By the time they return from the meeting at the start of the second act (they went off to it–finally!–at the end of the first), their parenting skills have been called into question, their devotion to each other is in doubt, and a social worker is due to visit them the following morning because Jessica, apparently, has told her teacher that Judy is not quite the ideal parent.

As the temperature in the room rises yet again–he accuses her of pandering to their daughter, when she pays any attention to her, at all; she accuses him of shouting at the child without reason, spanking her without restraint, of too often coming within one slap to the rump of being an “unfit Dad”–it becomes clear that not only do they have issues with their daughter, but also with each other. Thought-provoking questions bubble to the surface like lava: What IS excessive punishment when you’re disciplining your child? What DO you tell Child Welfare Services when they come knocking on your door the next day? Do you lie in order to keep the family intact (Michael is afraid that Jessica will be taken away from them), or do you tell the truth, “talk things out” as Judy puts it, and hope for the best?

Nicholson, as Judy, starts off slowly–chained to the bed for most of the first act, she has very little to do early on–but acquires some much-needed intensity in Act II, when you can see her anger, her hostility, her steely resolve.

Waterston, unfortunately, starts off lamely and–in the big second act showdown–mistakes histrionics for acting, shouting for emoting. We understand that he’s a yeller and a bit of a blowhard; playwright Bathsheba Doran hammers that home for a good part of the evening–but once he starts, there’s no respite from it, no change. He’s on the offensive, she’s on the defensive, and like a one-sided and ultimately boring boxing match, it goes on like that for far too long.

Bottom line: If you enjoy playing Peeping Tom, and watching married couples fight–over their child, over their affection for each other, over anything–then “Parents’ Evening” is the play for you.

Otherwise, this lackluster production–from the title on down–merits a “C” at most…on anyone’s report card.

THEATER REVIEW by Stuart R. Brynien

Stage vet Norbert Leo Butz plays Jeffrey Skilling, the money-hungry, ego-driven mastermind of the billion dollar scheme who, at the beginning of the play, is just a nebbishy Enron accountant but is soon taking over as president and COO. Butz undergoes a remarkable transformation: as the company starts to rake in the dough he begins to trim down, firm up (even as his bank account fattens up), and radiate confidence as surely as the sun radiates heat. (There’s even a scene on a treadmill that Butz–lean and mean in a form-fitting gym suit–manages to pull off without even breaking a sweat; the Skilling we saw at the beginning of the play would have needed paramedics and an oxygen tank.)

Butz, as Skilling, tosses around his macho mantras like a guy trying out pick-up lines at a bar: life in the cutthroat world of big business is all about the survival of the fittest; businessmen vs. the bureaucrats determined to regulate them is simply a contest between “greed (even he’ll admit that) vs. ineptitude”; morality has no place in the corporate world.

It was Skilling’s show, his brainchild–according to Prebble, he pulled the strings; everyone around him was merely a puppet–which was precisely why he came crashing down the hardest and most painfully of all…while Ken Lay, the company’s founder and CEO, who gave Skilling the keys to the kingdom, died before he could begin serving his own prison sentence. Skilling had no such luck: ratted out by the men and women who worked for him, reduced in Prebble’s docudrama to staggering around in the street yelling at hookers, he was eventually sentenced to twenty to twenty-five years in prison. Unapologetic to the end, defiant even in defeat, Skilling paid the price for the billions of dollars he cost his employees and stockholders, and for Enron’s headfirst dive into bankruptcy.

Butz, who is never anything less than entertaining, is very good. The manic energy is still there, and you still wait for him to flash his musical comedy chops and break into song now and then (and though “Enron” is by no means a musical, there are some darkly funny song-and-dance numbers to enjoy), but he is, indisputably, the cold-hearted, avaricious Jeffrey Skilling. In smaller roles as his chief enablers, Gregory Itzin (of TV’s “24″) and Stephen Kunken–Ken Lay and CFO Andy Fastow, respectively–do fine work, too, as does Marin Mazzie as Claudia Roe, Skilling’s one-time squeeze and principal business rival whom he eventually convinces Lay to fire.

The real second banana, though, is the set, with the single word–ENRON–looming over the action for much of the opening act, and endless stock quotes streaming across the rear wall (high at the beginning, disastrously low at the end) most of the rest of the way. If the action weren’t so compelling–and it was; the two-and-a quarter hours flew by faster than you can say, “Where’s my money?”–we probably would have been perfectly happy enjoying the imaginative visuals that director Rupert Goold and his crackerjack team of designers had created.

In fact, what “Enron” lacks in heart (if it had been about the victims of the scam, it would have had plenty of heart–we would have had characters to root for, at least–but it focuses instead on the perpetrators, which makes for another kind of show altogether), it makes up for in pure spectacle.

It also, of course, serves as a cautionary tale about what can happen when crooks control the purse strings.

THEATRE REVIEW by Stuart R. Brynien

The Story Pirates’ specialty is turning the stories submitted to them by grade schoolers (some as young as six or seven) into exciting–and funny–performance numbers, complete with lyrics, music, choreography and costumes. A recent show featured a mix of the new and the old, as the Pirates premiered three new stories to go along with a handful of older favorites. To the delight of everyone, parent and child alike, the stage was taken over by roaring dinosaurs, nasty frog goblins, prank-playing grannies and talking socks. Costumes were casual but colorful, the songs were tuneful (“Why Would You Do What A Dog Does?”, a song about a little boy who’s just a tad too eager to mimic the family pooch, was among the catchier ones), and serving as the “narrators” were a couple of puppets who would have been right at home with Kermit and Miss Piggy.

To cap it all off (the show runs about an hour, without an intermission), the Pirates came out and improvised a story, “Whose Line Is It Anyway”-style, “written” by the kids in the audience. (To the best of our recollection, it had to do with thirsty monsters, bottles of soda, and cauldrons of boiling hot water. Confused? The kids weren’t–including our seven-year-old daughter, who sat glued to her seat throughout.)

Bottom line: if you’re looking for some good, clean family entertainment, go see the Striking Viking Story Pirates at the Drama Book Shop. And if you have a budding Shakespeare on your hands, send in your kid’s story because, who knows–you just might see it on stage one day!

THEATRE REVIEW by Stuart R. Brynien

The story is a familiar one: born normal, but turned deaf and blind after an early bout of scarlet fever, Helen grows into, quite literally, a “wild child”–uncontrollable, uncommunicative, and, for the most part, unwanted…even by her parents. It is the 1880s, and there aren’t a whole lot of things that can be done with her. Torn between institutionalizing her–which their older son James is adamantly in favor of–and seeking help for her at home, they eventually decide on the latter, and hire young Annie Sullivan to tutor her…if she can.

Annie, of course, brings her own physical and emotional baggage to the Keller family table–she has only recently had her own sight restored, having been blind for a number of years herself, and is haunted every day by horrifying memories of the orphanage in which she and her younger brother grew up–and for most of the play she finds herself engaged in the most delicate kind of balancing act, as she tries to fulfill Helen’s needs even as she struggles to meet her own. The give-and-take, tug-of-war relationship between teacher and pupil is gritty, angry, and raw; Annie senses there is something deep inside Helen–an intelligence worth sharing–that she must somehow coax out of her. But Helen is an unwilling partner at best, and the question soon becomes: does Annie have the strength to succeed?

In the role of Helen–one of the most challenging ever devised for the stage–Abigail Breslin is excellent, all thrashing limbs and inarticulate rage nearly all the time. Equally as tricky is the part of Annie, who almost never leaves the stage and is nearly always accompanied by young Helen; by necessity, Annie has all the lines–it’s a high-wire act of the highest order, a role that requires a tour-de-force performance every night, and Alison Pill pulls it off beautifully. Kudos, too, to film vet Matthew Modine as Captain Keller, Helen’s newspaper publisher father, a man who works with words, understands the importance of words, yet is convinced he is doomed never to hear his own daughter utter a single one. Modine is beleaguered in some scenes, bombastic in others, and never anything less than believable…as is his wife, the frightened but far more fair-minded Kate Keller (it is she who decides to give Annie the chance she deserves), who is ably played by Jennifer Morrison (co-star of TV’s “House”).

Of course, everything leads up to the big breakthrough at the end, the moment at the water pump when Helen reveals that she has learned much more than anyone–even Annie–had thought. It’s a moving moment in a real tear-jerker of a production, and in case you’ve been sitting there wondering: Why revive THIS play? Why NOW?–it does a fine job of providing you with the answer.

In show biz parlance, “The Miracle Worker” has “legs”–it’s a survivor–and it has lasted long enough to stand tall as one of the most memorable plays ever written.

Sadly, dramas–especially ones as serious as “The Miracle Worker”–don’t run for long. This production is scheduled to close April 4th.

Don’t miss it.

THEATER REVIEW by Stuart R. Brynien

That’s the wafer-thin plot of French playwright Yasmina Reza’s 2009 Tony-winning comedy, “God of Carnage” and, by evening’s end, we have indeed witnessed carnage–mostly of the emotional kind. Before their chat is over, tempers explode, accusations are hurled about like poisoned darts, marital bonds are ripped to shreds–and nobody is any the wiser as to WHAT might have happened on that playground. (The boys themselves could probably shed some light on the matter, but they’re nowhere to be seen.)

It takes a little while for the action to get underway–the first fifteen minutes or so are pure set-up, as the two couples, like a pair of boxers, circle and jab, circle and jab, trying to feel each other out–but once it does: duck. All the actors had their moments, but the undisputed star (at least on the evening we saw it; by now, the cast has changed yet again) was stage and TV vet Christine Lahti as the hyper-intense, ranting and raving, delightfully over-the-top Veronica. As her quieter, more respectable husband Michael–desperate for much of the evening to rein her in but largely unable to–British actor Ken Stott was very good; Jimmy Smits as Alan, the smug, self-satisfied lawyer who enjoys a closer relationship with his cherished cellphone than with his own wife (keep an eye on that cellphone, by the way; it plays such an important role in the action, it might as well have been credited in the program), was excellent; and Annie Potts as Alan’s wife Annette, who has the misfortune early on of puking in the wrong direction (yes, puking) was alternately vulnerable and feisty, weak and wrathful, and altogether much, much bigger than her diminutive size would suggest.

If shows about marital warfare are your cup of tea–or for that matter, plays about the perils of parenting–see “God of Carnage”. Thanks to Matthew Warchus’ crisp direction, a taut script by Reza, and the wonderfully funny, no-holds-barred relationships among the characters, it’s the fastest-moving (intermission-free!) ninety minutes on Broadway.

THEATER REVIEW by Stuart R. Brynien

The star (and he is very much the star; he has nearly all the lines, and participates in practically all the numbers) is Fela himself, aka Fela Anikulapo-Kuti, the Nigerian musician, entertainer, and political activist who spent much of his life (1938-97) battling the military dictatorship that ruled his homeland. The action takes place at a Nigerian nightclub called the Shrine; it is Fela’s last concert there, and speaking directly to the audience, he shares–in word, song, and dance–his life story. Some of the tales he tells are funny, some are serious, but in the end (particularly toward the close of the second act, when all hell breaks loose), they’re sad, tragic, and heartbreaking.

Sahr Ngaujah, who played Fela, is a revelation. (Kevin Mambo alternates in the role; it’s that demanding.) By turns angry and playful, bitter and charming, he turns on the jets from the moment he enters and never turns them off. Perspiring freely under the harsh lights, he delivers a performance that is as high-octane as any you will see all year.

Just as much of a revelation, though, is the ensemble. Singing, dancing–and not just onstage, but also up and down the aisles–they propel the action forward and, following Ngaujah’s awesome lead, add to the evening’s frenetic energy and breath-defying pace. (At one point, the audience is even encouraged to get out of their seats and do a little shakin’ of their own.)

The set, dotted here and there by newspaper headlines announcing the government’s latest crackdown, and portraits of black leaders such as Malcolm X and Fela’s own mother, the heroic but doomed
Fummilayo, puts you right in the middle of the political powderkeg that Nigeria had become; the costumes, especially on the women, are miniskirted and sensual at first and then, come the second act, brightly colorful; and the lighting during the long Act II sequence in which Fela “visits” his slain mother–his mentor–for guidance, sets the somber, otherworldly mood perfectly.

Bill T. Jones, in addition to co-writing the book with Jim Lewis, directed and choreographed; Marina Draghici
designed the sets and costumes; Robert Wierzel did the lights; and Fela himself composed (most of) the music and lyrics.

“Fela!” is well worth seeing–for the story it tells, the spectacle it offers, and the hard, painful questions it asks. Get a ticket now–BEFORE the Tony nominations are announced.

Theater Reviews by Stuart R. Brynien

An example: Tracy Letts, author of the 2008 Pulitzer winner, “August: Osage County”. Though his next play, “Superior Donuts” – currently at Broadway’s Music Box Theater – is not without its merits, it is far from superior as either drama or comedy. It makes for a diverting evening, to be sure, but is bound to fall considerably short of the accolades its predecessor enjoyed.

It’s certainly no fault of the actors. Michael Mckean, as the paunchy, pony-tailed proprietor of the coffee-and-donuts establishment of the title, does a fine job portraying grief, resignation, and regret; Jon Michael Hill, as the sassy young man he hires early in the first act, is clearly in possession of an enviable sense of comic timing (in his extended scenes with McKean – which form the basis of the play – he has most of, if not all, the best lines). Everybody else, from Yasen Peyankov as the Russian businessman next door who wants to buy the donut shop and turn it into something more profitable, to Cliff Chamberlain and Robert Maffia as the neighborhood goons who try to strong-arm the kid into making good on a gambling debt to their boss, does yeoman-like – and occasionally even hilarious – work.

But a plot twist in the second act calls into question the goons’ believability, and the last half of the play – as is the case with many comedies – just sort of peters out, even taking a dark and violent turn that left me yearning for the rat-a-tat repartee and whiz-bang one-liners of Act I.

In short: Tracy Letts’ latest may not be one of those yummy confections with powder on top and cream in the middle and enough calories to expand your waistline all by itself – it may be little more than one of those plain chocolate jobs with a thin layer of icing and nary a rainbow sprinkle – but it will still put a smile on your face (or most of it will, anyway)… and in today’s world, what’s wrong with that?

Theater Reviews by Stuart R. Brynien

Thanks to a rockin’ score by longtime Bon Jovi keyboardist David Bryan (performed, not incidentally, by an equally rockin’ band)… clever lyrics and a laugh-a-minute book by Joe DiPietro… and terrific direction by John Rando that kept the action moving at such a brisk pace, I was hardly aware I had been glued to my seat for almost two (intermissionless) hours, this little musical about “New Jersey’s First Superhero” turned out to be a heckuva ride (even if it did spend quite a bit of time throwing Mama – read: the Garden State itself – from the train).

And… oh, the acting! From “American Idol” alum Diana DeGarmo’s deliciously ditzy (and blind!) librarian, to Nick Cordero as the Avenger himself (starting off as dorky ecology buff Melvin Ferd the Third, he turns into the Avenger after being dunked headfirst into some primo toxic waste), the cast is hotter than a nuclear reactor and twice as combustible. Demond Green and Jonathan Root are especially fun to watch in a variety of roles (the sheer number of costume changes they had to make must have had the wardrobe crew backstage sucking oxygen), and Nancy Opel brings down the house as a villainous small town mayor AND the Avenger’s whiny, long-suffering mother, who longs for the day her son will stop oozing slime and produce – miracle of miracles- a grandchild. (Ms. Opel has a Jekyll-and-Hyde number in the second act that will make your head spin. Bring Dramamine – you’ll need it.)

Bottom line: do yourself a favor and avoid New Jersey (or move out, if you already live there), because, according to DiPietro and Co., you might sprout slime-filled sores and pop an eyeball just by breathing the air.

Or, better yet, ooze on over to New World Stages and check out “The Toxic Avenger”. Watching corrupt politicos pollute the planet has never been so entertaining.

Theater Reviews by Stuart R. Brynien