To half the play's population, the cavernous dining room is a place to flee, demolish, or desecrate. To the other half, it's home sweet home: leisurely breakfasts, the view of the gardens, exquisite meals. Whether you loved or loathed the formal room, one thing is certain: it's been extinct for quite some time, but you can see it again—in all its glory and monstrosity—in Centre Stage's production of A.R. Gurney's “The Dining Room.”

In nearly two-dozen scenes (all of them unrelated), six actors play over sixty different characters whose lives are changed (often humorously, and often for the worse) in the dining room. It's a breathless tour-de-force and a stunning study of a culture that is no more. It's unnecessary to note that actors chosen for such demanding work are flexible—they are, and terribly funny also. But three actors deserve special recognition. Each of Anne Elizabeth Butler's characters had such rich emotional depth that I wished the scenes were longer, just so I could see more of these people she created. Allen Evans and Christopher M. Evans also boasted especially crisp, delightful performances.

Despite the zest and humor, the accumulation of so much destruction provides a rather loud indictment of the once-powerful W.A.S.P. culture. Fortunately, the verdict on the dining room itself is still out. This ambiguity is thanks in part to Benjamin P. Robinson's level-headed direction—his characters are people, not caricatures bearing some heavy message. They may be wealthy (or wish they were) but they are still human, and the communal nature of a dining room can still work some positive magic upon them. Part of that magic is in Guy Perticone's subtle lighting. You wouldn't think there's much you could do with a chandelier and some implied french doors—but Perticone works this limited vocabulary with such finesse you scarcely noticed the room's stunning mood swings.

The dining room it turns out, is the most noble character in Gurney's play—holding and hiding and softening the edges of a high-stress, high-stakes population. When the room fades into memory, into dream and reminiscence, you'll wish you could resurrect it, if not necessarily all of its inhabitants.

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A.R. Gurney's “The Dining Room” Directed by Benjamin P. Robinson. With Anne Elizabeth Butler, Katy Beth Cassell, Allen Evans, Christopher M. Evans, Cindy Mixon, and Jeff Warren.

Presented by Centre Stage, 501 River Street, Greenville, SC (864) 233-6733. Through June 27. Tickets $25, with discounts for seniors and students.

There are as many Hamlets as there are directors, and with good reason—with over four hours of text to cull and scores of interpretative theories (focusing on anything from the absurdity of life to extra textual sexual psychoses) Hamlet may as well be the springboard for a choose-your-own-adventure event. Unfortunately, that's how many productions of Hamlet come off—willy nilly. Fortunately for Greenvillians, Paul Savas of the Warehouse Theatre has trimmed Hamlet with a sensitive ear, shuffling scenes and lines to give the audience a clear window into the story. The result is a lean, powerful performance that highlights the terrifying and beautiful providence of Hamlet's fall.

Providence haunts the play almost as much as Hamlet's murdered father, with lines from Act V working their way into a number of scenes: “There's a special providence in the fall of a sparrow.” This sparrow's falling seems to be the central metaphor for Jason Shipman's elegant performance. Unlike so many numb melancholics, Shipman's Hamlet is refreshingly emotive, fragile and fluttering against the inhuman political machine. Shipman drowns in grief and rage, teeters on the borders of madness. His Hamlet is moved by mad fortune, and what's more, he moves the audience with that same madness.

Would that all the cast could do the same. While there are several strong performances (Kerrie Seymour's beleaguered Gertrude stirred the heart, and Joe Wrobel's Polonius rang true every line), a few notable exceptions caused discomfort. While it's normal to have a range of talents in such a large cast, it is nearly unforgivable that it should happen in the leading roles, especially leading female roles, as there are precious few of them in Shakespeare and a line of talented actresses to fill them. Talented though she be, Tiffany Nave doesn't appear quite comfortable in Ophelia's skin. She's got all the mannerisms of a giddy young innocent, and some loose bits of the hysteric, but that's all I could detect—mannerisms, bits, externals lacking heart. Of course, one may make the argument that even Ophelia wasn't all that cozy with herself—she did go mad after all—so I'm willing to concede that a more learned observer will catch something I have missed.

Surprisingly, this Hamlet's Ophelia isn't all that important to the production. Hamlet's got another, deeper relationship with Horatio, and this friendship is, after Shipman's performance, the chief delight of Warehouse's production. Hamlet and Horatio's shared friendship is a quick mixture of tenderness and strength, a delight to watch. Were it not for Andy Croston's steadfast Horatio, one suspects this Hamlet would have been crushed all the sooner.

The purists can argue about the stabilizing necessity of Fortinbras, sweeping in and setting all to rights. He isn't in this production, and he isn't needed. The Warehouse has given us a far better catharsis than that clunky machina. Here in the inevitable approach of the final scene, there is such truth, such comfort in Hamlet and Horatio's confidences that Shakespeare's “special providence” takes on an electrifying new meaning. Where once stood blind and furious fate, there now stands a tender grace that cushions the sparrow's fall in the arms of his best friend. It's a fall at once terrifying and beautiful—we all must end some day. “If it be not now, yet it will come: the readiness is all.” The readiness, yes, and the company in which you pass those final moments.

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Shakespeare's “Hamlet,” directed by Paul Savas.
Presented by Warehouse Theatre, 37 Augusta St., Greenville (864) 235-6948. Through June 13. Tickets $25. Students $15.

Before I say anything about Warehouse Theatre's latest production, I think you need to know, I've been bribed. Really. How can you not say something nice about the man who gives you a rose and says you're beautiful? Of course, Aldo's Italian, and true to stereotype, he probably tells this to a lot of women. At least one a night during the run of John Patrick Shanley's "Italian-American Reconciliation." So chances are pretty good that Aldo just might bribe you. Or your date. And believe you me, you will say nice things about him and this whole story he's telling--it's beautiful.

It's about his best friend, Huey, a big nervous wreck who's been falling apart ever since his divorce from Janice. It's about how Huey needs to reconcile this thing with Janice, needs to confront it and get past it before he can be man enough to love Teresa (a strong showing by Elizabeth Finley). It's a good story. Rick Connor makes such a quirky and moving Huey that you'll laugh and cry and hope right along with him.

Trouble is, Janice, she's not so nice. Stars make her "think of death." She shoots dogs. And men. And Anne Tromsness imbues her with such raging emotional complexity that you never know if she's going to kiss you, or knife you. Huey, he's a bit gun shy. So he does what any red-blooded Italian would do: he sends his best friend Aldo to smooth things over.

It's Little Italy. There's no telling what might happen, or who will run off with (or without) whom. But in all the upheavals, one woman stays the same: Aunt May (charming performance by Annette Garver), who dishes out minestrone and advice by the bowlful. She may not be sure "whether all the stuff I remember is wisdom, or just lint," but my money's on wisdom. Her insights on life and love and trouble are worth more than any seminar.

And since I've talked about everybody else, I suppose it's only fair, in closing, to say a word about Aldo, the sweet-talking Italian with a thing for (and against) women. Bribery aside, Andy Croston delivers his best performance to date. He's come home with this fast talking, emotional Italian, and you will too. His Aldo is an able guide through the turbulent romances of Little Italy, where everyone changes, everyone grows, and everyone comes to an honest place, including the audience.

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John Patrick Shanley's "Italian-American Reconciliation," directed by Jayce T. Tromsness. With Andy Croston (Aldo), Rick Connor (Huey), Elizabeth Finley (Teresa), Annette Garver (May), Anne K. Tromsness (Janice).

Scene Design, Shannon Roberts; Lighting Design, Ursula Finley; Costume Design, Jayce T. Tromsness; Sound Design, Kevin Frasier.

Presented by The Warehouse Theatre, 37 Augusta St., Greenville (864) 235-6948. Through May 2. Tickets $25. Students $15.

The intended recipient of a heart transplant dies in surgery. You've got 45 minutes to get a new patient ready. Choose one of the following: the lovable, but overweight black man, the elderly lady who has spent a lifetime helping others, the angry poet who's having a spiritual awakening, or the billionaire's son (who just might give you enough money to save thousands more lives).

This isn't a test question. It's every day life for members of the St. Patrick's transplant committee, and you get to listen in at Centre Stage's latest production of Mark St. Germain's “The God Committee. It's a tense ride, and you may not like everything you hear along the way, but since it's a matter of life triumphing over death, you'll be happy you stuck around.

That's one of the difficulties in viewing (and reviewing) such a play. The message is clear. The message is necessary. The message sometimes trumps artistry. Don't blame the actors for that; the script often reads like a cross between a organ donor brochure and reality T.V. It's to the actors' credit--especially Bruce Meahl's wry Dominic and Britney Teie's wonderfully real Dr. Banks--that it comes off as natural as it does.

Dr. Banks is the refreshing newcomer on the committee, so there's plenty of explanation for her (and Father Dunbar's) benefit. This means you won't be baffled by medical jargon. Unfortunately, this also poses a problem for the playwright; in making sure that we ordinary mortals can understand the inner workings of a transplant selection committee, he's created more than a few wooden monologues. In fact, that seems to be his weakest link.

Mark St. Germain writes crackling dialogue—it's terse, and even in the darkest moments, it's funny. But when the characters start monologuing about medical processes (or personal tragedies), the script feels more than a bit clunky. Fortunately, in a little slice of reality, there's not much room for giving speeches, not when you've got less than an hour to decide who lives and who dies.

The criteria for life? Well, it's not very objective. Character, support networks, money, community impact, and of course, the personal histories of those making the decision. With so much mess and so little time, it's no wonder that tensions lead to an all-out fight among the staff. It's a scene worth waiting for—Germain's writing falls into place, and all the actors rise to the occasion. Before it's over, you'll understand Dr. Banks' predicament: she has “an ulcer instead of a personal life.” If you had to watch these human explosions every night, had to make these decisions in which so many people necessarily lose—you'd have an ulcer too.

But underneath all brokering backbiting, everyone's really asking the same question: what is the worth of a human life? Can you really reduce it to a series of statistics? And while you may or may not agree with the less-than-objective process or the decision it produces, the play's underlying message is heartbreakingly clear: there just aren't enough donors for people in need.

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Mark St. Germain's “The God Committee.” Directed by Dale Savidge. With Lou Buttino (Dr. Jack Klee), Lorry Houston (Nella Larkin, R.N.), Catalina Keller (Dr. Ann Ross), Bruce Meahl (Dominic Piero), Rod McClendon (Father Charles Dunbar), Britney Teie (Dr. Kiera Banks), and Todd Weir (Dr. Alex Gorman).

Costume Designer, Elyse Middlebrooks; Sound Designer, Christoph Kresse. Presented by Centre Stage, 501 River Street, Greenville, SC (864) 233-6733. Through May 2. Tickets $25, with discounts for seniors and students.

Florence Foster Jenkins insists there's nothing wrong with her inner ear. Blessed with perfect pitch, she says. One of the very lucky few, she says. Well if that's the case, then musicians, critics, and historians agree: there's got to be something wrong with her head. The woman cannot sing, and she insists on giving concert after concert of the most difficult pieces in the classical repertoire. It's an outrage, an embarrassment, and it's painfully funny. So painful, in fact, that Cosme has to coach you on how to endure the performance. How to stifle the laugh. How to come up for air. And how to cut-and-run if you just can't make it.

Many of you have asked about the future of my theatre reviews now that The Revenant Culture is officially kaput. The answer? I don't know. Over the next few days, I'll be moving archives of my reviews from Revenant to Ubertati. I don't have another reviewing "gig" lined up, but I do miss the action, so we'll see what happens.

For the immediate future, Centre Stage has graciously asked me to review another show or two on Ubertati...so make it worth their while and see some theatre! (And be sure to tell them Stephanie sent you.)

Hat tip to Nancy Bopp, whose thoughtful Facebook note "I'm coming to your house today" prompted this entry.

I, too, have been pondering House and Home and what exactly I have been doing/not doing to make it a proper sort of dwelling. These thoughts are mostly the fault of E. Michael Jones' book Living Machines: Bauhaus Architecture as Sexual Ideology. Here are a couple excerpts from Chapter 1:

"The building was a meditation on the idea of home as seen through the lens of a French culture that had been permeated by centuries of Christianity. The building was an enculturation of the values that France held dear. It provided, as buildings like this were supposed to do, shelter from the elements, privacy, a place to rest, and, now, a place to recover from a war."

(Aren't we also beleaguered by this interminable war? By the people every day slaughtered, the land and livelihoods marred, and the supposed side of "right" wondering more and more if they made a "mistake" in starting the thing? Yet I've never thought of my home as a place of healing, the welcoming spot to recover from these atrocities. Unfortunately, too often, my house IS the atrocity, the enemy, the war, and all. And when I turn on the radio to hear of all the world-wide mayhem, there is a relief inside of me that I'm no longer trapped inside the house, but can still participate in the great exchange of ideas, hear of news, be it bad or good, and respond to that news.)

"The cultural heritage of the West was one of the first casualties of the Great War. The house was the locus of the home; it was the primary building, sheltering the primary cell of society, the family, which was the nurturing ground of the values men held most dear. It was there that man first learned about God. It was there that he learned his native language, which the Germans refer to as the Muttersprache, the 'mother language.' It was there that he learned that his language aligned him with a particular race and state. All of the more important human activities, which gave man his identity, took place in one sort of building or another, and those of most significance took place in the building known as the house."

(If you're a local yokel, and you're interested in a copy of the book, I strongly urge you to contact Joffre Swait of The Silver Chair Bookstore--he may have just bought the last new copies in existence. At the very least, he cleaned out the Ignatius Press warehouse. And he's local.)