THEATER: "Collision" is a Disaster in Slow, Slow Motion

Photo/Russ Rowland

Once upon a time, to borrow the banal storytelling mechanic used by playwright Lyle Kessler's pretentious philosophers, there was a critic who thought he'd seen more than his share of bad, overwritten plays. Then along came Collision, an awkward and occasionally distasteful tale of collegiate rebels bucking social conventions (often for the sake of bucking social conventions). Empty, broken characters like Doe (Anna Stromberg) and Bromley (Nick Lawson) are made to jump at the whims of Grange (James Kautz), a strong personality who provides them with purpose and the illusion of love. Even Grange's professor, Denton (Michael Cullen), goes from thinking him a sublime but grandiosely narcissistic personality to being a ravenous and cult-like follower; in the most implausible moment of the evening, Grange even convinces Renel (Craig 'muMs' Grant), a street-tough gun dealer with more than enough common sense, to accept a check for his wares.

To his credit, Mr. Kautz has a feral magnetism that's long made him a standout in the work he's done with the Amoralists (who produced this play), and he's well-matched with Ms. Stromberg, who radiates a far-from-typical vulnerability. (Her character also has the most developed back story; she's closed herself off ever since her beloved father overdosed. Yes. That's the most developed.) Lawson and Cullen are more intermittently reliable -- Lawson has a particularly intense outburst -- though that may simply be because their characters operate so much in Grange's shadow that it's hard to see them as anything more than yes-men. And to the play's credit -- or perhaps director David Fofi's -- Collision doesn't back down from showing some of the things it talks about, with Grange talking Doe out of his bed and into roommate Bromley's, or with the various acts of violence. But none of this feels serious (despite the play's change in description from "dark comedy" to "drama"): in fact, the more these characters talk, especially once they're leaping childishly about with guns in their hands, the less real it all seems.

The last, nearly intolerable twenty minutes of Collision is Fight Club without any of the satire, without any of the bite; at least Tyler Durden knows what he's doing. Grange knows only that he doesn't know why he's doing this shit, says only -- in lieu of actual motivation -- that "a miss is as good as a mile." In that, it's like watching a headless dog chase its own tail -- and the use of mixed and confused metaphors is intentional, as opposed to much of the verbal meandering and claptrap of Collision.

So yes, there once was a critic stuck writing about an unpalatable play, but then he finished the review, moved on with his life, and lived happily ever after.

THEATER: It Could Happen to Anyone in "Bethany"

Crystal (America Ferrara) would like you to buy a new car, preferably within the next week. Because that's when her Saturn dealership is shutting down. And she works on a straight commission. Which she needs in order to buy window guards for the foreclosed home that she's illegally living in. In order to prove to Toni (Myra Lucretia Taylor) that she's financially stable enough to regain custody of her daughter. The car, says Crystal, is like a second skin -- you can even sleep in it, as she knows from experience -- but the skin that playwright Laura Marks is pitching here in Bethany is a much tougher one. (Crystal is fragile, the character is not.) The thick skin you need to  actually wrest down the American dream. There's a reason the powerful climax of Bethany is not in its confrontation, but in the cleaning-up that follows, a torturous albeit pine-scented affair, set to a final bit of "advice" from a manipulative motivational speaker Charlie (Ken Marks): "We all have the power to manifest our own reality."

The problem with reality is that we're not the only ones manifesting it, a fact that Crystal realizes when, after breaking into an abandoned home, she encounters Gary (Tobias Segal), a slightly unhinged fellow squatter. Moreover, it's hard enough to control our immediate surroundings: Crystal can truck in some furniture from the Salvation Army, stock the fridge with some basics, but that doesn't change any of the other identical dozens of abandoned houses on the block (artfully illustrated by set designer Lauren Helpern), or shelter her boss, Shannon (Emily Ackerman), from losing her job, too:

CRYSTAL: Did you talk to headquarters? Because all they have to do is find someone else to buy out the franchise, this is crazy--
SHANNON: H.Q. doesn't give two shits about it. They're busy trying to sell the whole company.
CRYSTAL: What? Who could they sell it to?
SHANNON: I don't know. Japanese.

So much for the idea of "personal potential," yet another particularly bitter grain of salt from the mouth of Charlie; that salt grows even courser after his harried wife, Patricia (Kristin Griffith), provides more insight into his character, or lack thereof. (He's less interested in Crystal's knowledge of the car's "features" and more about the "benefits.") Even Gary's survivalist instincts essentially revolve around dropping off the grid entirely and running from the government; it's a more extreme version of declaring bankruptcy, of abandoning one's home. For all the talk about Crystal achieving her more-and-more impossible dream -- we learn that she was twice Saleswoman of the Year at her old Ford dealership and, better yet, see her skills in action as she hard sells Patricia in a move that would make David Mamet proud -- the truth is not that succeeding is impossible, but that recognizing that dream, or still wanting it after paying the very dear price necessary to earn it, is.

This price has been well paid by director Gaye Taylor Upchurch. By so starkly contrasting the pretty words of a motivational speaker with the uglier actions of a motivated individual, Bethany has about as much wiggle room as Crystal herself. Ferrera pays for this, too: she's stuck playing desperation, and her moments of hesitation, panic, or regret are all compacted into a binary form of acting. Forces act upon Ferrara and her character; they both spend the play reacting, within limited means, and there are few real surprises, given the stakes. This isn't a discredit to them, or to their style; they're true to the world that Marks has created, and this team evokes the desired emotions. But there's a difference between producing an effect and being effective; Bethany is too underwater to ever truly move from the former to the latter.

Bethany (World Premiere)
by Laura Marks
directed by Gaye Taylor Upchurch
produced by Women's Project Theater
January 11-February 17 (opened 1/20)

THEATER: The Surprisingly Heartwarming "P.S. Jones and the Frozen City"

Is there anything more important in the theater than confidence? Without it, Robert Askins could never have written his Obie-award winning Hand to God (in which a boy's Satanic sock puppet terrorizes a Christian bible group); without it, we'd never have seen his hyper-imaginative follow-up, the ode to old-school adventure comics (and perhaps a little Stephen King), P.S. Jones and the Frozen City. Without it, could you imagine Joe Paulik agreeing to walk around in a cape and goggles, smeared with the excrement that makes up his character's name, Pig Shit Jones? Or Sofia Jean Gomez trusting that Carla Bellisio's brilliant costuming and Eric Wright and the Puppet Kitchen's design could change her from a woman rolling around on an office chair into a Great Glass Spider, the menacingly sexy overlord of the titular Frozen City? (They're correct to trust: both actors come across brilliantly.)

Thankfully, there's no shell game going on in Askins's play: it's genuinely good. Jasons Simms' pop-art design (dotted storybook props that enhance Alex Koch's animated projections) sets the tone, E. Calvin Ahn's fight direction sells the idea of a giant's severed green fist going on a rampage, and Jose Zayas's direction has never felt so simultaneously loose and necessary, which is to say that while the actors appear to have freedom enough on stage for anything to happen, this is not actually a comic book, and so the action sequences and transitions must have been carefully planned out (albeit invisibly so). Few directors could so adroitly (and creatively) handle the call for an army of fire-breathing tigers, a cult of cannibalistic sirens (Jenny Seastone Stern and Diana Oh, putting the aces in menaces), and a spectral Gunslinger (Steven Rishard), to say nothing of Bobby Moreno's appearance as a befuddled giant named Lothar.

Photos/Jill Steinberg

Astute readers will note that I've jumped around plot points -- that's because P.S. Jones basically operates as a highlight reel, in which Pig Shit, our hero, accidentally stumbles onto a Quest of Great Importance that separates him from his beloved (and shriveled puppet) mother (Gomez) and sends him on a collision course with Benjamin (Preston Martin), his flamboyantly well-spoken and well-dressed opposite (his brother, naturally). Following the trail of a severed limb and a phantom cowboy through one of the many inhospitable deserts of the post-apocalypse, it's less about the plot of the journey than the experiences along the way -- eye-catching and rib-tickling stuff, and budget-stretching design miracles that ought to get terraNOVA even more nominations at the yearly NYIT Awards. (Hell, I was even impressed by the fidelity of the sound effects from Jane Shaw and Emma Wilk.)

Confidence is what allows me to wholeheartedly recommend P.S. Jones and the Frozen City: you will enjoy, or at least be impressed by, this madcap theatrical adventure.

THEATER: Fine Animal Instincts Shown in "Volpone, or the Fox"

Photo/Carol Rosegg

Greed, despite what you may have heard, isn't good. Comedies about greedy men, on the other hand are. And while Red Bull (every bit as energetic as the drink) is best known for its bloody, revenge-filled tragedies -- and this 1606 play of Ben Jonson's is known as a scathing satire -- the just desserts awarded to Volpone's supposedly above-the-law Venician one-percenters are well within director Jesse Berger's and his company's wheelhouse. The web of deceit that Mosca (Cameron Folmar) spins to convince a trio of sycophantic noblemen to make regular gifts to his "dying" master, Volpone (Stephen Spinella), so that they might buy their way into becoming his heir, is a farcical delight, but the true pleasures come at watching these suitors -- lawyer Voltore (Rocco Sisto), the befuddled old Scrooge, Corbaccio (Alven Epstein); and preening merchant Corvino (Michael Mastro) -- devolve into their animal namesakes. (Sly foxes -- volpone -- often pretend to be dead, in the hopes of catching and killing their prey: vultures, ravens, and crows.) Given how entertainingly ridiculous it all gets, you might as well dub it Bachelor: Venice 1607.

Berger eschews any hint at subtlety (John Arnone's set consists of a few hand-drawn backdrops and a single, domineering death bed: realism this is not) and wisely has his characters lay it on thick, lest we feel sorry for any of them. Clint Ramos's costumes emphasize or exaggerate each character's nature -- note Volpone's absurd pajama cod-piece; see Voltore's dashing black and white-feathered cloak -- as do the wigs and hair design Charles LaPointe uses to tart up Volpone's idle pleasures: a eunuch named Castrone (Sean Patrick Doyle), a dwarf known as Nano (Teale Spearling), and a clown/hermaphrodite known as Androgyno (Alexander Sovronsky). As you can tell by the names, Jonson wasn't attempting to mask the decadent, idle rich: he was exposing them, in all their nefarious "glory." Though Volpone starts out simply thrusting himself at the various hidden compartments in his bed that hold gold coins, pearls, and other baubles, he's soon getting all rape-y toward Celia (Christina Pumariega), whose husband, Corvino, has basically pimped out with the threat of physical violence. These cartoonish fops, who begin as curious creeps, soon become all-out villains: money corrupts, absolutely, even in a comedy.

All that said, portions of Volpone are overstuffed and more than a little repetitive, and the female characters -- like the Fine Madam Would-Be (the game Tovah Feldshuh), who is attempting to seduce Vopone for his wealth -- are all unflatteringly underwritten, neither comic or dramatic: they're just objects. After catching its breath during the intermission, the second half slows down and takes its time moralizing before the Venetian courts, rather than simply allowing Mosca's machinations to implode. (In fact, there's a notable lull whenever Folmar is off-stage; his double-takes, asides, and quick wit are needed to give all that buffoonery a direction.) You can't blame Berger for his fidelity to the script, nor the actors for their over-the-top dedication to such intentionally shallow characters (Epstein and Mastro are standouts, though the entire cast is top-notch); perhaps it's simply that this revival of Volpone is a little too timely, with ninety-nine percent of the audience racing ahead of the play to the inevitable and satisfying ending. Still, even if this production were nothing more than a fox-trap (and as a rousting bit of theater, it is more), it's a well-crafted and oiled machine; you won't mind getting caught up for several hours.

THEATER: I Heart Theater at "Hearts Like Fists"

Flux Theatre Ensemble @ The Secret Theatre
44-02 23rd Street
Long Island City, NY
through December 15, 2012
Running Time: 100 minutes (no intermission)

Photo/Isaiah Tanenbaum

Is there such a thing as a romantimaniac? Or an rom-com action flick, the sort that's satisfying for boys and girls of all ages? Right now, it feels as if Adam Szymkowicz has cornered the market on shows that feature figuratively and literally broken hearts, the closest comparison being the work of Vampire Cowboy Theater, so if superheroes or slapstick-y romances are your thing, get thee to Hearts Like Fists. As a special bonus for those in the know, you'll also get to see Flux's bold artistic director August Schulenburg bravely (and successfully) taking on fight choreography in his wide-eyed and theatrical turn as the deranged and deformed Doctor X, who imagines that his victims would thank him for killing them in their love-entwined slumber, thereby preserving their happiness before it crumbles.

At the heart of this play of extremes is the tentative relationship between heart-stopping Lisa (a confident Marnie Schulenburg), who is paid to avoid construction sites lest she cause wolf-whistling men to fall to their death, and the fragile Peter (Chinaza Uche), whose good-natured heart has been broken so often that he's working overtime to craft an artificial replacement. Fearing rejection, Peter ends up bailing on Lisa -- who's never been abandoned before -- and this role-reversal leads to a complicated courtship, one that's filled with increasing danger once the purposeless Lisa joins up with a trio of female Crimefighters (Becky Byers, Rachael Hip-Flores, and Aja Houston) to thwart Doctor X's romantic murders. But Szymkowicz has grown from earlier, over-the-top stabs at such subject matter (Nerve springs to mind), and while there are still some exaggerated and underwhelming scenarios on the fringes of the play (one of the Crimefighters plans to rekindle her romance with the Commissioner [Chris Wight]; Susan Louise O'Connor plays a hysterical [in both senses] nurse who pines for one doctor while being lusted after by another), Hearts Like Fists works best when it takes its emotions seriously and allows the poetic writing to go for the laughs: "A big boat of depression just sailing over my chest"; "You're building a wall around your candy shell; you're afraid I might eat it!"

In one of the cleverer echoes of the play, Doctor X and Peter sound off about the joys of having an obsession: "I don't have to think while I'm working. I don't have to feel." Thanks to Kelly O'Donnell's consistent direction and Adam Swiderski's humorous and exhausting fight choreography, the cast of Hearts Like Fists doesn't have to think while working, though they're clearly more than able to feel, which is the beating strength of this production.