Is He Dead?

Jason Platt

I was quite unsure of what to expect when I walked into the Lyceum to see this long lost/newly discovered Mark Twain play. (It was written in 1898, then forgotten until discovered in 2002 in his private papers). Previews had only just begun when the strike hit, so I knew nobody who had scene it, the advertisting campaign has been unagressive, and of course the piece hasn't ever been performed. To my great delight -- and likely that of 1,000 others -- the production is outstanding.

The plot is a simple one. A painter, Jean-Francois Millet, who is deep in debt and down on his luck, decides to fake his own death in order to drive up the prices of his paintings. He then masquerades as his twin sister to reap the financial benefits. Then there are of course a number of other complications; the piece is a rowdy combination of farce and unapologetic melodrama, so there is a villain avec mustache as well as frequent door-slamming and shenanigans. Given its almost amateurish simplicity, whether the play works on its own or could succeed in any other production is a more complicated question, but the direction of Michael Blakemore is so tight and precise, and the cast give such fantastic performances that the play is one of the most enjoyable theatrical experiences I have had in years.

As Millet, and cross-dressing as his fake sister, Norbert Leo Butz is nothing short of incredible. As Millet alone he is not particularly memorable, but once he puts the dress on . . . dear me, the part and the play immediately shift into fourth gear. Thankfully, this happens quite early, and we are treated for an hour and half to the obvious relish and bliss with which Butz devours "Daisy." The supporting cast -- and this is an ensemble piece when one considers the farcical nature -- are also very strong and beautifully energetic, particularly Michael McGrath and David Pittu. Blakemore has done an outstanding job in handling this text, which because of its over-the-top humor and often stereotypical matter could easily fall flat, but he has everyone on the same page and enjoying themselves. It did take some time for the audience to catch up on the fact that we were all meant to revel in the ridiculousness (indeed, the first scene is somewhat slow and unengaging, though this may change as previews continue), but once the viewers committed themselves to playing along, it was downright raucous. There are one or two questionable directing decisions, particularly the convention of having actors be lit by specials when delivering asides to the audience (but only sometimes), but nothing so frustrating as to ruin the piece.

The design of the play is very good if unexceptional. Peter Davison's perspective sets are great fun and quite lovely, though the door-slamming did at times have the effect of a small seismic disturbance. Pakledinaz's costumes (particularly in the second act when everyone is rich and happy) are sumptuous. His dresses for Butz-as-sister are just, well, they're just super.

I must admit that it is very infrequent that I not only enjoy, but subsequently admit to enjoying, a piece with as little intellectual and artistic depth. Aside from the basic commentary on the art market and values of pieces there is very little to stimulate the mind. However, there is a great deal of the historical nature to enjoy. The piece plays up both its melodramatic and farcical influences, engaging the audience in a sort of appreciation for theater history gone by. Similarly, for the art historians in the audience, the play makes a number of visual gags out of the fact that Millet's masterpieces (The Gleaners, The Sower, Evening Prayer) can't be bought for any price; each new painting revealed by the actors garners a laugh.

I would be curious to know just how much of the piece is Twain and how much is David Ives (who adapted it), because there seems to be just a tad too much self-referential humor and po-mo irony for Twain, though god knows the numerous jokes at the expense of the French and Germans are likely his. In the end, though, the question is academic; the production is delightful and engaging, and an absolute success, without question a step forward for the Broadway gruel. I will now make a joke that every shameless reviewer will at least be tempted toward. Is He Dead? No. And I hope this play won't be for quite some time.

Bingo With The Indians

Jason Platt

Adam Rapp is nothing if not prolific; Bingo With The Indians is the third new play by Rapp to have its New York premier this calendar year, following shows at Playwrights Horizons and Rattlestick. Bingo, like most of Rapp's plays, has an undercurrent of otherworldliness, an over-the-top intensity to the expletive-laden mundanity of everyday life that generally divides his audience into two sects: those who follow him with a pseudo-rock star devotion, and those who find him irrelevant. Bingo With The Indians will likely serve as fodder for both.

The play follows the exploits of an underappreciated theatrical troupe who make the trip to New Hampshire to rob a church bingo game in the hopes of getting seed money to fund their next production. One question surely to be asked is whether you like your theater to be about theater; not in a subtle metatheatrical sense, but rather in the form of a mockumentary. The questions and problems of creating theater (or any art) -- its meaning in an unappreciative world, its self-important irrelevance, its transformative power -- pervade the piece. Rapp presents both sides of the question, portraying the New York troupe as the ultimate, obliviously highbrow group of downtown youths, while also giving a deeply moving portrait of Steve (the New Hampshire teen who runs the motel they stay at), who desires nothing so much as to be taken to the city to lose himself in the dissolving reality theater offers. This dialogue regarding the significance of theater in the contemporary world is by far the most interesting and engaging aspect of the play, and its resolution (or lack thereof) perhaps the most frustrating. It feels as though Rapp never comes down cleanly on one side of the issue, though one suspects he is attempting to, particularly given the ending (a sequence that would be a spoiler to give away, but suffice it to say there is significant quoting of Chekhov). Indeed, the text at times almost feels like a conflation of three or four unrelated texts, all with their own rhythms and focus, which does at times undermine the piece.

However, if anything can lead one to glossing over the piece's discrepancies, it is the fantastic performances given by the cast, all members of the Bats, The Flea's resident (unpaid) acting company. Evan Enderle in particular gives an enormously heartbreaking performance as the fragile and hopeful Steve (one of the most moving pieces of acting I have seen this year), and his often stage partner Rob Yang is also fascinating as a chilly, manipulative stage manager. The other actors are strong as well, though their characters frequently feel unplumbed, almost certainly due both to Rapp's writing and directing. Rapp has particularly always had a problem with creating female characters, which continues with the three women in Bingo. Such a situation could likely be rectified by having a director other than the writer heading the production and lending another perspective, but Rapp appears bent on maintaining full control over his productions.

At a fairly taut 90 minutes, the piece never loses any momentum, though those not particularly enchanted by gratuitous nudity and scatological humor may find themselves checking out: there were numerous grimaces and eye-coverings in the audience throughout the play. That being said, the play does leave one with a question, and I continued to engage in a discussion with my friends long after the piece was over, which is achieved so infrequently these days. If you are looking for an intense and intimate (I cannot emphasize that enough) theatrical experience, this is certainly going to be of interest to you, and the performances carry the day. However, if you have not found yourself attracted to Rapp's work in the past, this is not the piece to convert you.