Zachary Pincus-Roth.com

Theater Review: 'Pirate Queen' Misses the Boat

From Newsday, and my first Broadway review ever:

At one point early in "The Pirate Queen," most of the 42 cast members stand onstage braced for battle, the Irish soldiers facing their British counterparts. It seems the audience is about to be treated to a rousing, "300"-style fight to the death.

But a few seconds later, the stage is almost blank. A few scattered soldiers run this way and that. Some jump in the air like a child imitating a ballet dancer, while others swing swords at them, missing by several feet.

Such avoidance of real emotion is typical of "The Pirate Queen," the new musical at the Hilton Theatre that, at times, goes out of its way to be dramatically inert.

The show staggered into town with the kind of unfavorable buzz that makes critics feel like Barry Bonds preparing to face Roger Clemens' grandma.

"The Pirate Queen" isn't an embarrassment like "Dance of the Vampires" or a vanity project like "In My Life." It just feels a little sad, as if a lot of people put a lot of time into something that's simply lifeless. It makes one think: Turkeys aren't funny anymore.

"The Pirate Queen" tells the story of Grace O'Malley, a 16th-century pirate who leads an Irish rebellion against the British, led by Queen Elizabeth I. Grace does this despite being - as everyone keeps reminding us - a woman.

She's the kind of feminist who makes Susan B. Anthony look like Larry Flynt. Right after giving birth, she drags herself out of bed and crawls across the battlefield to stab a British soldier.

The show boasts the songwriting team of Alain Boublil and Claude-Michel Schonberg of "Les Misérables" and "Miss Saigon" fame. But "Les Miz," despite being a period mega-musical, continually surprises the audience as its characters confront true-to-life moral dilemmas and make inspiring choices.

"The Pirate Queen" is based on a true story but does a poor job of proving it. The characters seem to do things not because they want to, but because the script tells them to.

For instance, at one point Grace's father wants his clan to unite with another clan, so apparently Grace has to marry the other chieftain's son. No character onstage seems thrilled about this. Grace's real true love hangs around just in case. Even her father says the marriage's first three years are just a trial period.

A couple of scenes later, Grace's new husband stumbles home from a night of partying. She boldly declares, "This is no marriage." What did you expect it to be? Lucy and Ricky Ricardo?

Fans will recognize Schonberg's music - the opening song evokes "Do You Hear the People Sing?" from "Les Miz" - with slight Irish inflections expressed primarily via the orchestrations' pipes and whistles. The lyrics are infuriatingly predictable, as phrases like "seize the day, this is it" simply wash over us, meaning nothing.

At the performance I attended, Stephanie J. Block, playing Grace, was replaced early in the first act by Kathy Voytko, whose lovely voice bloomed during a few tranquil second act moments. Hadley Fraser has an enjoyable tenor in the role of Tiernan, Grace's true love (though the writers fail to make their love convincing).

The show finds a couple invigorating moments of Irish dancing - after all, its producers created "Riverdance."

The idea of an adventure musical about a female pirate hero whose feminist ideals create an unlikely bond with her enemy doesn't seem so horrible. But whatever alchemy made "Les Miz" so magical simply doesn't exist here.

THE PIRATE QUEEN. Music by Claude-Michel Sch"nberg; lyrics by Alain Boublil, Richard Maltby Jr. and John Dempsey; book by Boublil, Schonberg and Maltby. Directed by Frank Galati, musical staging by Graciela Daniele. Hilton Theatre, 213 W. 42nd St., Manhattan. Tickets $51.25-$111.25. Call 212-307-4100. Seen at Wednesday night preview.

Theater Review: To 'BE' or not to be - that's the noisy question

From Newsday

The name Mayumana - pronounced my-YOO-mah-nah derives its name from the Hebrew word meaning "skill." After seeing the dance troupe's new show "BE," the gibberish quality of the name feels appropriate, given that this multinational company has a way of communicating that's independent of any spoken language.

Founded in Tel Aviv in 1996 by Eylon Nuphar and Boaz Berman, Mayumana has toured the world but is just now making its U.S. debut. Its performers hail from places as diverse as Israel, Spain, Switzerland and Ivory Coast. Like "Stomp," "BE" is a series of routines combining dance and percussion. There's one with funny-looking trash cans, one where they make noises into long tubes, one that I call "nuns with tennis-ball heads," and so on.

Details help create an abstract setting and atmosphere, although there is no plot. In my interpretation, a bunch of 20-something percussionists with zero body fat have rented a fancy dance club for a long vacation. They wear skimpy clothes, go to the beach, play guitar, dust the paintings and smoke a hookah, but mainly they dance around and pound on anything they can find. Familiar conventions include "the funny guy" - an impish wrench in the machine - and an audience-participation portion. Those sitting in certain seats are pretty much forced to participate, but at least you don't have to go onstage.

The routines tend to be both rigid and playful; the company at times evokes a band of attention-hungry robot children. A particularly impressive section involves passing glow-in-the-dark balls, and an amusing routine entails tap-dancing in flippers. The best features one of the performers playing a drum solo on his two friends' bald heads.

Of course, if you have seen "Stomp," you may not feel as if you are seeing anything revolutionary, and some of the routines are less impressive. The belly-dancing bit looks about like what can be seen nightly at any number of Middle Eastern restaurants. The portion before the encore, a chaotic medley of routines we've already seen, includes ... well, routines we've already seen.

But such faults are mostly forgotten as the performers endear themselves to us with energy, control and passion. A telling moment comes early on, when a group is standing in a semicircle banging on small, white boxes. One of the guys drops his box, and his friends stare at him. He steps forward, as if about to explain himself, but instead starts speaking in sound effects, and eventually begins twisting and gyrating his whole body. The "speech" perfectly demonstrates an age-old truth that dancers and musicians often repeat in interviews: "This is how I express myself. This is how I simply 'be.'"

Theater Review: His life is like a box of overly sweet chocolates

From Newsday

Though his songs conjure up Bob Dylan, the protagonist of the new Playwrights Horizons musical "Floyd and Clea Under the Western Sky" is more reminiscent of Forrest Gump.

Floyd is a man with a deep Southern drawl who often seems slow on the uptake but compensates with incredibly pure motives, especially when it comes to his (mostly) platonic love - in this case for Clea, a woman many years younger whom he stumbles across one night in Great Falls, Mont.

The object of Floyd's affection moves away to pursue stardom while indulging in all sorts of sins as he waits for her to come to her senses. Floyd stays innocent of the fast-paced world around him, referring at one point to our "culturally frivolous time" and singing about "a simple life." He's one of the few people on Earth still listening to a Walkman. But Floyd is more pitiable than Forrest. He's a sad-sack country singer-songwriter whose bouts with alcoholism have left him living out of his rusted green Studebaker.

Eventually, as expected, the two characters cure each other of their ills in a shameless feel-good story that promotes the value of all that is pure. The musical's good intentions are undermined, however, by its familiarity and lack of narrative drive.

Granted, "Floyd and Clea" - with lyrics and book by David Cale, who also plays Floyd, and music by Cale and Jonathan Kreisberg - seems intended as a hybrid of a revue and a book musical. The country-folk songs are sung as performances (in a bar or to each other) and only hint at the singer's personal feelings.

The songs can be alternately catchy or soulful, but they don't command attention. But the show is not without its charms. The performers serve the songs well. Cale's amusingly quirky but almost too-pathetic Floyd can sometimes become cloying, but he's offset by Mary Faber's refreshingly spunky Clea.

David Korins' whimsical set houses the band in a box-shaped dive bar that hovers, slightly askew, in the middle of the stage, amid piles of white fluff that could pass for either snow or clouds in the Big Sky state.

Watching the band onstage is the high point. The musicians' visibility is much more appealing than having a disembodied mystery noise piped in from upstairs, or even from the pit. Plus, in a two-character show, the band helps to fill the space and keeps the audience's eyes occupied.

Many may find "Floyd and Clea" a sweet, toe-tapping evening, and heartwarming in a "Tuesdays With Morrie" sort of way. Still, it's hard not to be frustrated by a musical whose narrative fails to transport us anywhere unpredictable or unknown. To butcher Mr. Gump's line, what makes that box of chocolates so enticing is not knowing what you're going to get.

FLOYD AND CLEA UNDER THE WESTERN SKY. Music by Jonathan Kreisberg and David Cale, book and lyrics by Cale, directed by Joe Calarco. Playwrights Horizons, 416 W. 42nd St. Tickets $65. Call 212-279-4200 or visit ticketcentral.com. Seen at Thursday preview.

Theater Review: A 'Tryst' with a twist: Getting conned by Love

From Newsday

Critics of online dating argue that users can lie to potential partners about everything from their height to their income. But what about courtship in the supposed good old days, when a mere lunch date could be enough to persuade an aging woman who still lives with her parents to marry a chap?

One might imagine a profile for the man in question in Karoline Leach's new play "Tryst," set in England in 1910. "Name: George Love. About me: A world traveler seeking modest woman with sweet face and small hands. Occupation: I'll tell you later."

Back then you couldn't Google the guy. If Adelaide Pinchin had been able to do so, she might've found out that George, who courted her for only a few days before proposing and eloping, had been married many times before. His habit is to make love to his bride on their wedding night before skipping off with her valuables. Of course, this time things go wrong. Adelaide is such a sweetheart that George goes soft.

The play, which was produced as "The Mysterious Mr. Love" in London's West End in 1997, begins pretty straightforwardly, with the scheme playing out as expected. But when George's plans unravel, things become a bit muddled, and it's more difficult to believe some of the characters' actions. George's climactic breakdown reveals a trite explanation for his life of exploitation.

Still, the final scenes are intriguing in their exploration of how far desperate people will go to find even a glimpse of happiness. The situation recalls another depiction of British lower-class despondency: Mrs. Lovett's relationship with Sweeney Todd, trying to hang onto a man she refuses to believe is too selfish and tormented to have a meaningful relationship.

As portrayed by Maxwell Caulfield, George manages to seduce the audience, despite his unequivocally evil goal. The nonchalant asides in which he reveals the methods of his deceptions are amusing. And at her best, Amelia Campbell is stunningly convincing as Adelaide, conveying the character's sad situation while maintaining her dignity.

Despite the play's flaws, Leach has created a crisply constructed piece of good, old-fashioned storytelling that makes for diverting, if not mind-blowing, entertainment. But men, don't take the woman you just met online; that would be awkward.

TRYST. Directed by Joe Brancato. Promenade Theater, Broadway at 76th Street. Tickets $45 to $65. Call 212-239-6200 or visit www.telecharge.com. Seen Sunday.

Theater Review: Seniors who caper but don't condescend

From Newsday

There's something charming about a show that convinces you to visit your grandmother. A case in point is this weekend's Encores! concert version of "70, Girls, 70," John Kander and Fred Ebb's musical about senior citizens who form a gang of fur coat thieves.

"70, Girls, 70" arrived on Broadway in 1971, after Kander and Ebb's "Cabaret" and "Zorba," and before "Chicago." Unlike those successes, "70, Girls, 70" closed after a month, and it's easy to see why. Compared with "Cabaret's" chilling depiction of Nazi Germany, for instance, "70, Girls, 70" must have seemed like utter fluff. Had it been written today, it almost certainly would have been done Off-Broadway, where a musical is allowed to be less ambitious.

In the beginning of this concert production, it seems as if the unevenness of the cast might stifle the energy. Playing the gang's ringleader, for instance, is Olympia Dukakis, whose theater credits skew more classical than musical, and it shows.

But as the show moves along, the flaws fade to the background and the charms come forward. In an interview in Playbill, Kander says he wanted "a show where you could see the wrinkles," and in this production, his concept works: It barely matters that the chorus numbers can sound messy, or that some actors have trouble plowing through the quicker lyrics or that some have their heads buried in their scripts.

It helps that the book, by Ebb and Norman L. Martin and adapted for the concert by David Thompson, has the actors step out of the story and marvel at how they can still sing and dance. Gauging how well these alter cockers can still hold the stage becomes part of the fun. It also helps that director-choreographer Kathleen Marshall keeps the elderly empowerment message from becoming condescending.

The cast isn't exactly a nursing home glee club - it has wheelbarrows full of Broadway credits spread over the past six decades. Particularly enchanting are Anita Gillette, who plays the twitchy, ditzy Eunice, and Charlotte Rae, who brings an inspired comic vigor to two supporting roles. Harvey Evans and Robert Fitch, who have 48 Broadway credits between them, perform a rousing dance break during the title number.

The songs hit or miss. George S. Irving, who was in the original 1943 cast of "Oklahoma!" has the thankless task of a performing "The Caper," in which he uses a diagram to explain the plan for the first heist. "Broadway, My Street" is reminiscent of - and compares unfavorably to - "Broadway Baby" in "Follies," another musical about aging that opened 11 days before "70, Girls, 70," and which Kander, in the Playbill, blames for taking away some of his show's attention.

Several songs, however, ring completely true, such as "Old Folks," a sendup of senior citizen stereotypes, and "Do We?" a clever take on sex after 60. "You and I" is a touching ode to the simple joy of cuddling up with a spouse and watching television, yet it also acknowledges the dreariness of days spent watching something insignificant rather than doing something grand.

And "Go Visit Your Grandmother," a duet between Rae and the hotel's young valet, is beautifully staged and convincingly argued. I'll book tickets to Fort Lauderdale soon, Grandma.

70, GIRLS, 70. Directed by Kathleen Marshall; music directed by Paul Gemignani. New York City Center, West 55th Street between Sixth and Seventh avenues. Tickets $25-$90. Through tomorrow. Call 212-581-1212 or visit www.nycitycenter .org.

Theater Review: An ordinary fella who gets the 'it' girl

From Newsday

Early in the Broadway revival of "The Pajama Game," a gaggle of women gossip about what's up between the characters played by Kelli O'Hara and Harry Connick Jr., simply because they're the two hottest people onstage. Why are the knockouts always destined for each other? Can't anyone else have a chance?

In Frank Loesser's musical "The Most Happy Fella," which overlapped with "Pajama Game" on Broadway 50 years ago, the ingenue passes on the young stud in favor of a funny-looking older man. It's an intriguing concept, but one that New York City Opera's new revival doesn't quite pull off.

Tony, the shy Italian owner of a Napa Valley vineyard, leaves a love note for a waitress who serves him in a San Francisco cafe. He affectionately dubs her Rosabella. The pair trade letters, and Rosabella agrees to move to Napa to marry him, even though she doesn't remember meeting him. In a mail-order-bride situation that prefigures the hazards of online dating, Tony sends her a photo of the vineyard's handsome foreman instead of his own.

Paul Sorvino has done a few roles in musicals along with his many film and TV credits, and five years ago he underwent surgery for the acid reflux that hindered his singing. Sorvino is such a perfect physical match for a Tony that one expects him to command the stage from the start.

But Sorvino enters with a tentative rendition of the title song and spends much of the first act fading into the background.

Loesser's book doesn't give him much to do, and the City Opera staging sometimes has the supporting cast literally leading him around.

In the second act, Tony is closer to the center of things, and his relationship with Rosabella (Lisa Vroman) flourishes convincingly. Sorvino loosens up and shows off his vocal chops. Still, at times he seems to be holding back; on a few lines, he's almost inaudible. Tony can be a spacey sad sack, but he still needs enough charm and charisma to convince Rosabella to fall for him, and for the vineyard workers to rally around him.

The sets date back to a 1991 production, but everything else is new, including the direction by Philip Wm. McKinley ("The Boy From Oz"). This production restores two songs sung by Tony's protective sister, Marie (Karen Murphy) - "Eyes Like a Stranger" and "Nobody's Ever Gonna Love You Like I Love You" - that the producers made Loesser cut from the original production. While they help set up the competition between Marie and Rosabella for Tony's affections, that tension is left underdeveloped and unresolved.

The biggest pleasure is the secondary couple, played by Leah Hocking and John Scherer, who lead the chorus through the rousing Western-themed "Big D." Plus, at the end of the show, you can't help but feel happy for the regular guy with the hot blonde in his arms.

THE MOST HAPPY FELLA. Directed by Philip Wm. McKinley. New York State Theater at Lincoln Center. Tickets $25 to $120. Call 212-870-5570 or visit www.nycopera.com.

Seen Tuesday.

Theater Review: Set in exotic, um, Baghdad, it's American corn

From Newsday

This year's Encores! concert series begins with the 1953 Broadway hit "Kismet," the story of a beggar-poet (Brian Stokes Mitchell) who falls in love with a wazir's wife (Marin Mazzie), a tale of love and longing set in ... Baghdad? OK, topical can be good, but that's just distracting. One could imagine the discussion that took place:

"How about we do this one? It's set in Baghdad."
"What about Baghdad?"
"It's set there."
"That's all?"
"Well ... there's a dictator."
"What else?"
"And, umm, it's a satire of autocracy, classism, sexism, and ..."

OK, forget it. It's a romance, folks. Thankfully, director Lonny Price and script adapter David Ives decide against trying to shoehorn King Kong into a Jimmy Choo, and, once the show gets through those icky Baghdad references in the song "Not Since Nineveh" ("Our palaces are gaudier! Our alleyways are bawdier!"), the generically exotic locale might as well be Bombay or Timbuktu or Pluto.

Though this "Kismet" is a concert version, the production doesn't skimp on things to look at. There's a lot of sharp choreography, for one. "Movin' Out" Tony nominee Elizabeth Parkinson, a main dancer, is delightfully energetic from the minute she opens the show by emerging from behind a podium like a genie, one with a body that makes Barbara Eden look like Robin Williams. Scenic consultant John Lee Beatty deftly utilizes drapes and furniture to evoke a splendiferous Arabian Nights-era city without the luxury of sets.

Mitchell's voice never ceases to amaze, but he has such a naturally regal bearing that he could use a bit more time to get used to the role of a poor, scheming poet. Mazzie, Mitchell's Broadway co-star in the far-more-clever far-off-place musical "Kiss Me, Kate," fares better as the glamorous, sex-deprived wife of a wazir who is two heads shorter than she is. But these virtuoso performers get lost amid the machinations of the plot and never get to really go nuts.

The comedy here consists mainly of one-line groaners, especially since Danny Rutigliano doesn't take nearly enough advantage of the enticingly ripe role of the wazir with a Napoleon complex. By far the most amusing thing about this guy is his headwear, which looks like a turban with a 4-year-old's birthday hat stapled to it.

Despite these faults, there are some nice melodies that songwriters Robert Wright and George Forrest drew from the themes of the Russian composer Alexander Borodin, such as the ever-catchy "Stranger in Paradise.." And "Kismet" ticket-holders will at least be seeing something unique - this show won't be on Broadway anytime soon.

KISMET. Directed by Lonny Price; music directed by Paul Gemignani. New York City Center, West 55th Street between Sixth and Seventh avenues. Tickets $25-$90. Call 212-581-1212 or visit www.nycitycenter.org. Seen Thursday.

Theater Review: Probing more deeply into latter-day yearning

From Newsday

"Confessions of a Mormon Boy" might appear to be a familiar coming-out-of-the closet story, a triumph of one's true nature over the stifling confines of a big, bad, backward religion. Shooting Latter-Day Saints in a barrel might be satisfying to some know-it-all New Yorkers, but what elevates this autobiographical one-man show to the next level is that it probes deeper.

Writer-star Steven Fales is appealing from the beginning: a good-looking, well-built man with the smooth voice of a trained actor, which he is. Fales felt homosexual urges early in life but, like a good Mormon, he got married and had two kids. To complicate matters, his wife was the daughter of Carol Lynn Pearson, a famous writer in the Mormon community whose autobiography, "Goodbye, I Love You," told how her own husband had turned out to be gay and infected with HIV.

When commuting from Connecticut to New York City to audition for acting jobs, Fales found too many temptations. So he moved his family to Utah and tried to change his sexuality via "reparative therapy." After he gets divorced and is banished from the church, his story follows him back to New York, where he becomes a high-priced gay escort.

There's a lot of ground to cover. Fales and director Jack Hofsiss keep things bouncing along quickly. Dramatic moments start to fly by. Fales' manner isn't sober and reflective; he's detached from his story, often flippant.

That is part of his point. Mormonism, he explains, teaches its followers to smile and press on despite the underlying pain, and Fales takes an analogous approach here. His intentions become clearer at the play's jolting climax, when the story takes a fascinating turn just as it is starting to drag.

Even after Fales is free to explore the New York gay scene, he realizes that playing fast and loose also has its limitations. When a prospective boyfriend doesn't call him back, he recalls "hugging time," a tradition he used to have with his kids. He wonders aloud, "I gave up hugging time for this?"

Fales knows that the conflict in his life isn't just homosexuality versus Mormonism. As in all good theater, the protagonist must confront his own shortcomings and overcome them.

CONFESSIONS OF A MORMON BOY. Written and performed by Steven Fales. Directed by Jack Hofsiss. At the SoHo Playhouse, 15 Vandam St. between Sixth Avenue and Varick Street, Manhattan. Tickets $50 to $55. Call 212-691-1555 or visit www.mormonboy.com.

Seen February 1.

Theater Review: Forty Days and Nights of Whining

From Newsday

Bill Cosby once did a famous comedy routine that envisioned a cranky Noah whose neighbor complains that the ark is blocking his driveway. The new Off-Broadway musical "The Ark" takes a less subversive - and, ultimately, much less successful - approach to the story, combining feeble attempts at such anachronisms with feel-good sentimentality.

In "The Ark," an absent-minded Noah (Adrian Zmed) maintains a complete faith in God as he oversees his wife Eliza (Annie Golden), their three sons - Ham, Shem and Japheth - and his son's wives during the title vessel's many months adrift.

Since the Bible doesn't say much about what happens on the ark, the musical's book and lyrics writers, Michael McLean and Kevin Kelly, fill time by giving everyone something to complain about. The spoiled Sariah thinks her husband Japheth spends too much time fiddling with gadgets and not enough time talking to her. Martha thinks her husband Shem spends too much time doing chores for his mom and not enough time having sex. Eliza complains about cleaning up after the animals.

None of this griping is compelling, convincing or humorous.

In Cosby's routine, Noah is irritable because he's in a genuinely awkward situation: He's building a huge boat because a voice that claims to be God told him to do so. But once it's clear that you're one of the eight people God has chosen to survive a massive flood and repopulate the earth, would you really be so preoccupied by your wardrobe, as Sariah is? If you were, would anyone care?

Ultimately, the musical's message is to not sweat the small stuff and appreciate the gift of life. But in resorting to tired domestic conflicts, "The Ark" joins the crowded stable of musicals that are too quick to fall back on familiar musical comedy archetypes and conventions. The writers would have been better off thinking more about the situation at hand. How would these characters really feel? Wouldn't they think about God's reasons for doing this? Wouldn't they mourn their friends and relatives who perished? Wouldn't they think about the new society they'll have to start?

The Ham plotline comes the closest to addressing these issues. In the Bible, after the flood ends, Ham betrays his father, so God condemns him to be his brothers' slave. In "The Ark," Ham (D.B. Bonds) is a confused, rebellious son who questions his father's reliance on God (forgetting the fact that God is the reason they're both alive). A couple of times, Ham wonders why he was chosen to survive. It's an intriguing question, but the idea is never fleshed out.

McLean's Stephen Schwartz-like, pop-gospel music is nothing special and is not well served by the embarrassingly direct lyrics. "I hate the rain / It's driving me insane" sounds like something out of a Mel Brooks parody.

A running gimmick has the characters come into the audience and treat them as if they're playing the animals. It's corny but at least it adds a dose of unpredictability.

Fixed spaces are packed with potential for drama. Think of the TV show "Lost," in which the characters, stuck on an island after a plane crash, make unwritten rules, form unlikely friendships and learn how to be resourceful. "The Ark" has a doubly serious premise, but, for the most part, its characters might as well be on a cruise ship.

THE ARK. Directed by Ray Roderick. 37 Arts, 450 West 37th Street. Tickets $66.25. Call 212-307-4100 or visit www.ticketmaster.com.

Theater Review: For romantic indigestion, chew on this

From Newsday

The new musical "Five Course Love" is described by a press release as "Five dates. Five restaurants. One chance at love." Please let these restaurants not have waiters dressed in humiliating ethnic outfits. Please let there be no running gag involving a dropped tray of plates. Please let there be no phallic-food double entendres like "shriveled jalapeño."

No such luck.

The musical, with book, lyrics and music by Gregg Coffin, starts off promisingly enough, as a dorky guy sings a somewhat charming song about how he hopes tonight's date will end his search for love. But when he gets to the restaurant, we see the waiter in a ridiculous fake cowboy outfit saying things like "around these parts," and we slink down in our chair. It's going to be a long night.

In each of five vignettes, all of which are almost completely sung through, the characters and music reflect the theme of the restaurant in which the story takes place, be it Italian, Texas barbecue or 1950s diner. The scene in the German restaurant is a pastiche of "Cabaret," with lots of leather and scary-looking sex toys. The scene in the Mexican restaurant recalls "Man of La Mancha," with a Don Juan-like Don Quixote and a disgruntled Sancho Panza. Four of the five scenes have similar love-triangle plots.

When the show is not condescending to the audience by trying to milk chuckles out of cultural stereotypes or sex jokes, it has the misguided belief that it has something profound to say. In the German scene, after a woman named Gretchen sees her man walk off with another man, she sings a typically mundane ballad: "So much better I should lock my heart/Than risk repeating how it broke apart." But no matter. We stopped listening to her five minutes earlier, during her Sally Bowlesian number about how women like only men with "a nice oom pah pah."

There's hardly any reason for the restaurant motif; these stories could have taken place anywhere. At no point does any couple go on a date and have dinner. For much of the show, a table is pushed to the side and ignored. The prospect of watching two human beings having an adult conversation is mouth-watering compared to the baloney we're served instead.

Zachary Pincus-Roth is a freelance writer.

FIVE COURSE LOVE. Directed by Emma Griffin. Minetta Lane Theatre, 18 Minetta Lane, between Sixth Avenue and MacDougal Street, Manhattan. Tickets $65, or $25 for same-day rush tickets. Call 212-307-4100, or visit www.ticketmaster.com.

Theater Review: Rebel — and a play — without a cause

From Newsday

There are so many plays about dysfunctional families that a new one had better work hard to distinguish itself. Barbara Dana's wobbly "War in Paramus" attempts to do so via a Vietnam War tie-in that eventually falls flat.

Thelma is a 15-year-old defiant misfit living in Paramus, N.J., in 1970. She resents her older sister, Jennifer, for being so perfect. Meanwhile, Jennifer is beginning to have doubts about her engagement to the well-dressed, polite Kevin. Their mother is proud of Jennifer but fed up with Thelma, and exerts firm control over her husband, a hapless paper-box designer. The story centers on one night when Thelma's rebelliousness leads to chaos and violence.

Some of the characters are all-too-familiar types. Thelma (Anne Letscher) has all the signs of an insolent child who just wants attention. She slumps in her chair. She skips school. She listens to rock music at high volume. She hangs out with long-haired guys, one of whom wears a leather jacket and carries a knife. Her mother is a perfect housewife who spends her time picking out wedding invitations and paint colors.

By contrast, the father, played by Matthew Arkin, is more sloppily drawn: anxious and jittery, with an inability to express himself that becomes frustrating to watch. He spends most of the play stumbling around, confused, yet his confusion is too imprecise to be believable. At first he's sympathetic to Thelma, but later, when she enters the house with dirt on her face, holding herself in agony, he barely bats an eye. At times he seems to border on some kind of psychological disorder, yet nobody acknowledges one.

Director Austin Pendleton fails to clarify the father character, and is careless in other areas as well. In one madcap central scene, characters spar with each other in predictable ways, and the action escalates way too quickly toward its expected violent conclusion. A bag of pretzels gets kicked around the floor, leaving pretzel shavings on the carpet for the rest of the play, even after weeks have passed.

Dana, a children's novelist writing her first play, relies too heavily on blunt, tired symbolism. The dad, the play's resident nostalgist, has a plodding conversation with Kevin about how the paper-box industry is being hurt by the development of plastic boxes. Yes, the old-fashioned is often replaced by the new-fangled. Are we learning anything enlightening here?

Then there are, of course, the references to the Vietnam War. We're led to believe that Vietnam parallels the ideological war within the family: old-fashioned values and gender roles vs. counterculture and feminism. But the references to Vietnam aren't integral, they're just thrown in. A character will casually turn on a radio news program and then turn it off again, or someone will mention the draft, or the dad will pick up a newspaper and say, "That war, boy, oh, boy." Therefore, the connection between war and family life sheds no new light on either one of them.

But the play's bigger problem is that its portrayal of the family is lacking in new insights. Though every dysfunctional family may be different, "War in Paramus" demonstrates that some are not different enough to merit attention.

WAR IN PARAMUS. Directed by Austin Pendleton. Abingdon Theatre, 312 W. 36th St., Manhattan. Tickets $35. Call 212-868-4444 or visit www.smarttix.com.

Theater Review: A rock musical that plays it loose

From Newsday

Like "Rent" and "Hair" before it, "Slut" is a four-letter East Village rock musical for its age: the Starbucks age. Its East Village is a gentrified one, catering not only to freaks and geeks but also to the bridge-and-tunnel crowd. Though there are references to Avenue A and The Village Voice, the show could just as easily take place in Murray Hill or Great Neck.

Where the "Rent" crew hung out in hip cafes and avant-garde performance spaces, the "Slut" gang frequents what is supposed to be a dive bar but seems more like a tacky Mexican chain restaurant, judging from the chili-pepper light garlands and bachelorette party attendees downing raspberry margaritas. The centerpiece of the set is a nine-shelf bar. While "Rent" takes a serious look at coping with HIV, "Slut" has one character who gets laughs singing "I've got the herp," as in herpes.

Still, today's East Village isn't completely charmless, and neither is "Slut," an Off-Broadway musical that never truly soars but never embarrasses itself, either.

Adam (Andy Karl), a handsome 20-something, has one goal: to sleep with as many women as possible. His friend, the preppy and prudish Dan (Jim Stanek), has spent his whole life preparing to become a doctor. After Dan fails the board exam, Adam brings him to a bar, where Dan picks up aspiring rock star Delia (Jenn Colella) and falls hard.

It turns out that Delia shares Adam's commitment problem somewhat, and she and Dan have a breakup that spurs Dan to become a slut himself. Meanwhile, as Delia's star rises, she becomes a figurative slut for the music industry, wearing Marc Jacobs and getting mentioned on Page Six of the New York Post.

Though the title implies otherwise, "Slut" has few rough edges. Stephen Sislen and Ben H. Winters' rock songs don't demonstrate a unique voice, but they do inspire toe-tapping, and choreographer Warren Carlyle's energetic staging helps. Director Gordon Greenberg keeps the book scenes moving quickly. The cast has charisma to spare.

The tone is pretty broad, typified by a song that consists mainly of euphemisms for impotence. The musical does manage to find some comedy that rings true, mainly via Adam, who exaggerates the male slut archetype to absurd levels of unapologetic brashness. As he wakes up next to his latest conquest, he takes down her phone number while crooning a song called "I'm Probably Not Gonna Call." His typical pickup line? "I want to have sex with you tonight." Later in the show, having conquered New York, he sets sail on a crudely named boat on a mission to seduce Malaysians, Kazakhs and others.

OK, so it isn't "Rent," but it doesn't pretend to be.

SLUT. Directed by Gordon Greenberg. The American Theatre of Actors, 314 W. 54th St., Manhattan. Tickets are $55. Call 212-239-6200 or visit www.slutthemusical.com.

Theater Review: A comforting walk down a lonely street

From Newsday

It's comforting to realize that finding love in New York has always been a struggle. Such is the main charm of "Walking Down Broadway," a pleasant little play presented by the Mint Theater Company, which is dedicated to producing neglected works.

Dawn Powell, who was also a novelist and short-story writer, wrote "Walking Down Broadway" in 1931 based on her experience of moving to New York from Ohio. Strangely enough, the Mint's production is a world premiere; the play has never been produced, though Fox bought the movie rights and adapted it to make the Erich von Stroheim film "Hello, Sister."

When the play begins, Marge and Elsie, friends who eight months earlier made the same move Powell did, have finally managed to meet a couple of guys. While the flighty Elsie and dapper Dewey don't quite click, Marge and Chick are both kind-hearted, small-town souls who at first appear to be made for each other.

Their relationship is disrupted by unfortunate developments, however, including the meddling of their respective neighbors - Eva, an aging blonde bombshell, and Mac, a conniving womanizer - whose New York cynicism rubs off on their less experienced proteges.

The premise is bound to remind theatergoers of the 1940 play "My Sister Eileen" and its 1953 musical version, "Wonderful Town," based on stories by Ruth McKenney, another Ohioan. Shy Marge doesn't have the quick wit of her "Wonderful Town" equivalent, Ruth (played by Donna Murphy in the recent Broadway revival), and you won't see her doing the conga with a pack of sailors. But there's an appeal to Marge's quiet earnestness, especially as performed by Christine Albright.

Many of the details are period-specific. Walking up and down Broadway on the Upper West Side is no longer a popular pickup strategy. The dialogue is peppered with words like "swell" and "fella," and the audience laughs when Mac brags that his wine "costs $4 a gallon." Still, Steven Williford's meticulous direction and his game cast make the setting feel fresh and alive. Some scenes are overwritten, but the 2 1/2 hours (including two intermissions) go by surprisingly quickly.

The play turns out to be less naive than its age would let on. It deals with women's concerns in a way that was probably ahead of its time. The personality types here are also very familiar. The differences between cads and dads, and their female equivalents - "pickups" and "nice girls," as Chick calls them - still ring true. Ditto the central paradox of single life in New York City: With so many people out there, why am I so lonely?

Granted, since 1931, such themes have been dealt with time and again in film, theater and television, and today's writers have had to up the ante. Neil LaBute's chauvinists, for example, are far scarier than Mac.

But the time lapse has its benefits. For older theatergoers, "Walking" will be a trip down memory lane. For younger ones, the play might comfort them with the knowledge that their parents and grandparents had the same problems finding a mate that they have now.

Zachary Pincus-Roth is a freelance writer.

WALKING DOWN BROADWAY. By Dawn Powell. Directed by Steven Williford. The Mint Theater, 311 W. 43rd St., third floor. Tickets $45. Call 212-315-0231, or visit www.mint theater.org.

Theater Review: Not tonight, you'll get a headache

From Newsday

"Dr. Sex," the new Off-Broadway musical about the life of sex researcher Alfred Kinsey, could not be more different from "Kinsey," last year's film on the same subject that starred Liam Neeson.

In contrast to that subtle, fascinating work, "Dr. Sex" is everything you'd expect from a musical of its title: a dumb, flashy cartoon that exploits its central subject in a failed attempt to titillate.

Common denominators don't get much lower than this. Sex jokes, gay jokes and orgy jokes fly by too fast to yawn at each one. If the writers are going for parody, it certainly doesn't work; making fun of sex research is much less interesting than seriously exploring how Kinsey broke through taboos and revolutionized our thinking about sexuality.

As Kinsey, Brian Noonan's face is perpetually in ham position, and he announces his lines in a voice that would sound condescending even if he were reading to 4-year-olds. The rest of the cast doesn't fare much better.

The show wants to turn you on, starting from the cell-phone announcement that promises a "naughty good time" and makes the requisite "vibrate" joke. But the acting, dialogue and dancing are too by-the-numbers for anything to heat up.

Although original director Pamela Hunt left the show and an uncredited Ethan McSweeny came in to consult, the production is coherent. Everything is as crisp, clean and cheery as a kindergarten assembly. Larry Bortniker's songs are serviceable - OK tunes and precise lyrics, but nothing remotely memorable.

Some audience members were laughing and whooping throughout. But most people would be better off saving the $70 and renting "Kinsey" instead.

DR. SEX. Production supervised by Greg Hirsch. Peter Norton Space, 555 W. 42nd St. Tickets $70. Call 212-279-4200 or visit www.ticketcentral.com.