre, The Hypocrites' new production of the duo's

The Pirates of Penzance oozes seduction, charm, and danger.

Weird, huh? The concept of an edgy, boundary pushing Pirates of Penzance probably sounds odd to you if you are at all familiar with the show, but this immensely creative treatment stands extremely well on its own - apart from its notable old-style predecessors. The only item one is left wanting, and very rarely, is clarity. However, that is the challenge of facing twenty-first century ears with nineteenth century lyrics. At many points in this fine production, however, Gilbert's words are heard for the first time.

THEATRE TO LOOK FORWARD TO THIS SPRING

BROADWAY.

With only twenty shows currently playing on Broadway, and most of what opened in the Fall over and done with, everyone is craving some new blood on the Great White Way.

Here is what I am most looking forward to...



THE BOOK OF MORMON.

 From the creators of South Park and Avenue Q, comes The Book of Mormon - a musical skewering of religion.

Vogue calls it "hands down, the filthiest, most offensive, and—surprise—sweetest thing you’ll see on Broadway this year, and quite possibly the funniest musical ever."

Do I rule my life by what Vogue says? No. But word of mouth has been promising, and the premise is fantastically provocative. If South Park - Bigger, Longer, and Uncut is any indication, The Book of Mormon should be great fun, extremely crass, and quite ridiculous.