I forgot to think up a review on my way home last night. I was too busy thinking up the letter I was going to send to certain friends--scholar friends who've asked me to keep an eye out for that "special" show that would merit the depletion of rare babysitting and tuition resources, and non-scholar friends who don't "do" theatre and would like to know if I ever come across a "good" show.

Aside from these regular reviews, I've yet to actually suggest anything for them--so much pressure! If someone's going to see one play in a year--in a decade maybe--it's gonna have to be good. I don't want to get that wrong. And this time, I'm confident I won't. So here is the letter I'm sending to all of my friends. (No joke.)

Dear ______,

You wanted to know if I ever found "the" play in town, and I'm pleased to report that I did. "The Clean House" by Sarah Ruhl. It's at the Warehouse, and I think you need to see it. I promise you will be very sad if you don't. And I also promise you will be (forgive the cliche) moved if you do. Moved to laughter and tears.

It's about jokes--the search for the perfect joke in the world (in Portuguese). So it's wickedly funny.
It's about the finding of Besherets (Jewish soul mates). So it's deep and meaningful.
It's about cleaning (or not cleaning) your house. So it's terribly relevant.
It's also about ice cream, compassion, dirty socks, depression, glowworms and death.

In short, it's about our mixed up lives and the decisions we make every day to clean or not to clean, to love or not to love, and whether or not to LAUGH at all of it.

I have never cried so much at something so hilarious.

As Matilde (the Brazilian cleaning lady) says, "In order to tell a good joke, you have to believe that your problems are very small, and that the world is very big...If more women knew more jokes, there would be more justice in this world."

Such sentiments may feel like salt in the proverbial wound, since Lane's life (and house) are literally falling apart. And Virginia's never had a life to speak of. And Ana is staring at cancer. But Lynne Junker's Matilde is so comforting and refreshing that I wouldn't mind her cleaning up my falling-apart life either. In fact, I wouldn't mind having any of these characters over for a while--the acting is incredible!

Debra Capps and Elizabeth Finley are astonishingly perfect as the sisters Lane and Virginia. They both capture an ineffable air of superficiality, the Sarah Ruhl whimsy, and the surprising depth underneath the clean exteriors.

Anne Tromsness and Paul Savas are delicate and delicious as all manner of couples in love.

The sound design (for all you music heads out there) is the most exquisite I've heard in Greenville (kudos to Paul Savas and Justin Ames), the set (Shannon Roberts) both minimal and mod, and the directing (also, ahem, Shannon Roberts) insightful--just the right strain of humor and pathos for Ms. Ruhl.

And this Ms. Ruhl, playwright? She is the only playwright, living or dead, that has ever induced me to say, "Why do I bother writing plays? The woman's already done it!" And I can say it without bitterness or despair, because she does it so beautifully. The experience is slightly disorienting, dream-like, thoroughly modern (or rather "contemporary," as my scholar friends would be quick to point out) and unlike anything you've seen in theatre before.

Whether you're artsy or no, studying for your PhD in obscure poetry or stocking the shelves of our local drug store--if you've been waiting to see something spectacular, something unusual and beautiful and funny funny funny. Something important. If you've been holding out for the perfect show you won't regret, Sarah Ruhl's "The Clean House" at Warehouse Theatre is the one for you. Please don't miss it--or the best joke in the whole world.

Sincerely,
Stephanie Young

PS--and if you're short on funds (many of you are) and you happen to be young (21-39), snag some tickets on Young Professionals Night, September 2. They're only $15 and include a free tasty beverage!

--
Sarah Ruhl's "The Clean House," Directed by Shannon Roberts
Presented by The Warehouse Theatre, 37 Augusta St., Greenville (864) 235-6948. Through September 11. Tickets $25. Students $15.

It begins just like those stories your Southern granny used to tell you--soft, slow, and seemingly meandering--but don't let the quiet start fool you. Arlene Hutton's "See Rock City" at Centre Stage is one Appalachian tale that is sure to grab aholt to you.

Justin Walker (Raleigh) and Tara Sweeney (May) play newly weds just returned from honeymooning in the last days of WWII. They are both charming in their roles--sweet without being coy, and funny without being caricatures.

Not that there aren't some delicious stereotypes in the play, particularly the dueling mother-in-laws who sit on the front porch and pretend to be civil with each other. Mary Sparks Gray (Mrs. Brummett) and Kelly Wallace (Mrs. Gill) send sparks flying underneath their "friendly" conversation. But even these ladies know when to reign it in and give their women a heaping dose of humanity. Kudos to director Benjamin P. Robinson for handling his characters lightly and with insight, and to Lesley Preston for a lovely set.

The result is a play not unlike those tarty mother-in-laws: it wins you over with its sweet nostalgia and good feelings, while delivering a pretty mean ole punch. This isn't just a play about "the good old days." Yes, you will laugh, and you may cry (Walker offers up his most moving Greenville performance to date), but you will certainly be challenged by painfully relevant issues: the aftermath of war, gender roles, joblessness, sexism, the definition of family.

And that sweet, slow, meandering beginning? Every one of those rabbit trails tucks neatly--powerfully--back into the plot, and serves as a lesson in and of itself, a lesson to sit quietly and enjoy the rambling scenery, because everything, everything, is valuable in this mixed-up war-torn world.

--
Arlene Hutton's "See Rock City" Directed by Benjamin P. Robinson. Lights: Lee Hambly. Scene: Lesley Preston. Sound: Alex Brilliandt.
With Mary Sparks Gray (Mrs. Brummett), Tara Sweeney (May), Justin Walker (Raleigh), and Kelly Wallace (Mrs. Gill).

Presented by Centre Stage, 501 River Street, Greenville, SC (864) 233-6733. Through August 21. Tickets $25, with discounts for seniors and students.

Jennifer Goff of The Distracted Globe has set herself the arduous task of adapting Moliere's 1672 Les Femmes Savantes to New York, 1930. And she kept the convention of rhyming couplets.

In keeping with true review form, the next sentence should propose some sort of value judgment of the production. This is tricky. In complete honesty, I'll admit that I did not particularly enjoy the show. But then, in complete fairness, I'll tell you that I was the only person in the audience who didn't.

I have never (never!) heard an audience become so invested in a play. I am accustomed to The Excessively Loud Individual who annoys the rest of the patrons with his demonstrative responses. The Learned Ladies was my first experience with an entire audience hooting, howling, groaning, yelling at the characters (and at each other), clapping in the middle of scenes, and laughing with abandon.

Moliere's play lampoons hen-pecked husbands, domineering women, googily-eyed romantics, and those obnoxious fake intellectuals who say nothing of value (and write very very bad poetry). It's a fun story with our favorite caricatures, and the production serves up some beautiful acting. Stephen Boatright (straight-man Artie) and Kerrie Seymour (wife-from-Hades Phyllis) are entirely convincing; Cindy Mixon (the lusty Bessie) and Joel Perkin (the weak-kneed husband Chester) are literally a hoot. The staging is by turns corny and brilliant--the firing of the maid and the swooning over lousy poems are both crackling scenes that I would gladly re-watch.

So why didn't I enjoy the show? I didn't feel the production gave me liberty to do so. The play (remember) is composed entirely in rhyming couplets. Bad rhyming couplets. Really, intentionally bad rhyming couplets. The first ten minutes found the actors struggling against the language--trying to mask the galloping rhythm and obvious jangles. This straining set-up did not give me permission to groan at (what I perceived to be) the adaptation's gloriously self-conscious corniness. I was programmed to think--"Oh, what horrid greeting-card language. Let's cover that up."

Within this framework, the script worked best when its actors were able to completely overcome the clunky rhythm (in which task Seymour and Boatright excel) or occasionally when they could clue me in that they were going to ham-it-up on the obvious rhymes (Mixon and Perkin's domain). Given these two modes, the play seemed conflicted about itself--were these bad rhymes meant to be taken seriously? Or no? Or (given the audience's obvious delight) was I just one of those wretched Learned Ladies (shudder) who think too hard about everything? I don't know.

I do know that my fellow audience members had a lot more fun than I did, and I found myself wishing I could enter into their infectious glee. So. Here is my proposition of judgment: This disparity in our reactions says something very good about the production. If the entire audience has a middling-good experience, something is amiss; Theatre is supposed to be about heightened experience (be it positive or negative), and in this The Learned Ladies overwhelmingly succeeds. And given the ratio of ayes and nays (only 1 opposed and a nearly full house in stitches), it's a pretty safe bet that you'll do more than enjoy the show. You'll love it. And when you do, please hoot a little on my behalf.

--
Moliere's "The Learned Ladies," Adapted and Directed by Jennifer Goff
Presented by The Distracted Globe at Warehouse Theatre, 37 Augusta St., Greenville (864) 235-6948. Through August 7. Tickets $7.50.

I am a certifiably Bad Theatre Person. Before last night, I had refused to have anything to do with Oscar Wilde's The Importance of Being Earnest--refused to read the script, endure the ubiquitous stagings, watch the film. Perhaps this is excusable? High school and undergraduate years proved to be one nearly-unending stream of badly acted Earnest scenes. I am happy to say--quick toss of the hair--that The Distracted Globe has cured me of such snobbery.

Director Jerrold Scott sets the play in the 1960s: high-fashion London. Expect delicious costumery and makeup, exquisite posturing, and music that kept several audience members singing along at intermission. Also expect some whiz-bang character actors.

Ryan Bradburn's Algernon and Roberta Barnes' Gwendolen are so flamboyant in their over-hyped (and over-sexed) 60s personae that it's hard to take your eyes off 'em. Their glorious poses and expressions are a treat. I could have wished for just a smidge more grounding in Algernon--he's already wickedly funny, but a tinge of emotional truth would have made him irresistible. Jared Johnson (playing the servants Lane and Merriman) also deserves quick props for drawing out the most laughs without even talking.

But most of all, there is The Lady Bracknell. And since I am speaking of the queen of snobbery, I will confess to a bit more snobbery of my own. I adore Anne Kelly Tromsness, believe her to be one of the most versatile actresses I've seen in my three years of Greenville theatre-ing. Even so, I had a moment of doubt--Tromsness as Bracknell? Eh. We'll see. (See? Snobbery. Snobbery-snobbery-snobbery.)

Well, phooey on snobbery--Tromsness has me in spades on this one. She is exact (and exacting) as the snotty London socialite, flowing through motions and inflections so precise that she is terrifying. You could bump into this Lady Bracknell on the street. (If she ever deigned to frequent your side of the street, that is.) Tromsness' baffling precision may well be one of the highlights of my theatre season--and at only $7.50 a ticket.

$7.50. Kudos to Distracted Globe for providing affordable theatre that does not affront the sensibilities of the snobs among us (namely, me). Snob though I may be, after last night, I will happily seek out another Earnest. I just hope it's as pretty as this one.

--
Oscar Wilde's "The Importance of Being Earnest," Directed by Jerrold Scott
Presented by The Distracted Globe at Warehouse Theatre, 37 Augusta St., Greenville (864) 235-6948. Through August 7. Tickets $7.50.

Peter Shaffer's "Amadeus" is one of those Important Plays, works of art full of giddy genius, reckless jealousy, and the hard hard questions of life. Warehouse Theatre delivers a scintillating production, brimming with all of those things: storms and light, gaiety and ruin, and laughter! But there's also something else in there, something harder to stomach. A truly unsettling stroke of mediocrity.

Of course, it's much more fun to start with the genius. Mozart. Matt Creacy's composer is shockingly effervescent--he's exudes so much joie de vivre and juvenile delight that I found myself surprised to actually believe him. But, oh, did I ever believe and love him. Creacy is infectious and inspiring (even to someone inclined to discount the more, ahem, scatological shades of his humor). His love Constanze is equally buoyant--Tara Sweeney charms much more with her giddy, silly jokes than she does with her later (overwrought?) grief.

So this Mozart of the potty mouth enters the royal court in Vienna. It is a most gossipy, backstabbing city, as exquisitely portrayed by the Venticelli. Jared Johnson and Matt Reece deliver a hilariously stylized duo that commands any scene it enters. It's a good thing it never actually enters the court with Joseph II. Chris White's Emperor of Austria is not a man to be upstaged. White gives a delightful performance as the "benevolent" (and ultimately ignorant) head of state. The rest of the court is appropriately stodgy, especially Kelly Ward's deliciously mute wife-of-Salieri.

And Salieri. Salieri. Here is where we get hard to stomach. Salieri, as written by Shaffer, is larger than life. He's the villain to beat all villains--Vienna's musical man of the hour plots to ruin Mozart. He's big and full of raging thunder against God. Just not as played by Paul Savas. Savas opens the show with an alarmingly normal, chummy man. To be frank, I was affronted. I came to see a sneaky old man. I came to see thunder. I demand to see thunder. Which of course, should tell you that Savas (and director David Sims) understand something far more important about the script.

By resolutely denying Salieri's inherent melodrama, Savas creates a villain that is disconcertingly familiar. I found myself begging for more fireworks--not because fireworks are fun, but because this Salieri was too very like me, and I wanted an out. Give me a pompous, overwrought mediocrity. Let me say "tsk tsk tsk!" and leave it at that. Don't--don't--sit in my seat. Which is, of course, exactly what the self-proclaimed patron saint of mediocrity should do. Be normal.

Do not misunderstand. Savas does hit Salieri's breaking points beautifully. He just refuses to cave in to that alluring tug of melodrama, and I commend him for that, even though it stings. Especially because it stings.

"They are like having little children in the house. They want something so they just take it. Not a smidgen of manners. No conscience." This is Miss Daisy's summation of all "coloreds," including the chauffeur her son has just foisted upon her. But you know she's not prejudiced. What a hateful thing to say, that she might be prejudiced! It's Alfred Uhry's "Driving Miss Daisy" at Centre Stage--the the hilarious and touching ride through Daisy's thirty-year relationship with her chauffeur.

The cast is uniformly funny. Rick Connor's perennially agitated Boolie, Clark Nesbitt's affable Hoke, and Shirley Sarlin's conflicted rich lady Daisy. They'll keep you in stitches as they pair up and square off over trifles (going 20mph under the speed limit? ambrosia? a can of salmon?) and not-so-trifles (the proper care of graves. Learning how to read. Lynchings.) As Daisy and Hoke bicker and poke their way to an unconfessed affection for each other, they don't miss a single exasperated joke, and neither does the audience.

My only quibble is this: perhaps we laugh too much. The most profound and important scene thematically (the "invitation" to the Martin Luther King, Jr. banquet) is played as coyly as a sketch on high school break-ups. Sure we laugh, but we lose the punch: The cowardice that Daisy still faces after all these years of friendship and bombings and lynchings. Hoke's bravery in standing up to her. The fact that things haven't changed all that much. Not then. Not now. We're still having these same awkward, side-stepping conversations. But the potential disturbances are glanced over, lost, and the story quickly slips back into its house robe. It's a robe we love, light and airy and comforting. But had the production seized on this little bit of darkness, "light" could have meant more than an absence of weight. It could have been a beacon.

Profundities aside, Chip Egan still directs a doodle of a bittersweet show, a family-friendly knock-out that will beguile the night and send you out refreshed. Don't miss it.

--
Alfred Uhry's "Driving Miss Daisy" Directed by Chip Egan. Lights: Ron Pyle. Scene: David Hartmann. Sound: Wade Powell.
With Shirley Sarlin (Daisy), Clark Nesbitt (Hoke), and Rick Connor (Boolie).

Presented by Centre Stage, 501 River Street, Greenville, SC (864) 233-6733. Through June 26. Tickets $25, with discounts for seniors and students.

(Not a revu of Pintr's Dumb Waitr @ Brd & Baby Theatr)

1. U cn keep ur cellfon on 2 text n tweet.
2. Snappy produxon
3. By nu theatr n town!
4. U must admit, garage is perfct settng 4 Dumb Waitr.
5. Sum of best actng seen n upstate Chris White=most luvabl Gus Evr!
6. 2 mebe 3 shos left
7. Only $10!
8. 2 resurv tix: 864-640-2901

--
Harold Pinter's "The Dumb Waiter"
Presented by The Bird & Baby Theatre.
Through June 5
Tickets $10. Call 864.640.2901

Vincent is running away from love. Or running to love; he's not exactly sure which. Instead of meeting his girlfriend for some quick Mexican in Chicago, he's hopping the last flight to Paris and hoping to learn the ways of romance from the grandfather he never met. This is the opening of Mat Smart's The 13th of Paris. This is also the best (best!) feel-good play of the season. It's a richly textured comedy treating all the strands of love: French realistic, French magical, American, American-blase, American-alien, and of course, the unabashedly Skanky.

Warehouse Theatre and director Adam Knight have assembled a delightful cast for this regional premiere--the return of Thomas Hudgins (Vincent) and Elizabeth Finley (Annie) is cause for rejoicing. Their chemistry crackles across trans-Atlantic phone connections and in unexpected spring showers. Debra Capps (Jessica) and Daryl Phillipy (William) have the audience howling as the over-sexed newlyweds who accost (literally, hormonally, hilariously) the beleaguered Vincent.

But camp and fury aside, the creme de la creme of this show has to be the grandparents: Jacques (Jim France) and Chloe (Kerrie Seymour), who meet in the storied Parisian cafe and have a romance worth dying for. France and Seymour assume their roles with such grace and openness that they leave the rest of the talented cast far behind. By the sheer force of lovely acting, the grandparents' fairy-tale romance becomes tangible reality, and the turbulent present is exposed, for a season, as a farcical cartoon caricature.

But only for a season. This play speaks as much for realists as for sentimentalists. Every romance, no matter how boring or bawdy, has its own flavor--something worth savoring and celebrating. And pursuing. It's a lesson Vincent learns only reluctantly, as he lets go of the shimmery past to pursue a quirky, fulfilling present with the girl who just happens to be fluent in alien.

The grandparents, it seems, do know best. They lured Vincent to Paris. They'd lure me back to the Warehouse for a repeat performance. Not bad for a couple that's been dead forty years. Let them lure you...and whatever sort of romantic interest you're pursuing these days.

--
Mat Smart's "The 13th of Paris," Directed by Adam Knight
Presented by The Warehouse Theatre, 37 Augusta St., Greenville (864) 235-6948. Through May 22. Tickets $25. Students $15.

The DAP theatre is partnering with Safe Harbor women's shelter and local playwright Anne Pecaro (me!) to produce an evening of theatre that explores violence toward women and the devastation left in its wake. The play opens August 5. Rehearsals will begin mid-June.

We need 2-3 women of all ages.
Auditions April 23 (7pm) and April 24 (5pm)

See the Facebook Event for more details or to RSVP.
If you aren't on Facebook, e-mail thedevilsadvocateplayers@gmail.com or call 925-759-9119

The first admonition: Come Early. You'll want to spend some quality time with the exquisite set Shannon Roberts has designed for Warehouse Theatre's latest production. It's a Bronx apartment in all its (cramped) glory--an elderly woman's abode, brimming with all the sentimental bits you loved at grandma's house. It's the first set that's tempted me to leave my seat and poke around its nooks and crannies. So take some time, and let your eyes do the exploring. Once Sada begins, you aren't going to be paying attention to it at all.

The second (and final) admonition: Stay Awhile. Bruce Levy's Sada is like your grandmother; it rambles a good bit. It makes a few illogical leaps of the mind (most notably one minor character's instant transformation from bull-headed to push-over, or whispy bits of farce sticking out at odd angles). But, Stay Awhile. Or, as Sada would say: Sit! Eat! Drink! This is a visit worth sticking out.

Shirley Sarlin headlines as Sada herself: an elderly Jewish lady who takes a shine to the young Hispanic man who's come to rob her. Sarlin delivers a sometimes feisty and always lovable performance as the granny who is nobody's victim--not the robber's, not the cops', and certainly not her son's--an old lady who just might turn out to be everybody's saint.

Chris Hecke (Angel), Jared Johnson (Officer Blum), and Peyton Hray (Officer Morelli) form an admirable lot of hooligans in need of saving, but Rick Connor's Ira is by far the comic steal of the show. It's no secret that Ira has heart troubles. Sada tells you this at the very beginning. But when Connor appears, the already funny play takes a turn for the hilarious--and the truly moving. Like any good grandmother, Sada has heat-changing lessons for everyone. But most especially you. And most especially herself.

Come early. Stay awhile. Sada wouldn't let you leave anyway. But what does that matter, when you've already fallen in love with her?
--
Bruce Levy's "Sada,” directed by Paul Savas.
Presented by The Warehouse Theatre, 37 Augusta St., Greenville (864) 235-6948. Through April 10. Tickets $25. Students $15.

I need to open this review with a brief confession: I'd like to live closer to New York. Love to live closer to New York, actually. I tell myself that just about anybody with a passion for the stage wants to be in New York, that most of us outside of New York are justifiably melodramatic (perhaps you've heard us?) in complaining about the mythical misunderstanding, oppression, and death of theatre everywhere outside of New York. Ha. After what happened at the Warehouse Theatre last night, I need to do penance for such unholy thoughts. Jayce T. Tromsness directed such a Macbeth as would make any theatre nut proud to stand up and be counted a Greenvillian.

There are no kilts (or robes). No grown men holding twigs in front of their faces. Not much of anything that you've come to associate with Macbeth, except the language. Tromsness sets the Scottish play in the Balkans, in the war-torn Bosnia of the 90s. Shannon Roberts comes through with an emotionally charged set--you'll be tempted to weep before the action even begins, but wait. The first ten minutes of the play are some of the most muscular and harrowing moments I've ever seen on the boards. They were in fact the most harrowing moments I'd ever seen--until we came to Macduff's pretty chickens and their dam. Yes, I cried.

With a production as stunning as this, it's hard to find highlights, so I offer instead a list of the things that are still lingering with me the morning after:

The weird sisters--Lynne Junker, Tiffany Nave, Kerrie Seymore. They don't have beards. Or matted hair. Or long bony fingers. But give them turbans and swaths of dirty lace and talismans and they'll haunt you tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

Blood. Entrails. Blood-shot eyes. Blood. I won't tell you how they do it, but the result is chilling.

Hecate. Anne Kelly Tromsness is the ultimate argument for the existence of Hecate. And her doubling as the ever-present Doctor gave a chill-bumping reminder of the strange forces at work in this world.

Ghosts! Banquo (astonishing show from Andy Croston) and his unending line of wraith-like kings.

Humans. Real humans. The Lords and Ladies Macbeth I have known in the past have already seemed to be kings before the play begins. Regal, imposing, infinitely above me and my little concerns with the world. What Paul Savas and Debra Capps bring to these roles is an unsettling familiarity. I was shocked by the every-day-ness of their language, their actions. They are more relevant than regal, which gives them an especial terror: that could be me. That could be any one of us. Don't get me wrong. When the time comes for the big explosive speeches, Savas and Capps are dynamite. But the part of their performance that is still with me today? Act Three, Scene Two--a brilliant and beautiful fight between the husband and wife.

Macduff, Macduff, Macduff! Such a stirring performance by Brock Koonce--anyone can muster a few tears for dead kids, but his show after Duncan's murder? Took my breath away--and that in a scene that has always made me cringe for false notes. I would I could usurp Shakespeare and make Macduff the next king.

How to tie up all these disparate memories? With the man who made them possible to begin with, and I don't mean Shakespeare. I've seen enough wimpy concept-driven renditions (Macbeth as a mostly-danced fable set in western Africa?) to know that the Bard alone doesn't bring this kind of muscle to a production. The director, Jayce Tromsness, has created some of the most human and horrifying Shakespeare I've experienced to date: his Macbeth is a figure from the nightly news, from Iraq or Afghanistan or any other war we've sat and watched from our armchairs. More than this: its the only Macbeth that has wrested my focus away from Otherness and War and turned a level gaze to my own sneaking ambitions. And isn't that supposed to be the point? Encore, Mr. Tromsness. Encore.

Appalachia 1912. Expect music from the hills, family, old-timey ways. But don't expect the good ole days. The miners are being forced into more and more degrading, life-threatening conditions, and those who disagree are run off the company property. Enter a strike. Enter armed guards, and a family torn--members living and dead, straddling both sides of the not-so-proverbial fence. This is Walter Thinnes' "Coal Creek," Winner of the 2009 New Play Festival, and produced by Centre Stage.

Caleb (Jeff Warren) and his son Joshua (Justin Walker) face off as father and son on opposite sides of the labor war. Aunt Lillian (Alyx Clements) and Anna (Olivia Wilusz) try to outfox the camp guard Quinn (Bruce Meahl) to get food to Joshua and the other starving strikers. It's a uniformly strong cast, with a sparkling performance by Alyx Clements--her feisty Lillian is the highlight of the evening, so honest and homey you'd think she just happened to wander in here from camp. And when she matches wits and wills with Quinn? Expect fireworks and lots of laughter, and a delicious of feeling of relief that you aren't on the receiving end of all her "attentions."

You'll also be glad you didn't live in the sepia-toned past, at least not when real history rears its grisly head. Thinnes has taken up the story of the West Virginia Mine War, and he doesn't shy away from the facts. But he also finds an impossible path--the one narrow road leading to a feeling of hope and triumph.

This is a new play. Approach it not like a baby, but like a teenager. It's growing. Sometimes it doesn't know what to do with its lanky appendages. It's often long-winded, and sometimes traffics in cliche, but thanks to Brian Haimbach's insightful direction--the play just might surprise you with its passion and humor, its clarity on disturbing passages in history. And you'll be one of the few, the hearty few, who can point to the successful grown-up play and say, "Yes, I knew Coal Creek, way back in the good ole days."

--
Walter Thinnes' "Coal Creek," Director: Brian Haimbach. Scene: Wendy Marriott. Sound: Richard Beveridge. Lighting: Marlaina Seay. Costume: Deb Warren. With Jeff Warren, Bruce Meahl, Alyx Clements, Justin Walker, Olivia Wilusz.

Presented by Centre Stage, 501 River Street, Greenville, SC (864) 233-6733. Through Jan 30. Tickets $10 ($5 students)

I was a junior philatelist for ten years; I breathed stamps. And even I was skeptical about "Mauritius'" premise. Nostalgia maybe. Charm definitely. But adrenaline? Fear? Over little pieces of paper? Probably not. I was mistaken. Centre Stage's production of Theresa Rebeck's "Mauritius" (rhymes with malicious) is a perfect suspense for this spooky season.

Jackie (Debra Capps) slogs through the aftermath of her mother's death: the house, the stuff, demons (and bruises) of a past life, mountains of bills she can't even read. There's one glint of hope: some old stamps bequeathed to her on mom's deathbed. A pair of Mauritius stamps, each worth enough money to solve everything. Unfortunately, the stamps also come with an estranged half-sister, a has-been philatelist, and two violent con men (Brock Koonce and Neil Shurley). Cue action.

From David Hartmann's tight set to J. Michael Craig's musty old Phil, the show genuinely surprises. But if the stamps are the “crown jewels of philately,” the crown jewels of this production are the sisters, Jackie and Mary. Debra Capp's Jackie is funny, painful, and poignant. She's been through the apocalypse of a family, and while she's deeply damaged, she's still fighting. I wouldn't mind seeing a sequel—what happens to Jackie after—provided Ms. Capp is in the role.

And Mary. Mary, Mary, Mary. She's also a survivor, though of a different strain. Anne Kelly Tromsness's Mary is so real, it's almost hard to hate her. Almost. But hate her or no, Tromsness gives her so much depth that you can't help hoping she'll come to her senses.

You'll pull for Jackie's right to those stamps all the way through the harrowing show, but Theresa Rebeck's script delivers something you didn't even think to want: the realization that no amount of money can fix the past. Or even the present. But with a little luck and some very quick thinking, you just might be able to imagine a better future.

--
Theresa Rebeck's "Mauritius" Directed by Chip Egan. With Debra Capps, J. Michael Craig, Brock Koonce, Neil Shurley, Anne Kelly Tromsness.

Presented by Centre Stage, 501 River Street, Greenville, SC (864) 233-6733. Through Oct 31. Tickets $25, with discounts for seniors and students.

There's a big old moon tonight—yellow and dripping down color on the moss. There are some shooting stars and a few stray bolts of lightning. Old timers would tell you it's the perfect night for catfish. The horoscope hotline would tell you it's the perfect night for romance. And then there's Frog, who would tell you it's the perfect night to beat your (former) best buddy to a pulp. Director Francis Kuhn gives you a little of all three in Warehouse Theatre's production of “Catfish Moon.”

It was Curley's idea, so you can blame him. He organized this reunion of sorts, calling up old buddies and trying to patch things up. He's always been the big brother, the umpire, taking care of everybody, even getting them all baptized at the tender age of ten. He's an all-around good guy, and actor Will Ragland succeeds in catching his startling mix of fun and gruff tenderness. Unfortunately for him, Curley may have bitten off more than he can chew this time: Frog and Gordon are fighting for keeps.

It's about a woman (what else?) It's about Betty, the only female in the cast, and a welcome relief from all that testosterone. Erin Smith makes a refreshing small-town girl—a woman who speaks her mind without tromping over the people around her. Very much unlike Frog. Jason Johnson serves up such a believable spit-fire performance as this red-neck extraordinaire that I swear I went to school with this guy. And while I'm glad I never dated (or married!) Frog, I was more than thrilled to spend a couple hours in his company. You will be too—Johnson is an absolute delight on the stage, especially when he's coming after Gordon, the lovable, emotional, somewhat off-balance suitor played by Elvin Clark. He's as tender as Frog is feisty, and it takes a serious blow to bring them all together again.

And therein lies my minor quibble with the production. Sartin's plot is a bit predictable, the conflict and its resolution coming too easily in spots. But this contempt bred of familiarity is quickly won over by Sartin's genius for southern dialog—always fresh and funny, never cliché. It's a script whose cadence surprises, if not its plot. And there's one last treat in store, too: Shannon Roberts has created a surprisingly emotive set for this reunion of middle aged friends. Her decrepit pier shows its age every bit as well as these old pals with their failing health, love lives, addictions, and deeply personal feuds. But like any trusty friend, or pier, everything's still standing at the end, ready for more fishing, more fighting, and maybe, just maybe, a little bit more loving.

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Laddy Sartin's “Catfish Moon,” directed by Francis X. Kuhn.
Presented by The Warehouse Theatre, 37 Augusta St., Greenville (864) 235-6948. Through September 19. Tickets $25. Students $15.

It's time to watch the new plays hatching in South Carolina. Hope to see you there all next week (9/14-9/18) for FREE play readings, 7pm each night, at Centre Stage.

And, as if you haven't had enough, I'm hosting a play reading for a few works-in-progress over at The Bird & Baby Philosophy Club on September 19, 7pm. Bad timing, I know--so much new play-ing in one week! I could blame it on my professors and deadlines, but really, I enjoy the work too much for that.

Event Blurbage follows. You have been warned.

The Thinks We Have Thunk
Three New Works in need of Actors / Readers/ Listeners for one night of cold readings

Saturday, September 19, 2009
7:00pm - 10:30pm
The Bird & Baby Philosophy Club
1008 W. Poinsett St, Greer, SC 29650

Join us at The Bird & Baby Philosophy Club for some new play development! Member Stephanie Young has three new works that she needs to hear before sending them off for MFA-ing. We'll provide coffee and munchies, chairs and scripts. You provide the voices, the audience, the constructive critique. A good time to be had by all.

More details on the scripts:
A one-act comedy. A ten-minute drama. And the first act of something dark & surreal. If we had to rate 'em, the content in these scripts ranges from PG to R (for language, thematic content, innuendo). Anyone is welcome to come and read and/or listen, so invite your friends, but do the kind thing and let them know what they're in for!

We have reading parts for as many as 4 men, 6 women, and 3 either/or.
We can get by with as few as 3 men, 3 women, 1 either/or.

Hope to see you there!

Oh, oh, I'm packing my bags for oh, oh, Oh-Hi-Oh.

This little playwright is headed to The International Centre for Women Playwrights retreat--it kicks off on Sunday at Ohio State and The Jerome Lawrence and Robert E. Lee Theatre Research Institute. I hope to post some stuff from our sessions and late night readings of works in progress, maybe even catch a show in downtown Columbus.

Unfortunately, this means no Greenville reviews from now until September 8, when I return from a post-retreat jaunt to Colorado.

Hopefully, I'll only be missing one show:Country Queens at Centre Stage, so check it out and tell me how it goes!

I'm trying to hit Catfish Moon over at The Warehouse when I get back, but I'm also in performances that weekend for Two Gentlemen of Verona at ye olde alma mater. Maybe Sunday.... Here's hoping you can see it before I do!

The Distracted Globe's mission is to produce classic comedies. Classic. And it is with great sorrow that I announce to you that the 80s are now considered classic. The 80s! When the hope of a jacuzzi inspired every man, and the promise of a salad bar could salvage the worst of blind dates. Also, the 80s of raging jewel tones and America's sexual identity crisis, a-bi-homo-what-on-earth-am-I-sturm-und-drang. In all this mess, it's important to have a therapist, don't you think? It's what the characters in Christopher Durang's “Beyond Therapy” would tell you. Especially the therapists.

Dr. Charlotte Wallace's programme for mental health in this milieu: sleep with whomever, whenever. Hurl vulgar epithets whenever the desire o'erwhelms you. Blind all the horses with a metal spike. It never hurts to hug Snoopy. For this sage advice you will pay more than a few pretty pennies. Just don't expect the therapist to listen real well (or at all)—or even remember your name. The poor saps who fall into Dr. Wallace's (and Dr. Framingham's) clutches...did I say clutches? I meant crotches. No! I meant, couches. Couches. The poor saps who fall into the therapists' couches act out this absurd regimen to hilarious results. Especially the therapists.

All the actors—Jared Johnson's creepy Bruce who is trying to woo Jennifer Goff's unsteady Prudence while also living with his lover (Justin Walker's stiff Bob, who wishes to lay Moses L. Rickett's none-too-empathetic Waiter)—they're all a riot—ungainly, wobbly on their feet and in their emotional lives. Especially the therapists: Rick Connor's strung-out, macho Dr. Framingham, and Kelly Wallace's psycho Dr. Wallace. While it's obvious these therapists are little more than sexual predators and voyeurs par excellence—they're the humorous highlight of the show.

Kelly is a relative newcomer to the Greenville stages, and this is her juiciest and most triumphant performance to date. If you can survive the sexual meet ups and break ups and swap outs--and Durang's often self-indulgent script (2 hours? Really?)—it's worth it to see this performance. Wallace sings! (And I'm not talking about the sort of singing done by Bob's possibly transvestite mother.) Kelly's perfectly tuned to this bizarre role, and I'd give all my pennies to sit on her couch and watch her work her crack-pot magic again.

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Christopher Durang's “Beyond Therapy,” directed by Michele Labar. Presented by The Distracted Globe Theatre Company at Warehouse Theatre, 37 Augusta St., Greenville (864) 235-6948. Through July 31. Tickets $7.50.

Corie Bratter is newly married and in love with everything—the backwards plumbing in her fifth-floor apartment (be sure to flush up), the hole in the skylight, the exorbitant rent, the lack of cups (old tin can, anyone?), and especially, especially her new phone (princess style, in beige, lights up). She's in love with it all for ten whole minutes, about the time it takes for hubby climb home with a promotion and a briefcase full of work and the honeymoon is so over, baby. The audience, however, is just about to fall madly in love with Distracted Globe's summer offering: Neil Simon's “Barefoot in the Park.” It's a buoyant party of a play—and a smashing way to spend a hot Greenville night.

Elizabeth Finley is a gas to watch as the flighty housewife, and her husband Paul is delivered up by Thomas Hudgins, a man fluent with the fumblings of the newly married man. Then there's the upstairs neighbor, the aged gourmet and womanizer from Eastern Europe—a hilarious role for Jayce T. Tromsness. Of course he's in love with the pretty young thing downstairs. Of course he's way more fun than the stuffed shirt of a lawyer husband, especially after said neighbor has downed a few ouzos. And of course, of course, Corie's mother is quite offended. Hurt, really. She needs to go home and give herself a Toni Home Permanent. (But actor Anne Tromsness is such a dear, you hope she'll keep dragging herself up those five--or is it six?--flights of stairs, for unannounced visits.)

Director Jennifer Goff has created an energetic and touching production, despite Simon's shopworn advice to the newly married woman (item #2: just stroke the male ego a bit, and you'll be fine). It's advice that (thankfully) gets lost in this kerfuffle of comedy, and the characters just might succeed in finding their own marital balance—but not before a few more gaffs pack the audience off laughing.

Be sure to drop in on Bratters while you can. Tell them I sent you. I promise, you won't have to climb six flights of stairs to get there, but if you did, it would definitely be worth it.

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Neil Simon's “Barefoot in the Park,” directed by Jennifer Goff. Presented by The Distracted Globe Theatre Company at Warehouse Theatre, 37 Augusta St., Greenville (864) 235-6948. Through August 1. Tickets $7.50.

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.

--
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.

Stephen Temperly's “Souvenir: A Fantasia on the Life of Florence Foster Jenkins” is the sort of show that could easily devolve into caricatured farce. How can you not play it up when singing off key? Or not writhe in anguish as you aid and abet the shenanigans of a tone deaf diva? That the actors in Centre Stage's production remain fully human and dead-level funny is a wonder worth seeing. While Florence (Mimi Wyche) and Cosme (Mark Nadler) can rake in the laughs (and do!), neither of them is willing to compromise when it comes to what's in the heart. And what's in the heart is far more muddled that our neat distinctions of “good art” and “bad art.”

Wyche's Florence is at once over-the-top and subtle. She's real. She's got all your hopes bundled up with even greater limitations. She's vulnerable, but she's sassy. She's coy. She's fighting back grief. She's screeching her way to fame. And Wyche makes her terribly, terribly lovable.

Maybe the only thing really wrong with “Madame J's” head is that she isn't afraid. She's conquered the doubt that cripples so many of us (including Cosme McMoon, her angst-ridden accompanist). “Art cannot be ruled by caution,” she lectures him. “You say the microphone will diminish [art], but so will doubt.”

It's one of the many ironic lectures Florence bestows on the truly-gifted Cosme, who doesn't perform because he's terrified of what people think. Cosme takes it all in a fairly reasonable stride, and Nadler's performance, both on the piano and off, shifts effortlessly between incredulity and compassion, wonder and rage. When the stakes get too high and Cosme just can't take it any more, the musical explosion between the two performers is painful enough to undercut your laughter and make you cry. This scene, and the tender wooing that follows is one of the most delicate and fresh scenes of the season, more than earning the duo a spontaneous ovation.

But that's not the end of the show. That's just the middle. There's still a “nightmare” of a performance to be gotten through, and after this recent bout of empathy, you're bound to be laughing all the harder, especially when you don't really want to laugh.

Temperly is a master playwright here, contorting your emotions more than Florence ever tormented a song—making you guffaw the loudest when all human decency says you should be showing the greatest pity, when people are hurting and broken. Flo's singing aside, Temperly lets you listen to the most painful sound you'll hear all night—your own voice, laughing uncontrollably at someone else's anguish. And when the “silly woman” is finally silenced (because of you!), the shame is almost too much to bear. Ave Maria, Florence Foster Jenkins never caved in to that shame, and her spirit, even at the very last, will help you rise above it, too.

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Stephen Temperly's “A Fantasia on the Life of Florence Foster Jenkins. Directed by Mark Waldrop. With Mimi Wyche (Florence Foster Jenkins) and Mark Nadler (Cosme McMoon).

Musical Director, Tom Helm; Scenic Designer, Michael Allen; Costume Designer Matthew Hemesath; Sound Designer, David Budries. Presented by Centre Stage, 501 River Street, Greenville, SC (864) 233-6733. Through March 21. Tickets $25, with discounts for seniors and students.

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.)

My review of Krapp's Last Tape--the most valuable theatre experience I've had all year!

I've recently joined the (unpaid) staff of The Revenant Culture literary zine--I'll be serving primarily as an editor, but also as a theatre critic. The first review went live today, and here's an excerpt:

Shakespeare's (Tiny) Tempest
Over half the play is missing. In fact, nearly two-thirds of the text is strangely absent from Summer Shakespeare's production of The Tempest. No matter. What remains is fifty minutes of belly-laughing farce, with the human tragedies and loves rounded out to little comic melodramas. It may be a dinghy to Shakespeare's imperial ship, but it still floats. (Mostly.)

To read the rest of the review, or to find out how to buy tickets for one of the final three performances, visit The Revenant Culture Blog.