Peopleʼs Branch Theatreʼs favorable reputation for progressive—if under-budgeted—work has been well-deserved over the years. Too bad the company misfires badly in its new adaptation of Aristophanesʼ Lysistrata. Since itʼs a comedy about women denying their husbands sex until they stop fighting a war, youʼd think putting this one across might be a modern-minded slam-dunk. Youʼd be wrong.
Ross Brooks and Julee Baberʼs au courant script gives us a Bush-like (read: doltish and drawlinʼ) military commander pitted against a Pelosi-like pillar of impudence. But if youʼre going to rewrite a 2,000-year-old Greek classic and draw such obvious analogies to current events, youʼd better offer your audience a seriously satirical social commentary and at least some semblance of sophisticated political outlook.
Instead, we get a simple-minded—and at its worst, adolescent—approach to the issues. Men are the baddie conservatives, represented in the media by the COX Network; women are the well-intentioned liberals, represented by the TNA Network (get it? T&A?). In addition to a sideswipe at “no child left behind,” there are the groaning double entendres—”penetrate,” “members,” “pull out”—which, even when played with intentional self-consciousness, still come off with a thud. The big visual gags are Louisville Slugger-sized strap-on dildos, which perhaps give new meaning to the power of papier-mache arts and crafts but soon lose their, er, thrust.
The all-female cast, led by Holly Allen in the title role, is saddled with playing caricatures that donʼt flatter their talent. They stomp their strident way through the japery with what looks like commitment, yet they have a devil of a time finding on-target contemporary pertinence or general worldliness in speeches that are devoid of wit and parody. Amanda Bailey does the Bush bit with bullishness but also without any tongue-in-cheek finesse. (Though she does stroke her baseball bat with seeming relish.) There is exactly one sincerely funny scene, when Allen fights off soldiers with ninja-like efficiency using a big red bra and panties.
Directors Brooks and Baber pace the action swiftly, which offers eventual, merciful relief from the shrillness.
Updating Lysistrata is apparently too hard to resist. In fact, a 2005 Central Park production had already used Bush as comic cannon fodder. One of these days, maybe someone will do it as Aristophanes intended. Maybe then weʼll actually be edified. Or at least laugh more than once or twice.Reality theater
On the surface, Bill Feehelyʼs new original play The Payout seems like one of those ripped-from-the-headlines deals. An aggrieved woman named Barbara, whose chauffeur husband was killed in a terrorist bombing, seeks greater financial compensation for her loss. So she meets with a truculent insurance official armed with a little leverage: explosives strapped to her chest. Enter an FBI team typified by hardboiled demeanors, themselves ripped off from any number of latter-day cop TV shows.What ensues is the inevitable stand-off. But instead of developing the drama, Feehely focuses on broader social ideas, lampooning electronic media and the atmosphere it creates with you-are-there video news. Thereʼs discussion of the negative effects of radiation, a certain amount of black humor and also a few confessional cameos, with actors stepping out of the action to deliver ironic commentary on their charactersʼ lives.
The Payout is more verbal exercise than engaging drama, with unexpected laughs and surprising shifts in focus. Last Fridayʼs opening-night performance was raw and sometimes noticeably imprecise. Director Don Griffiths stages the action competently, and he also oversaw the set design.
The male actors are familiar ABE faces—Jeff Lewis, Tim Fudge, Kris Campa and Feehely. The women are led by Rebecca Robbins, who has a likable presence (her manic posturing notwithstanding). Alice Raver projects her FBI type with appropriate sobriety, and Trish Vogel, as the local TV reporter, is Central Casting tall and blond (though she does nothing of interest with the role).
The Payout is a work in progress. Itʼs at least thoughtful stuff, and it ought to improve as the players better find their rhythms.Guy trouble
Theresa Rebeckʼs Bad Dates, currently receiving its Nashville premiere courtesy of GroundWorks Theatre, is the story of a single mom nearing 40 who has relocated from Texas to New York City to begin life anew.Like many one-character shows, the play requires an actress who can handle an evening of solo performance with assured technique. Caroline Davis, who has the general résumé to deliver the goods, has played a lot of roles in her Nashville career, often specializing in worldly women. Under the direction of Robert OʼConnell, she tackles this challenging piece in her usual style, though the overall dramatic results are mixed.
The single setting is Haley Walkerʼs bedroom, where sheʼs getting ready for her first real date in years. As she lets us in on her feelings about men, relationships and her mottled past, Haley continuously—almost interminably—mixes and matches potential outfits for the evening, with special emphasis on shoes, throwing in an Imelda Marcos joke along the way. Jimmy Choos and Manolo Blahniks sheʼs got in spades, but what Haley doesnʼt have is confidence in getting back into the dating game.
One date follows another. Thereʼs the guy who talks about his cholesterol and his colon all evening; another turns out to be gay. Then, just when it seems like Haleyʼs found a potential Mr. Right, he turns out to be a jerk who misleads her.
An offbeat subplot involving Haleyʼs workplace and some Romanian gangsters shifts the story suddenly near the end, resulting in an ironic but hopeful love connection.
As for Davisʼ portrayal, itʼs determined and hangs together with admirable clarity, yet her Haley seems to have lost all of her Southern roots. This results in a characterization rife with literate restraint. But itʼs also lacking in the vulnerability and charm that would make us want to root for her.
Bad Dates is probably too easily categorized as estrogen theater. Yet itʼs unavoidable to think that women will groove on its message, while men will shrug and recognize yet another depiction of their inadequacy.
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