Let South Jersey Theatre Rise

The Right Things To Do, Part 1:  Know Thyself

I began reviewing South Jersey theatre only a short while ago. But it doesn’t take long for a dispassionate but friendly eye to spot odd places of timidity, rigidity, confusion and inelegance. This is particularly true since these things do not show up on the stages so much as in the houses of the companies I review. Except for a precious few, they are universally ill-attended. That’s fact number one.

Fact two: where is The McCarter Theatre?

The McCarter, in Princeton, is the single, most active regional theatre in the United States. It is the grand dame of  central-south Jersey theatres with a soaring proscenium, traps, flies and a lighting grid which makes the heavens jealous on cloudy nights. It has a full, elegant staff of first-rate talent in every aspect of the craft. It presents, all in all, the best argument it is possible to make for the value of live theatre.

And I got lost getting there. Less than a mile from the door, we stop  at a pizza place. Excuse me, The McCarter Theatre? Blank stares, a shrug and gone.

Down the street, a gas station. Again, excuse me, The McCarter?

“That’s that movie theater, right?”

I was taken aback. So close to this national treasure and the people working around it have never heard of it. This represents a disjuncture between art and life which I find painful. I fully expected everyone living and working around McCarter to know at least what it was if not how to find it. Even the pizza drivers drew a blank? That’s absurd. And that’s fact number two.

Knowing that you live near arguably the best American theatre would be a great point of pride in a rational world. That it’s not speaks barrel loads, and those barrels are not full of fine wine.

How come they don’t know? Why doesn’t the level of McCarter match more broadly with the level of  daily life?  We can take a guess that the superlative nature of McCarter’s fare puts it off the common radar. But that answer is not completely satisfying. And it begs the question, if they’re not aware of it for its artistic accomplishments, how about just because it’s famous? is all theatre too fine to be reckoned in the common field of notice?

Not at all. Staples clerks, school secretaries, even pizza drivers are the stuff of which community theatre is built. Community theatre is folk art of the highest sort. It is well within the notice of folks in pizza parlors and gas stations.

And yet we have Collingswood, NJ, a town with a fabulous theatre, an arts center, galleries and bistros. A lot of artistic stuff happens in Collingswood. Now, scoot along Haddon Avenue in Collingswood on a breezy, summer’s day and ask folks at random if there isn’t a community theatre around there somewhere. In fact, there are two. But if you find one person in ten who knows that’s true and, of those ones in tens, one in ten who can name one of the two theatre companies, you’ll have done better than I did.

This unnatural chasm between great art and real life is rationally preposterous. All arts, particularly theatre, grow from things every human does as a child.

What does an actor do? An actor stands in front of witnesses and says things with great conviction which could not possibly be true. Acting is the art form of lying. If that sounds harsh, think “fibbing”.

What is a fort made of sofa cushions other than a stage set? And the little one inside calling out, “I’m a soldier, Mommy!” is an actor developing his craft. You clearly make out her vocal characterizations and interpretations as the show goes on.

The skills of the art are so innately bound with human development and growth and yet the art itself is so oddly ripped away from it. This makes my brain hurt.

But an idea came to me as I pondered facts one and two. Who is in the best position to repair this injury to our cultural psyche? Community theatre is! The big theatres try, but there aren’t enough of them. There are a whole lot of community theatres, and they’re all over the place!

I hear the groan building even before anyone has read this. It’s the over-worked core groups of community theatres telling me they will snap if they’re given more work than is already on their plates. Not to worry. This is intended to relieve exactly that stress by working together and doing a couple of fun, gutsy things.

There’s a stopper, of course, or this would have been done long ago. I don’t exactly know what’s in the way, but I have a message for the South Jersey theatre community to understand with perfect clarity:

You are a very, very talented group of people.

I have seen you on stage. I have seen others on stage. I have reviewed you. I have reviewed professional theatre. You are not professional theatres. But there is not a single performance I have seen where there has not been sufficient talent, if not training and production values, to fill any stage anywhere.

The industry as a whole seems to believe that it benefits from the interesting assertion that talent is a rare commodity and, therefore, valuable in a free market sense.  So there are places where all the “real talent” gathers and flexes itself. And then there is Everywhere-Else. We in Everywhere-Else must rightly pay the real talent great sums of money to flex for us because, without them, we have nothing to inspire us.

Okay, two thing: first, this myth of the scarcity of talent is complete rubbish, and, second, it does not benefit the art or the industry in any but a very unimaginative, short-sighted way. In the end, it leads to the cultural schizophrenia we have now. Talent is not a rare commodity. It is a human birthright. To say it is rare is to lie. Ah, theatre!

So I start here: you folks in community theatre don’t know how talented you are. If you knew how talented you are, if you knew how good your product is, none of this would be a problem. Why do I think that?

Because if you knew yourselves to be as talented as I, having seen you on stage, know you to be, you would be beating brass drums down the streets of your towns getting notice. You would be unable to be less proud of your products than that. You are that damned good.

So I challenge South Jersey community theatres: meet with me. Let’s figure a place to get together on Saturday, January 7, have a cup of tea and chat about a common strategy.  I’ve heard a number of strong ideas on my rounds, and I’m certain there are more amongst such a creative group. Let’s raise public awareness of theatre to the point where every adult in South Jersey will know the name of her/his own community theatre group and everyone on two legs within ten miles of Princeton will at least be able to point with pride in the direction to The McCarter, acknowledging the cultural high ground that it is.

On the way, together, we can accomplish the 4 Cheeks Project: four cheeks for every seat of every house of every performance of every community theatre production playing in South Jersey. I’m tired of sitting alone in the dark. Let’s get me some company watching your very good work. 

Where shall we meet? Let me hear from you.

Terry Stern

sjreviewer@yahoo.com  

(856) 240-0890

At McCarter Theatre in Princeton

A Christmas Carol: Why Live Theatre Will Never Cease

If there is a single story in the English language which embodies today’s heart of Christmas, it is A Christmas Carol. Begun as a political pamphlet about the plight of poor children in early 1843, Dickens withheld its publication, revised it, and published it later in the year under its present title.

It was written at a time when the Christmas tree and card were first being introduced to English culture. The story, in its many incarnations and iterations, is credited with bringing joy and song back to the celebration of the holiday after a period of somber sobriety and keeping it there for over 150 years unto the present day.

Nearly everyone I know, Christian or not, was raised on this beautiful, early Victorian cautionary tale. So, Charles Dickens and Alastair Sim notwithstanding, A Christmas Carol is definitely an American classic.

It is most fitting, then, that it should be staged with such elegantly magical depth, grit and splash by the crown jewel of New Jersey theatres, The McCarter Theatre of Princeton. Venerable and rightfully venerated, the McCarter is the  Everest of regional theatres and has been nearly since its opening in 1930.

Endowed with a proud history and a technical staff of 30, there is no end to the riveting beauty, clarity and delight of the stage pictures it presents in its productions, particularly this one. Wigglingly exciting images, sounds and animations from the hair-raising door knocker to the blaze of the flaming headstone with a  giant, eerily animated puppet of death filling a quarter of the stage from floor to proscenium arch directing the climax. The spectacle dazzles earnestly and seamlessly from start to finish in a manner most satisfyingly matched by the performances it supports.

Graeme Malcome gives us a twisted wick of a Scrooge, hauntingly gaunt, crabby and spare atop the mountain of his success, presented in a towering, unsettlingly off-center set by designer Ming Cho Lee. Mr. Malome rants, snarls and forcefully fulfills the deliciously evil character we hate so much it makes us laugh.

Agile and with fine timing and form, he makes an entrance you do not want to miss to open the second act. You may wish to avert your gaze if you are acrophobic, but you will be yanking on the sleeve of the person sitting next to you demanding to know what’s going on. His is the show’s deep, steady anchor.

The Ghost of Christmas Present is styled by Ronica Reddick with the quirky flair of  a slightly over-caffeinated interior designer insouciantly arranging and rearranging a room. Except her room is Scrooge. She bears a twinkling, sprinkling, chiming wand and gleefully wreaks havoc on Scrooge’s equilibrium, not to mention the audience’s. She is an elegant, comic delight.

Piper Goodeye and Michele Tauber, two most versatile actresses playing multiple supporting parts, most notably and hysterically as Mrs. Bonds and Mrs. Stocks, the two solicitresses who come seeking respite for the poor at this season of the year. As their names so clearly attest, one cannot do without the other. They fill in each other’s words and finish each other’s sentences, bustling about like fairy godmothers who’ve had more than the recommended amount of cocoa for one day.  

The young actors in this performance delight and amaze. Danny Hallowell gives us a Peter Cratchit which embodies the yeoman’s spirit of optimistic youth, taking the stage as if mastering a mountain peak and crying out gleefully in triumph to us below. Matthew Kuene is a wonderful, harried delivery boy straining under a burden which looks nearly as large as he is and drawing strong laughs with his impatience at the unbelieving fools looking their gift horse in the mouth.

Which brings us to the ghosts of Christmas past. This role is brilliantly given to Annika Goldman, Kate Fahey and Samantha Johnson, three young actors who show stamina and talent, dancing, leaping, and laughing in innocent enjoyment of their spirit selves and who provide the perfect, non-threatening bridge to introduce Scrooge to the spirit world.

The cast deserves more praise than I can give here. The Cratchits and Fezziwigs deserve mention, the char woman, laundress and undertaker demand a word as does Old Joe, There is no one I would omit from a fair review with unlimited space and a readership of infinite patience. But I would like to cite the director, Michael Unger. 

This is Mr. Unger’s 14^th year directing the McCarter’s holiday offering, and the vision he brings to the stage carves its own, spacious niche amongst the myriad of productions, performances and renditions of this story. At once comfortingly familiar and surprisingly its own, Mr. Unger’s offering is as sweet as they ever come. Thank you so much, Mr. Unger, not only for this tasty, Christmas treat, but for giving us an incontrovertible argument proving live theatre will never die. It provides spectacle more amazing than movies and more intelligent than circuses.

 I would encourage everyone to get to see this blazing spectacle of hope and transformation. It will not be the cheapest ticket you ever bought, but it will be the most wisely-spent money you ever laid down for a seat.

And that would do it except for a final observation. This is some of the best, full-range theatre appearing on any stage anywhere in the world. Yet, when we got a bit turned round on our way there and stopped to ask less than a mile from the curtain, no one had any idea what we were talking about. “Is that a movie theater,” asked one?

Places like The McCarter gamely address this painful disjuncture between art and daily life, collecting for local charities and food banks at the end of the performance. But they are not nearly enough. It will take a full-blown, cooperative effort on the part of the theatre world, community theatre in particular, to make a dent. Community theatre must not be timid in leading the way on this.   

Take this in the joyous and grateful spirit in which it is offered: I saw a beautiful confluence of experienced craft, honed talent, elegant space and first-rate equipment, materials and supplies on the McCarter stage. It is an assemblage which cannot easily be elsewhere matched.

But there are a number of actors I’ve seen on smaller, less elegant community stages whose talents would fill out a production such as this quite nicely. And this does not in the least diminish the respect and high regard in which I hold the fine actors at McCarter. I saw huge talent there, and I saw no talent I haven’t seen matched many times on community stages.

Training isn’t cheap, and the courage to trust in your own talent is hard to come by. But talent is universal. We’ve got it, every one. Let’s join with excellent theatres like The McCarter to get theatre rooted into real life. Everyone within ten miles of the place should know exactly where it is and what fine things take place there.

My reviews are written for Stage Magazine, a primary live theatre resource for the Delaware Valley. It is a useful and attractive site. Click here totake a look.

You may also be interested in reading some of my other reviews which have appeared in Stage. Click here toread some.

This two-part series on theatre for young children in Camden also appeared in Stage. People tell me the second one made them cry. Click here and get a hankie.

STAGES at Camden County College

School for Wives: rip-snorting classical hoot!

Jean-Baptiste Poquelin was a very funny man. Living a short but  successful life from January 15, 1622 to February 17, 1673, we know him better by his pen name, Moliere. School for Wives was his 1662 return to a theme which had won him great favor the previous year with his School for Husbands: the folly of jealousy in love.

Moliere’s comedy is strongly influenced by his great love of commedia dell’arte,  the late Italian Renaissance comic theatre style. He is a master of comic types. Arnolphe is the pompous middle-aged fool so wrapped up in his own peculiar logic that he is totally bewildered when his contrivances unravel as they collide with the real world.

Stephen Bonnell gives us a classic old fool with a twist: he steps tantalizingly close to cattiness. This allows him a pleasing pantheon of sneers with which to delight us as the plot unfolds. There is his lovely smug sneer, his warm-beer bewildered sneer, and his liver-and-marshmallows defeated sneer to name but a few. He has choral sneers with his friend, Chrysalde. Thank you, Mr. Bonnell, for a fine anchor to this furiously funny production.

Agnes is the sweet young thing. Played to a grand comic shine by Melissa Rittman, she snaps across the stage with energetic, bawdy innocence. Sheltered from an early age by her guardian, Arnolphe, she has been purposely kept in total ignorance of anything not related to the cloistered, distaff existence  he has planned for her. Ms. Rittmann is a perfect Penelope Trueheart, the ripe peach striving to stay on the tree as she’s told but yearning for the picker’s pluck and not willing to wait, no matter what they said at the convent.

In steps Horace, given to us as the perfect youth by Ian Taylor. Heroically smiling in confident self-satisfaction, Mr. Taylor gives us a Horace who is always nobly running somewhere. At first sight, Horace and Agnes are in love and undergo great pains to be together, none of which you want to miss. You certainly do not want to miss Mr. Taylor’s dying twice for love. He was not the only one on the floor at that point. Half the audience was there, too, holding our sides. The other half was laughing too hard to fall down.

Filling out the farce are the rascally servants, Alain and Georgette, played by Tim Rinehart and Maria Panvini like a top-billed Vaudeville comedy team. Rinehart & Panvini give us comic timing like championship mixed doubles, knocking their play about with total commitment to every whacky choice they make.

And then there are more minor characters like Chrysalde, Arnolphe’s long-time friend who warns the jealous guardian against his folly. Chryslde is given to us with snide urbanity by Tim Rinehart.

Tim Rinehart? The one who is fabulous as Alain? Yes, he doubles as Chrysalde and plays such distinct characters that the only clue there was to his double role was that Chrysalde was wearing knee pads but was doing no falling. Then I realized that Alain and Chrysalde were of very similar build. Then I checked the program.

Mr. Bonnell and Mr. Rinehart are at their sneering, condescending  best in their common scenes, bouncing the subject of cuckoldry back and forth like a tired mouse just wishing for the end already. Boastful condescension abounds in elegant sufficiency. These two elevate the sneer to the art it was always meant to be.

The actors not mentioned by name here are omitted for want of space, not praiseworthy performances. Each deserves a paragraph. The entire cast is to be roundly appreciated for its fine comic timing, its ability to play physical comedy and its mastery of classic French comic style, flowing, posing and mugging about the set in full extension. Vocal and physical interpretations are energetic, whimsically stylized and comically insouciant.

And many, many thanks for the ability to render a play written in rhymed couplets as something other than a series of literary speed bumps. Rhyme is harder to play than you might think, and all of them can play it.

The set is beautiful, simple and versatile. The costumes show marvelous detail. Sets and costumes are stand-outs, but, happily, are combined with such stand-out performances and staging that, well, they don't. Stand out. They support the motion and build of the play seamlessly and with eminent skill.

It is not a perfect production. Opening night takes its toll in glitches and lines suddenly just a little beyond memory’s reach. And the acoustics are slightly hot in the theatre. There’s an echo which actually makes it harder to understand an actor the more he or she projects and enunciates. For those reasons, I might have missed a major plot point regarding Arnolphe’s double identity had I not known it was coming.

And for those reasons, the production takes a single strike, by which I mean that the unmitigated appreciation and enjoyment the director, cast and crew deserved for their fine work was dulled one strike’s worth by an audience sometimes not fully at ease and wondering if everything were going right.

But I can guarantee that by the time you see it, most of these things will have worked their way out. You will see a better performance than I did, and I’d see this one again any time. This production makes classic French farce an accessible commodity and gives the belly quite a workout. Do not see this show if you’re trying to stay angry. But if you’re not, get down to Lincoln Hall and see this remarkable fulfillment of comic vision.

Moliere’s death is as legendary as his plays. Having contracted what was likely tuberculosis in his younger years, he was, ironically, playing in The Imaginary Invalid at the age of 52 when he collapsed in a fit of bloody coughing on the stage. Recovering, he insisted upon finishing the performance. When curtain rang down, he collapsed in another fit, went into a coma and never regained consciousness. Not quite comic, but definitely an actor’s exit.

School for Wives, many say, was his finest. Stages at Camden County College struts it proudly , sneering and wooing us with promise of precision into elegantly riotous and most welcome satisfaction. It is an intimate theatre. See the show. Buy tickets in advance.

My reviews are written for Stage Magazine, a primary resource for the Delaware Valley theatre community. Click here to Take a look at the Stage Magazine web site.


If you enjoyed this review, you may like to see my other work in Stage. Click here to take a look.


This link is to a series of two articles about theatre and social change covering performances of children's theatre for young students in five Camden schools. People tell me the second article made them cry. Click here to read them.

Holiday Treat at the Bridge Players Theatre

Yes, Virginia, Bridge Players Theatre Lives and Shines

Before it was the title of this show, Yes, Virginia, There Is A Santa Claus was the title of an editorial which appeared in the September 21, 1897 edition of The New York Sun in response to a plaintiff question from 8-year-old Virginia O’Hanlon. This smart, tight play is a funny, intelligently fictionalized account of the editorial and the events which led to it. Skillfully it builds to the most obvious climax you never expected: a full, moving recitation of the original editorial by a Capra-esque everyman chorus. When you hear it, you say, of course!  And it is perfect.

This play owes a nod to Our Town, with the ubiquitous narrator, Chief, leading the way. Chief, the editor-in-chief of the Sun, is filled out to our great satisfaction by Frank Nusbickel, who gives us a boisterously funny combination of Perry White (Clark Kent’s cranky editor) and Mr. Rogers, the shark and the grampa, each showing teeth but for remarkably different reasons. He steps out of scenes and into chats with the audience, out of chats into scenes, turn after turn and, well, it works every time (an oft-repeated phrase in the pay). A very funny, completely centered performance which anchors the show in a bedrock of audience grin from the moment he appears until the lights go out.

Celeste Bonfanti as Mama O’Hanlon is the perfect calm at the center of the madness. With a daughter in shock over Santa Claus and a husband, played like a whirlwind by Dave Piltz, in full, late-Victorian rant about the stupidity of superstitions, Ms. Bonfanti’s voice floats like a soothing balm of oil on roiling waters. She offers a fully-wrought performance perfectly pitched to the needs of the play. Mama O’Hanlon is last century’s woman happily bearing the burdens of life, keeping everyone happy, taking one day at a time. Ms. Bonfanti’s  fine character choices are beautifully supported by a wonderfully full, rich voice and superbly sharp diction. I notice this because I was an actor. If you never studied the craft, you won’t notice, you’ll just say, she was great! Wasn’t she great? . Good work, Ms. Bonfanti.

Timothy Kirk and Gina Petti, as Sun columnist Frank Church and his secretary, Mrs. Marbury, are quick and punchy in their comic banter. They play the hard-bitten newsman and no-nonsense assistant with  the easy charm of Nick and Nora Charles. He writes a full condemnation of a politician’s moral turpitude before deciding whom it’s about. She guides him into answering Virginia’s letter—a thing he considers beneath his talents—like a skilled trainer guiding a skittish thoroughbred to a stall. It’s done without sentiment or even slowing down, and it is done so very well.

But the show-stoppers by far are Rose Lloyd, Sophia Chascsa and Tierney Lee Howard as Virginia O’Hanlon and her friends Missy and Charly respectively. These three actresses are school-aged veterans of the community stage. All are very good on their own. Ms. Lloyd gives us moving tears as a distraught Virginia contemplating a horrible loss of innocence, Ms. Chascsa provides a very bratty friend and a very comic exit being pulled by her mother as things resolve. And Ms. Howard has the vocal expression and timing of a natural comedienne. She gives us a comic turn worth the price of the ticket itself when the tooth fairy comes up in the conversation.

But when they are together, the sparks they throw light the stage. If I were teaching an acting class, I would beg them to perform their common scenes for the benefit of my students. I, myself, learned a thing or two from their example of furiously paced comic delivery with no loss of intention, no stepping on lines or missed cues and not a dropped consonant amongst the three of them.  Thank you, Ms. Lloyd, thank you, Ms. Chascsa, and thank you Ms. Howard for your fine performances. I hope to be seeing more of you.     

There’s only one reason to mention that this is director John Hughes’ freshman outing. That’s because you didn’t get a program, and reading the program is the only way to know he’s not done this before many times. The staging is fluid and very creative, making intimate spaces with light and shadow as well as masking entrances and exits in darkness so when a scene ends, lighting throws focus to another staging area, keeping the pace sharp and most pleasingly crisp. Congratulations on your debut, Mr. Hughes. I hope you do it again soon.

The Bridge Players of Burlington is the sort of community theatre company which makes me very glad to review community theatre productions.  36 years old, it has had the same president for 21 years. This is not always a good sign. It often forebodes an exclusivity too well known in community theatre.

Not this time. President Pat Marotta saw the theatre recover from near extinction, remembering a time when eight disheartened souls considered disbanding permanently. Today, under her stewardship, it boasts a healthy core group and solid, though not full, houses. But the most telling facts are that a quarter of the cast of the current production are first-timers on the Bridge Players’ stage, and this is the director’s first.  This gives solid credence to the story I found repeated again and over as I heard company members talking: this is an open company. It comprises a base of dedicated folks who welcome talent and participation from all comers.

So see this marvelous holiday offering at Bridge Players. It’s a 7:30 curtain worth twice the $8 ticket. Go for the comedy, stay for the welcome. You may find yourself starring in the next production. Think you’re not the Conrad Birdie type? The Bridge Players do wonders with makeup.

My reviews are written for Stage Magazine. It is a vibrant and thorough resource for Delaware Valley community theatre. Click here to take a look. 

For more of my reviews in Stage, click here. 

To see a series on theatre for the very young in Camden, click here.

AIDA At the Kelsey: the wings of love

Aida: launching the soul into heaven on the wings of love

Aida is a passionate story of love, conquest, duty and family written in the late 19^th Century for the Verdi opera by Antonio Ghislanzoni from a scenario penned by a French Egyptologist. It delights us with the splendor, beauty and truth of its heroes and instructs us that there is nobility in choosing love over all.  

The modern retelling by Elton John and Tim Rice delights us in the same measure but instructs us that choosing love is all. In the end, nothing is lost. “The spirit always burning though the flesh be torn apart,” calls the stirring voice of Meera Mohan in the title role above the chorus of hopeful slaves in “The Gods Love Nubia” which ends the first act. We agree that spirit trumps force. By the end of the second act, we see that spirit is force and love trumps all evil intent.

This production is a beautiful illustration of the sheer magic of story-telling on a stage but may not be for everybody. It offers several points of harmonic convergence when everything is pulling at full strength in unison in exactly the same direction: the power and depth of the acting matches that of the singing, the staging, the lighting, the set design, the set art, the costuming, all in perfect service of the moment. At those points, the building lifts off the ground and floats gently into the heavens. If you like that sort of thing and are not concerned about floating off the ground (you do get down safely), see this show. 

The three principal leads and the two principal dancers are fiery, ardent, sexy, soulful knockouts. The dancers perform intriguing little dancing jewels, one done down stage center backlit in near silhouette creating a slowly evolving physical representation of the struggle between the unyielding call of duty and the ferocious demands of an overwhelming love. It was a very moving moment

This beautiful, modern resetting of the tale comes in 23 musical pieces, songs and reprises, ranging from stirring production numbers to soulful  ballads with a stop over at a comic “My Strongest Suit” . This wickedly funny tune is deliciously given to us by Kimberly Suskind as Amneris, the shallow but highly fashionable princess, supported by her chorus of fashion plate handmaidens. 

Ms. Suskind’s voice shows a fine flexibility of style and delivery as she provides the play’s exposition with attention-getting passion in “Every Story is a Love Story” and later pairs in vocal duets with the other principal leads in “Not Me”, which ends in a splendid choral burst of ensemble singing, rich and pleasing. Ms. Suskind’s voice and talent are emblematic of all the principal pieces of this production: great on their own, mind-boggling in combination. 

Tom Coppolecchia plays Radames, the captain of Pharaoh’s expeditionary force, with the energetic physicality of young King Arthur awaiting Guinevere or Tony awaiting Maria. He is earnest, restless and eager. He covers the stage in three bounds then, unable to take the boring familiarity of where he is, he bounds back. He has to get moving. He’s looking for something.  When he finds it, his performance explodes.

His duet with Ms. Mohan near the end of the play provides a moment not to be missed. Staged and lit like Rodin’s The Kiss pouring out its impassioned story with soul-piercing harmonies, this stage picture moves the heart even as a mere memory.  

But if anyone can be said to make the show, it is Meera Mohan. From the moment she walks out on stage to the moment she takes the last bow, it is all there: the pride, the innocence, the passion, the love, the conflict, the unbreakable bond of family, the ineluctable urgings of love, all informing her voice, moves and expressions. To say that she makes every emotional turn with total clarity and force damns her with faint praise. She embodies the strength of the Nubian princess. Thank you Ms. Mohan. Your talents are of the first rank. Your performance rocked.

No single talent carried this show. Nearly every aspect shone. Respect wants to be paid to the  costumes. They provide the crowning jewel to this grand, visual spectacle with energizing color and texture. Thanks to designers and makers John M. Maurer, Diana  Gilman Maurer, Tina Heinze, Laurie Gougher and Kathy Slothower.

The lighting in this show is designed and executed to profoundly solidifying and homogenizing effect with such inspiring use of color and projection that I take particular effort to notice and thank designer M. Kitty Gettlik who, in her spare time, is also the artistic director of the Kelsey. Five jaw-drops to you, Ms. Gettlik. You created dramatic light with quick changes in full support of the story, glorifying the stage pictures and accurately pushing the limit: never once standing out on its own but always going to the edge in support of the moment. Thank you.

The art in the set painting is astonishing. You can feel the weight of the stone comprising the Egyptian palace. When set pieces glide gracefully and effortlessly dancing through the set changes, you wonder how many slaves tugging on ropes it’s taking to move those great, heavy things. Thank you Amy Foris Bessellieu for your keen eye and your steady hand.

Pleasing as it is, and doubtlessly worth a great deal more than the ticket price, it is not a perfect production. The opening pantomime in which the framework of the story is established is very fast and confusing. If I didn’t already know the story of the show I would not have gotten the setup then.

The men’s chorus is weak. The choreography is flat at times, noticeable particularly in certain full-cast situations where everyone is simply drawn across the stage in a flat line and stands there for a while, singing.  There are some difficulties with the individuals in the chorus blending into the glorious, unified voice they eventually become.

And one more note: the scene wherein soldiers come looking for Aida to kill her forms the pivotal plot event giving Aida reason for her final decision. The soldiers come in at full charge and stay there. The tension implicit in the moment does not get a chance to build. It is played quickly and the audience doesn’t quite get the chance to appreciate its import fully. Ms. Mohan takes what she gets and spins it into gold, and the show achieves full height and stride in a great many spots. But it is not perfect. It does, however, very skillfully use stage craft to cover many gaps in the field. The gods love glow paint.

It is good to keep in mind that Verdi and Elton John are doing the same thing: telling a powerful story to the well-heeled patron with style and message tuned to the day. Antonio Ghislanzoni’s story gives the nicely mid-Victorian  message that the noble soul chooses love over life. Elton John and Tim Rice’s version gives us the optimist’s view. The noble soul earns both. This production earns very high marks and will exalt your heart and rock your mind. 

My reviews are written for Stage Magazine, a primary source of theatre information in the Delaware Valley. Click here to take a look.

You may also be interested in reviews of other plays done at the Kelsey and elsewhere.

This link is to a series on theatre and social change, a 2-part entry reprinted in Stage about theatre for the young in Camden, NJ. Click here to read it. Many people tell me the second piece moved them deeply.

The Village Playbox of Haddon Heights

A Night In The Theater: rib-busting hoot at the Village Playbox

Why do people go to the theatre, asks Lawrence Casler’s tight little play in two acts, A Night in the Theatre. To get the answer to this poser, we join a foursome, the Paces and the Lockers, seating themselves at curtain’s rise to attend the new Hamlet at the Velmor-Kelman Theater last week (next month? 1974? We don’t care. The question is timeless). We sit with them through the performance as they attend not so much to it as to their own notions of culture, propriety and the need to communicate at some future time (as the foursome pair into different combinations and talk, each one at some point turns to each other one and utters some intonation of the phrase, “We have to talk later.” )  

This is a devilishly funny and crafty piece of work which can be staged in two ways. In one, we see but don’t hear actors miming Hamlet while we hear but don’t see the Lockers’ and Paces’ giving their Peyton Place whispers and strangled yells in response to the play, each other and other audience members.

In the version staged now at Village Playbox, we have the delight of seeing the four erstwhile patrons fumbling and grumbling about in the dark for dropped objects and treating their four seats (Why are they so far back? And they were so expensive!) as a personal backyard fence of self-absorption over which they chatter incessantly around each other, below each other, across each other and through each other. 

Performing this pepper-paced piece are four comic actors of fine sense and skill. They have to be. They hold the stage the length of the play doing nothing but sitting still in chairs whispering. Well, mostly whispering. And we never stop laughing. They are marvelous.

Donna Pace, played with prim allure, frustration and great fashion sense by Elaine Bellin, and Margaret Locker, delivered by Shanna Morascini as a perfect, golden flower of womanhood who really knows certain types when she sees them, are two women with a lot in common. Men disrespect them. Of course, they would never disrespect each other.

Stanley Locker, presented in robustly comic, apish form by Ron Kelly as the macho jerk who can find sexual symbolism in a paper clip, and Walter Pace, given to us crisply and skillfully by Scott Mandel as the long-suffering man of intellect  and sensitivity who knows a great many things even if not all of them are correct, are best friends. They don’t like each other all that much. They’re just best friends. It’s a guy thing.   

This show is not a hoot.

It is 9.65 hoots.

There are two reasons it is not fully 10 hoots, and they are: 1) it’s not going to get to run 32 times and relax itself into the award-winner those actors are capable of bringing at full charge, and 2) my wife and I were the only people in the audience not associated with the play. The house was totally empty. We fell off our chairs anyway.

This is a crime. This play gives the belly a workout. It’s sharp wit and full-tilt pace will make it hard to breathe at times. This show doesn’t need an audience. It’s fabulous the way it is. Audiences need this show. Why? Why do people come to theatre?

The deeply pleasing comic circumstance of the play is that, despite not having heard or understood any of the Hamlet which they, for culture’s sake, came to experience, each  character idiosyncratically comes to some revelation through one of Hamlet’s major themes. They didn’t hear it. They didn’t understand it.  They went, it played, lives changed. Now that’s art.

Why do people come to the theatre? To change their lives. But don’t take my word for it. Come see this show. You may need it more than you know.

My reviews are written for Stage Magazine. Stage is a primary source for information about theatre in the Greater Philadelphia area. Click here to check it out.

at The Burlington County Footlighters' Playhouse

The Foreigner : Full-bodied hijinks down by the fishin’ hole

  

Burlington County Footlighters is a venerable, South Jersey theatrical mainstay about to celebrate its 74^th year in operation. A non-profit corporation, they had been gypsy until 11 years ago, associated but never at home with several venues before lighting upon a permanent base which turns out to be a community theatre’s dream and the envy of many: a former school with its cafeteria converted into a sweet performing space with a cozy, raked house and perfect sight lines. Classroom walls upstairs knocked out provide excellent work and space. But the main thing easing the way when entering the Playhouse is the feeling that you’re coming into your own enchanted room. It feels like home.

You don’t see the playing area upon entering the theatre space. You traverse a passageway, being conducted between worlds, and exit facing a set which is completely satisfying in every way. It’s not beautiful. It shouldn’t be. It’s a fishing lodge in Whatsabathtub, Georgia.  It’s not a glory. It’s not a breath-taker. It’s simply perfect. It is absolutely what the set of The Foreigner should be. Perfect.

The play, a farcical nose-poke at racism, is very funny. You gasp as the villainy of the Rev. David Marshall Lee, played with smarmy charm and righteous viciousness by Timothy Petrillo, is revealed. You cheer when the villainy is exposed by the foreigner himself, former British army officer Charlie (no, it’s not a code, it’s my name) Baker, played with full, sad-eyed wistfulness by Alan Krier.  You are vindicated when Reverend David is popped like a pustule at the end and blurts, “I just wanted it to be a surprise,” when pressed by angry fiancé Catherine Simms, played by Emily Miller Huddell like a steel magnolia in full bloom, about the duplicity of hiding his true self from her. He flees! Hooray! Send the cad packing! Mr. Petrillo, Mr. Krier, and Ms. Huddell packed entertainment in very well. Thank you for your very fine  performances.

The story takes place in the fishing lodge owned by Betty Meeks, played with quirky provincial energy by sprightly Phyllis Josephson. She very comically likes spoons from exotic, far-off places like Canada and Taiwan. Betty Meeks is in a pickle because of corrupt county building inspector Owen Musser, gleefully played by Robert S. Beaucheane who should be given a Golden Cracker award for this romp. Thank you Ms. Josephson, and thank you, Mr. Beaucheane for sharp, funny performances

Instigator of the action and bringer of the story’s climactic end is Daniel Brothers as alcoholic military bomb disposal expert, SSGT. “Froggy” LaSueur. Mr. Brothers is a hoot and a half. To Froggy LaSueur, success is a matter of finding the right approach, and that’s what Mr. Brothers does. Earnestly caring for his former officer, now despondent friend, he contrives the plot twist which leads to the hijinks. He exudes deft, non-com invention and the smoothness of a well-lubricated tongue. Very elegant performance, Mr. Brothres. Thank you. 

The big highlight for me was David Marquart as Ellard Simms. He gives a performance which is spot on in movement, voice and speech. His comic timing kept my laughter set no lower than chuckle any time he was on stage and made it leap contentedly into belly laugh teaching Alan Krier the word “lamp”. Kin yew sigh “lay-ump”? A professional performance, Mr. Marquart. Thank you. Live long and keep working.   

The production is full of high spots: Catherine’s confession to Charlie that life isn’t all she’d hoped was very moving. Ellard and Charie with glasses on their heads at breakfast is a belly laugh. But it is not a perfect production. I have two notes. 

First, please bring down the rain sound when the dialogue starts in the opening scene. Its insistent, looping presence is distracting. Once the rain is  established, we won’t find it odd that it stops and starts.

Second, and more seriously, the show runs too long with just enough glitches to take the very top off the peak enjoyment the audience might have enjoyed given the level of the performances but was unable to attain because it worried something was going to go wrong. So the audience response was good, but less than the actors deserved.

Going to community theatre is often like going to a baseball game. What you count and what you remember are the very exciting highlights. This production, with whatever shortfalls there may be,  has highlights in spades. You don’t want to miss the incomprehensible story, possibly about a tractor, which Alan Krier skips and flops and gurgles randomly in Floppytalk, which he’s inventing on the fly, as he ostensibly tells a great story in his own tongue (named Floppy). You don't want to miss Phyllis Josephson’s ecstatic gush that she especially liked the part about the tractor. It’s very funny. See it. The actors and the Playhouse are worth getting to know and support. 

Click here to see The Burlington County Footlighters' web site.

My reviews are written for Stage Magazine. Click here to take a look. It's a most thorough resource for Delaware Valley theatrical news and information.  

Pennington Players at the Kelsey Theatre:

Urinetown : Brilliant Paean to Peein’

First of all—go see this show. The only two weaknesses I found were opening-night glitches which will be fixed by the time you see it. Go see the show. You’ll see a better version of it than I did, and I’d buy a ticket to the very show I saw again if they didn’t fix a thing.

I put this praise up front so you will not be fooled when I tell you that I was not in a good mood when I sat down to see the show. There’d been an error with the tickets, so seating was delayed and when I needed the men's room I found it was down a flight of stairs, not an easy task for me in a mobility scooter.

So I was a tidbit prickly as the curtain rang up. I was wearing my pique like a big, foam hand, except it wasn’t the index finger pointing up in the air. I was prepared to have a miserable time, and, in spite of myself, I could not. The first 8 bars of the opening production number, “Urinetown”, grabbed me by the beard and locked my eyes on the stage. “You’re going to enjoy this,” they said. “Resistance is futile.” The  rest of the number washed my pissy mood away like a cleansing shower of acid rain on a smoggy, summer’s afternoon. Remember, it’s Urinetown.

It is a wickedly funny play taking swats at everything from Our Town to Les Mis with The Cradle Will Rock,  Caucasian Chalk Circle, West Side Story and Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood as pit stops along the way. It slaps at greed and the oppression which greed engenders. Then it bites  the social protests which end oppressions, or, as in the world of the play, replace one set of harsh problems with a set of harsher ones. It is unrelenting, and the twisted ending is a stab at the ponderous agitprop theatre of politics which takes itself so bloody seriously. If you'd never seen it before, It would be worth the $18 ticket price even if the production were mediocre.

This production is not mediocre. It is the anti-mediocrity. It is actually breath-taking at its heights. The acting in the show is about overplaying stereotypes, and every single member of this cast delivers the assignment with a zestful, joyous nearly manic abandon which plays perfectly against the dark message of the show at its end. The singing blasts complacency out of the brain. The cast does not so much dance the choreography as become it. The stage pictures are painfully beautiful for so desperate a world as they inhabit    It is, as we are repeatedly told, not a happy musical. But it is a joyfully, even ecstatically, disconcerting one.

Bringing it on is Gary Gilbert as Officer Lockstock.  Beautifully mellow-voiced and crafted enough to overcome technical audio glitches with ease, he is a chokingly funny blend of the Our Town narrator, Mister Rogers and Dr. Doom built into a vicious, oddly comforting, totally amoral voice of ubiquity. He oozes disdain for ethics with unctuous charm and a big, toothsome smile. 

Kim Cupo as Hope Cladwell is perfectly innocent, bright-eyed and open-hearted, gushing how grand it is that big corporations can do so much good for the people by raising prices. She bursts with big-voiced pride atop the chorus singing out that the man who brought all this to the world was her Dad!  Fine voice and wonderful, wide-eyed energy bristling into her caricatures from beginning to end.

 Caleb Whipple as Bobby Strong is a hero’s hero. Innocent yet strong-hearted, his strong compulsion to fight injustice costs him his love. He does a fine turn from good, moral innocent into opportunistic rebel leader.  He sings heroically, does an actual back flip and falls off a building with dizzying comedic effect with a little help from some well-done lighting and sound effects. And he is perfectly paired with Ms. Cupo in the romantic ballad, “Follow Your Heart”. Soulful or inspirational, Whipple is a strong Strong.

Frank Ferrara and Salena Qureshi have mention coming. Mr. Ferrara is a slapstick hoot as Barrel, Officer Lockstock’s man. His pole dance is alarmingly funny and his oops-moment when he burst out, “I love you” to Lockstock is a marvelously earnest adjunct to his believability as a thug.  Ms. Qureshi is a jewel as Little Sally. A big, bold little voice and impish spirit with comic timing to match. The program says Ms. Qureshi plans on a career in theatre. She’d better.

The staging is fluid and exciting with fine use of levels thanks to director kYrus(sic) Keenan Westcott.  The lights were most pleasingly and effectively designed, thank-you Judi Parrish. The music was excellent, thank you band. The audio balances were nearly perfect, thank you audio designer Wayne Irons and stage manager John Boccanfuso. No part of the craft was short-changed in this production. It’s a championship team.

Two more mentions to be made: first to the ensembles. There are two, competing groups within the story: the peeful poor, led by Bobby Strong, and the toadying employees of Urine Good Company, led by Company founder, Caldwell Cladwell.  Both of these ensembles made major impact on the quality of the production with individuals standing out when needed and the group acting as a single, astonishing character when called for. And the singing was stirringly strident and discordant in a breathless, glorious way. Thanks for that.

Next is for Rachel Tovar, the choreographer. The choreography in this production, especially the way it was tailored to match and get the most from the talents of the players, was stand-out. It showed a grand array of invention and range: clearly a big step above standard community work. Thank you greatly for your contribution to this production.

The origin of the word “satire” is the Latin satura, meaning "dish of mixed fruits." That’s an elegant way to understand the Pennington Players’ production of Urinetown . It is an exquisitely, sometimes painfully tasty  bowl of mixed fruits which I now commend to you as a satisfying treat as nourishing as anything you’re likely to find on any stage at any time. The show, despite the title, should be tasted and enjoyed as soon as you can. This dish is put away for good on November 13.


My reviews are written for Stage Magazine, http://www.stagepartners.org/  . It's an excellent, dynamic site, the best independent resource for Delaware Valley Theatre. Check it out.




 

Reclaiming Our Creative Birthright

 Remember What It Was Like: Small Steps

When I was eight walking on my way one weekend to pray, I noticed that my hands looked oddly dirty outside the chapel. They were clean, but they did not look it in the daylight. But inside the chapel, they looked spotless. I went back and forth several times to verify this, and it worked each time. Something was very different inside the chapel. I’ve been seeking that thing ever since.

When I was six, bored one day in first grade, I wrote a story called “Are You Old?”. We’d been learning in reading group about the meaning of quotation marks, so I wrote a story with quotation marks. It read:

     Mommy said, “Daddy is old.”

     Daddy said, “Mommy is old.”

     Are you old?

which was a direct transcription of some banter I’d heard between my parents the day before onto chunky yellow paper with alternating solid and dashed blue lines widely spread across both sides. The teacher saw it, had me read it to the class and gave me a gold star. She sent me to the class next door where I read it aloud and got a blue star. I’ve been writing ever since then.

But when I was three and a half, my Grandmom took me to the Lane Theatre on north Broad Street where a troupe was  performing a children’s show. It was so beautiful I forgot to breathe. They were sparkling and jumping and flashing colors and flying, and I wanted to be up there with them. Me, TOO!

I don’t remember doing this but was later told that midway through the program, I stood up and, much to my Gandmom’s chagrin, walked slowly, wide-eyed down the aisle toward the stage, my mouth open simply held there by the magic of what I saw in front of me. Many, many thanks to my Grandmom both for taking me there and not yanking me back with embarrassed brusqueness as I floated down the aisle. Also for chocolate chip cookies. But that’s off script. She could have nipped my connection with theatre right there, but she let me float away within her sight. I’ve been performing since then. The stage was my first heart’s desire bigger than chocolate milk and a space ship cup with the straw built in.   

Am I unusual in this? I bet not a quarter as much as we’re led to think by the popular notion of the distribution of talents.  There’s no lack of discouragement. Everyone told me I was an idiot. But the people who mattered also told me I was very talented. Generally they told me in the form of a complaint about how I wasn’t realizing my talents. But often enough they told me in a sincere way that I was able to hear it deeply. And often enough I actually did something which I looked at and said, yeah, that’s good. The trick was being stubborn enough to keep those tender encouragements fully protected and ready for use against the truly stupid flood of undifferentiated spew coming at me (and everyone else)  that I (and all but a tiny percentage of everyone else) was an irretrievable waste as an artist and should look for serious work to do. Real talent, so the myth goes, shines through no matter what.

Taken apart, that statement is beyond irrational. It is a dementia in and of itself. Real talent dies fifty times more often than it kills to live. Real talent is based in the real human personality which really flourishes under real encouragement and really doesn’t under real discouragement. Really. There is only one group of people which believes it benefits from this story, and it settles for money as proof of the benefit it accrues. It does not reckon how much this lie impoverishes the world. Mundane lies such as this one keep us confused enough about our own natures to doubt everything and make us vulnerable to more and greater mundane lies. How much invention and innovation would the world be heir to if everyone were confident in her own talents and abilities? What would life be like if we didn’t have to wait for experts to tell us the best way to spend our time?

We won’t know the depth of talent comprising the birthright of humanity until we stop stomping on it as it tries to sprout in the young. But it is possible to project a surmise based on available data about us as a species. We’re genetically identical to 0.1%.  We are 99.9% exactly the same model of creature. This is closer than nearly any other species on the planet. It is widely considered that a pandemic or other catastrophe wiped out much of the human population not too long ago in anthropological terms. We who now breathe subsequently sprang from the survivors. There hasn’t been enough time for us to develop the kind of genetic variety which, for example, our close cousin the bonobo has. We’re still in the throes of the culling.

What does this imply about our natural talent quotient? It implies that if one of us demonstrates a talent, it is more likely that this talent is there in all of us than it is that the talented person is a genetic anomaly, particularly if others demonstrate the same talent in varying degrees. This would seem to suggest that talent is installed with the basic package but conditions determine whether or not it will grow.

I am left with the reasonable possibility that all humans possess similar intelligence and talents to those which have been demonstrated by the best of us. My experience is bearing this out. I just began writing theatre reviews Stage Magazine,  but I’ve been around here long enough to know that there is a lot more high-level talent and interest here than I ever would have guessed growing up in Cherry Hill in the 60s. It’s been a delightful revelation.

More often than I can have the strength to praise, credit for bad dramatic play performances in local theatre goes to choice of material. Someone’s goal exceeds his reach. The staging is too inexperienced to do the material justice, the lighting distracting, the actors uncertain of their characters’ complex natures. That’s what you call excellent failure. Going out of your comfort zone is how you grow. It’s praiseworthy.

 And it’s agonizing to everyone. I want to like it, but it’s awful. You want me to like it, but you know it’s awful. The cast and crew want to be proud of it, and, oddly, one actor is absolutely delighted with it, but the rest know it is awful. And full praise to those willing to fall on their faces reaching for a vision. Next time, please try smaller steps? Writing the “magnificent failure” review gives me heartburn.

That is what I’d like to say to everyone: how about if we all try it in smaller steps? There’s a strong possibility that there’s a whole lot more talent around than anyone has ever suspected. We have the demonstrated cognitive capacity as adults to recapture the connection to the excitement and creativity that was ours by right as small ones. We can bring it back out. This time, however, we are in  much better positions to see that it receives the warm welcome it deserved the first time around.

My mother wanted to be on stage all her life. As she was dying, she organized a reading of the Bontsche Schveig story, a wrenching tale about the meaning of piety. She read the central part. It was an astonishing performance, and a fulfillment of a dream. I encourage us all to consider that we don’t have to wait for imminent death to do things like this. In fact, it’s even better if you live on to do it again.

House readings. Most of the people seeing this live in domiciles. Most of those residences have living rooms. Think of a play you’ve always found funny or interesting, invite a group of people pot-luck, byob to come over and read it out loud in voices. Make sure the group includes people not ordinarily involved in theatre. Of course many of us feel we are not qualified to do this job. However, as no one more qualified is available, you are absolutely the best one to do it.

And make sure everyone goes home with a prize. Sincere recognition of a job well done from peers is excellent. This is true for everyone and particularly for you. Have simple cards with one reader’s name on each. At the end of the evening, have everyone write compliments in everyone else’s cards.

But for organizing an event like this, you deserve something more. I think a gold, a blue and a green star would be in order for you. And a thorough round of applause. Bring the arts to everyone. Everyone’s an artist.


You may also be interested in The Myth of Talent , another post on this theme. Click here to see it.