this week in theater

NEITHER SNOW NOR RAIN NOR HEAT NOR GLOOM WILL KEEP AMAZON FROM THEIR APPOINTED ROUNDS

Ani (Deirdre Lovejoy) and Jen (Donnetta Lavinia Grays) go about their jobs in different ways in Sarah Mantell’s latest play (photo by Valerie Terranova)

IN THE AMAZON WAREHOUSE PARKING LOT
Playwrights Horizons, Mainstage Theater
416 West 42nd St. between Ninth & Tenth Aves.
Through November 17, $62.50 – $102.50
www.playwrightshorizons.org

The unofficial motto of the US Postal Service is “Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.” The quote was taken from The Persian Wars by Herodotus, who is alternately known as the Father of History and the Father of Lies.

In Sarah Mantell’s Susan Smith Blackburn Prize–winning In the Amazon Warehouse Parking Lot, in the aftermath of an unnamed apocalyptic event, there is no more post office, no stores, only a society hanging on by a thread. All that is left are scattered people and — Amazon. Thanks, Jeff Bezos.

The play begins in an Amazon warehouse, where Jen (Donnetta Lavinia Grays) is taking packages off a conveyor belt. She is surprised when a new employee, Ani (Deirdre Lovejoy), shows up to work replacing Chris, the outbound supervisor. We never learn what happened to Chris; in this America, set only one generation in the future, people disappear without explanation.

As Jen places the boxes in vertical metal carts, she calls out the names on their address labels: “Flagstaff, Arizona.” “Carvers, Nevada. Oh that’s good. Wasn’t sure I’d see Nevada again.” “Rutland, New Hampshire.” “Greensboro, that’s a good one too. Haven’t gotten much North Carolina in a while.”

When Ani does not call out the names of the cities where her packages are going, Jen gets upset. “If you don’t read the labels, how will you know what’s going on out there?” she asks. Ani ignores her.

Jen also works shifts with El (Sandra Caldwell), who does call out the addresses. They see a package that seems to be addressed to Ash’s (Tulis McCall) cousin, in Ohio, and they memorize the exact location because writing it down is forbidden; they are subject to random searches by security guards. It slowly becomes evident why the addresses and the existence of other states, cities, and towns are so important.

When they’re not on the line, the crew of seven — Jen, Ani, El, Ash, Horowitz (Barsha), Sara (Ianne Fields Stewart), and Maribel (Pooya Mohseni), all queer women, nonbinary, or trans — gather outside by a highway next to a stunning mountainous landscape. They talk about work, share food, play a game called Werewolf, wonder what their coworkers might have done for a living in the before times, and recall moments from their past, like something as simple as eating an apple; in addition, most of the characters get their own personal monologue.

Jen sums it all up when she says, “Listen. It’s not like I don’t hate it. All the places, the names. All the calculating. On the days I don’t think I can take it anymore, I think about my friends who are searching for people, right? And if those names come by, I try to picture I’m like a waterslide, like it comes through me and I don’t have to hold it. It’ll just get where it’s going ’cuz I’m here?”

A group of queer Amazon workers try to plot their future in Sarah Mantell’s In the Amazon Warehouse Parking Lot (photo by Valerie Terranova)

Presented in association with Breaking the Binary Theatre, In the Amazon Warehouse Parking Lot paints a bleak portrait of the near-future, run by a corporate monolith where people are merely names on boxes, not individuals with real purpose. There is no communication, no connections; packages revolve on an overhead conveyor belt and are ultimately shipped off to destinations that might barely exist. It’s a world where no one can travel, except from Amazon job to Amazon job; the trucks will roar down that highway by the warehouse, but not the crew, who wonder where their friends and relatives are, whether they are alive or dead. The only thing that matters is that the packages get delivered, but it is never implied what might be in them. What other companies are even out there, still doing business?

Emmie Finckel’s scenic design switches between the packing room and the outside, a melding of utopia and dystopia; neither place offers the staff any sense of freedom. Cha See’s lighting and Sinan Refik Zafar’s sound create an enveloping sense of potential doom that could come at any moment. Mel Ng’s costumes feature the familiar Amazon orange vests, under which the employees wear regular clothing, sometimes with an edge, as with Ash’s T-shirt that depicts gay rights activist Marsha P. Johnson. (In the script, Mantell notes, “All of the characters are queer. . . . Jen is androgynous / butch / masc. I think El probably is too. Sara is transfeminine and high femme. At least half the cast should be gender nonconforming. The majority of the cast should be BIPOC — and Jen and Sara must be. Sara is ‘the baby,’ but the others are written to be over fifty. My hope is that these roles become something my generation of actors can age towards, and that by the time they get here, the pool will look very different than it does now.”)

Mantell’s (The Good Guys, Tiny) dialogue is sharp and incisive, and Battat (Problems Between Sisters, Layalina) directs with an astute sure-handedness. The ensemble is outstanding, led by Lavinia Grays (Men on Boats, In the Next Room or The Vibrator Play), who is like a stand-in for the audience, wanting to find out more, even if it involves taking risks. If this kind of apocalypse is ever going to happen, this is the group you want to be with. Then again, at that point, it might be too late. Fiddling with her Amazon device, El says, “Sometimes I think if I drop it just right it’ll short circuit and reconnect itself to the world beyond the corporation,” to which Maribel responds, “What world?”

As Herodotus also wrote, “One should always look to the end of everything, how it will finally come out.”

Just like Amazon, in the end, Mantell’s gripping play delivers.

[Mark Rifkin is a Brooklyn-born, Manhattan-based writer and editor; you can follow him on Substack here.]

COFFEE CONNECTIONS: GOOD TO THE LAST DROP?

Katie (Susannah Flood) and Paul (Anthony Edwards) explore a new kind of friendship in Meghan Kennedy’s The Counter (photo by Joan Marcus)

THE COUNTER
Laura Pels Theatre
Harold and Miriam Steinberg Center for Theatre
111 West Forty-Sixth St. between Sixth & Seventh Aves.
Tuesday – Sunday through November 17, $49-$112
www.roundabouttheatre.org

Life is about making, breaking, and avoiding connections; all three are explored in Meghan Kennedy’s The Counter, continuing at Roundabout’s Laura Pels Theatre through November 17.

Six days a week, like clockwork, Paul (Anthony Edwards), a retired firefighter in a small upstate town, starts his morning with a cup of coffee at Becky’s café, poured by Katie (Susannah Flood), a younger woman who arrived in town two years before. Paul, who has terrible sleeping habits, sits in the same seat at the counter, where they chat about basic things, like the flu, their diet, movies, and escape fantasies.

When Paul mentions that, on Thursdays, Patricia will miss him if he doesn’t show up at Fiddler’s for lunch — he has his rituals — he says to Katie, “Can I help it if I’m everyone’s favorite customer?” Katie responds, “And here I thought we had something special.”

It isn’t long before they pursue something special, as Paul suggests taking their customer-waitress relationship to the next level, to become real friends. They begin by sharing secrets; Paul tells her that he’s an alcoholic who’s been sober for eleven years, while Katie explains that she has twenty-seven voice mails on her phone from her ex-boyfriend, and that he is the reason why she left New York City and headed way upstate. The messages have clogged up her phone so she cannot receive any more, so she asks if Paul will listen to them with her, then she will delete them.

Both Paul and Katie have to face their past, each giving the other “tough talk” to proceed to the next step. “This isn’t your real life,” Paul says to Katie, who, upon learning of a choice Paul made that she disagrees with but he can still correct, tells him, “That’s a life. That’s a whole different life.”

But things take a serious turn when Paul asks Katie to do something extra-special for him.

Katie (Susannah Flood) and Paul (Anthony Edwards) wonder about what happened to their lives in The Counter (photo by Joan Marcus)

At only seventy-five minutes, The Counter is like a few servings of satisfying, if not great, coffee. The narrative teeters on the edge of Hallmark melodrama, but Kennedy (Napoli, Brooklyn; Too Much, Too Much, Too Many) and Tony–winning director David Cromer (Our Town, The Band’s Visit) make sure the cup never gets stale or overly sweet — or empty, filling it at just the right moment. Scene after scene, Paul enters the coffee shop in his winter coat, shluffs off the cold, and hangs up the jacket, ready to unburden himself to Katie, who wears a plum Becky’s T-shirt, jeans, and an apron. (The costumes are by Sarah Laux.)

Walt Spangler’s set is an inviting counter that juts out at an angle, welcoming the audience into its intimate space. At several points, Stacey Derosier’s lighting focuses on Paul or Katie as they deliver poignant monologues about the other. (However, I was occasionally distracted by reflections in the glass front door.)

Flood (The Comeuppance, Make Believe) is charming as Katie, who is a good waitress but knows deep down that she eventually has to go back to the city. Edwards (Prayer for the French Republic, Children of a Lesser God) is shaky as Paul, alternately overplaying and underplaying the character. Amy Warren (August: Osage County, Act One) makes an impact as the town doctor who knows secrets about Paul and Katie.

One of the central themes of The Counter involves waiting for something new, something different, while not taking action oneself. “Katie, all my life has been about waiting. I waited to become an adult and then I waited for the right girl and the right job and neither of them came and I’m waiting for good weather and good luck and good sleep and they’re not coming. And I’m never surprised,” Paul says. “I’m — you know when you read a book and it’s a good book, but you get to page 150 and you just, you get the point, and you just put it down? That’s how I’m feeling. And I would like the last event of my life, maybe the event of my life to be a surprise. And I’d like it to be in your company.”

“I was captivated by the power that savoring a simple cup of coffee can have to connect people and create community,” former Starbucks CEO Howard Schultz once said. With more than a few surprises, The Counter succeeds at connecting people and creating community in the Laura Pels.

[Mark Rifkin is a Brooklyn-born, Manhattan-based writer and editor; you can follow him on Substack here.]

SEARCHING FOR CONNECTIONS AFTER THE ROBOT APOCALYPSE

A painter (Emily Sullivan) seeks connection in Loneliness Was a Pandemic (photo by Danny Bristoll)

LONELINESS WAS A PANDEMIC
Theaterlab
357 West Thirty-Sixth St., between Eighth & Ninth Aves., third floor
Thursday – Sunday through November 24, $35-$50
theaterlabnyc.com

What happens when the robot apocalypse occurs and artificial intelligence takes over what’s left of humanity? Olivia Haller provides one all-too-believable possibility in Loneliness Was a Pandemic, making its world premiere at TheaterLab through November 24.

“Tell me why this is valuable,” a robot (Andrew Moorhead) says to a thirtysomething painter (Emily Sullivan) at the start of the play. He is referring to a canvas by Vincent van Gogh; she describes what makes the work more than just a historical artifact, how it is both technically perfect and moving and beautiful, but the robot cannot grasp the concepts of personal emotions.

“We know the brain patterns you emit when you experience certain feelings. We have tried to replicate them, to respond in certain ways when we receive certain stimuli, but it does not make sense,” he explains. “There is no purpose to it. They do not serve a function.”

The robot has been charged with learning from the woman how to create art; it is the only reason why she is still alive, having been spared the fate of most of the planet’s citizenry. She is restricted to a white building, traveling between her apartment and a studio where she gives the robot lessons every day; the only objects onstage are an easel, a cart with painting supplies, a chest, a mattress on the floor, and a one-level bookcase on which sits a tome on twentieth-century Austrian painter Martin Häusle, who specialized in landscapes and stained-glass windows. There are no windows in the painter’s rooms for her to see the outside world.

She occasionally converses with her close friend, a writer (Cleopatra Boudreau) who appears on live video projected onto a sheet on the back wall. She is teaching her robot how to write a screenplay, and it’s not going well. “Do they want to feel? Or do they just want to make art because it’s the one thing they know they cannot do?” she asks, giving an example of the robot’s inability to grasp emotion.

The two humans yearn to be together again, especially when their talks are cut short and the prophetic words “Connection Lost” replace the video feed. Meanwhile, above the painter, piano lessons seem to be going much better as the sound of a lovely melody can be heard through the ceiling.

There is also a second robot, a voice (Yi Ming Sofyia Xue) that makes such pronouncements as “What do you have? When you look up at the stars, is there anyone watching out for you? Are you alone? It is time to wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.”

Soon, when the painter decides to fight back, she has to face her relationship with reality as the robot continues to interrogate her.

A painter (Emily Sullivan) is charged with teaching a robot (Andrew Moorhead) how to make high-quality art in play set in postapocalyptic future (photo by Danny Bristoll)

So far, artificial intelligence can only repurpose existing text and images, uploaded legally or illegally to its database, and cannot create unique art from scratch, like humans do. For example, when I entered the question “What is the play Loneliness Was a Pandemic,” this was part of the response I got from ChatGPT: “Loneliness Was a Pandemic is a play by Benjamin Benne, a playwright known for exploring themes of human connection, isolation, and the impact of societal forces on individuals. This play, like many contemporary works, touches on the emotional and psychological effects of loneliness in a world increasingly shaped by social media, technology, and, more recently, the COVID-19 pandemic. . . . The specific plot details of Loneliness Was a Pandemic may vary depending on the production or interpretation, but the core themes revolve around the search for meaningful connections, the exploration of personal identity, and the toll that loneliness takes on mental and emotional well-being. It’s an evocative metaphor, reflecting how widespread and deeply rooted loneliness has become in modern life.”

Although aspects of that answer are correct, specific details are way off, and most of it is essentially word salad. Benjamin Benne is a real playwright who has written such works as Alma, In His Hands, and What / Washed Ashore / Astray, none of which deal with robots, AI, the pandemic, or a postapocalyptic future.

Haller’s play works much better when it is not focusing on art as a necessary part of life, where art provides a critical pathway to developing feelings, emotions, and identity, and instead zeroes in on the need for interpersonal relationships. The words “pandemic” and “virus” never appear, although the overall atmosphere evokes what so many of us experienced during the coronavirus crisis, stuck inside, contacting friends and loved ones only via screens. It was also a time bursting with artistic invention; even cooking took on new importance as a culinary art, something that is argued in the play.

“I miss you! Of course I miss you! I’m lonely all the time! But what am I supposed to do about it?” the painter says while the connection with the writer is lost yet again.

Director Alex Kopnick makes good use of Joyce He’s claustrophobic set, enhanced by Sarah Woods’s stark lighting, Mitch Toher’s immersive sound, and Bryan Eng’s music. The cast, in appropriate costumes by Sophie Taylor, is young and strong, bringing a yearning vibrancy to the proceedings. One can only hope that art will continue to be made by humans, not robotic machines, as their careers proceed.

To keep the conversation going, there will be talkbacks on November 11 with engineer and roboticist Glenn Gartner and robot-dog trainer Agnieszka Pilat, on November 13 with Hello SciCom founder and CEO Sarah Siskind, Deveaux Barron from togather.ai, mrgn.ai CEO Yoni Rubin, and costume designer and anti-AI-in-the-arts advocate Sophie Taylor, and on November 16 with Rubin, Zach Cascalho Cox of Google, and OpenAds.ai cofounder Steven Liss.

[According to ChatGPT, “Mark Rifkin is a writer, editor, and cultural commentator whose work spans a variety of topics including literature, arts, and contemporary culture. A regular contributor to This Week in New York, Rifkin brings a keen eye for detail and an insightful perspective on the latest happenings in New York City’s dynamic cultural scene. Whether reviewing theater productions, analyzing art exhibits, or offering thoughtful commentary on social trends, Rifkin’s writing is known for its engaging prose and depth of knowledge. He is passionate about exploring the intersections of history, identity, and creativity, and his work reflects a commitment to both critical analysis and celebration of the vibrant life of the city.” You can follow Mark Rifkin on Substack here.]

ONLINE DATING: PLOTTING A NEW STRATEGY

Jenny (Heléne York) and Adam (Michael Zegen) go on a strange date in Strategic Love Play (photo by Joan Marcus)

STRATEGIC LOVE PLAY
Audible’s Minetta Lane Theatre
18 Minetta Lane between Sixth Ave. and MacDougal St.
Monday – Saturday through December 7, $86-$106
www.audible.com
strategicloveplay.com

The prospect of sitting through another play about online dating is as enticing as, well, going on an online date itself. But playwright Miriam Battye and director Katie Posner dig deep into the human need for connection in the Edinburgh Fringe–winning Strategic Love Play, which opened tonight at Audible’s Minetta Lane Theatre for a limited run through December 7.

“Should we just hold hands and start promising shit now so we don’t have to do this bit?” Jenny (Heléne York) asks Adam (Michael Zegen) when they meet at a table in an empty cabaret. “Sure!” Adam says, to which Jenny replies, “Oh shit! That was easy!” She reaches out her hand, but Adam does not take it.

There is nothing easy about online dating, especially when it’s about a lot more than just swiping right or left for a night of sex.

At the beginning, Adam is stiff and reserved, looking around like he’d rather be anywhere else than at that table at that exact moment. Jenny is open and honest, sick and tired of being let down by men and determined to make this date work. As they sip their beers, they try to find commonalities, but Adam grows more and more distant and disinterested, which frustrates Jenny, who suggests they just be who they are, whoever that is, “instead of the whole — I gotta seduce them by pretending I’m normal. But also disclose my not normal. In a fucking cabaret. So they’ll never be shocked or disappointed or leave me one day when I’ve put both my feet in —”

When Adam makes a move to leave early, Jenny is having none of it. She demands to know why, but all he can say is “You’re. Hey, you’re great” while insisting he is not a dick. When he lobs mean-spirited jabs at her, she initially takes it with self-deprecating stabs at herself until she fights back at his superficial needs and desires.

“So are you currently in a fantastic relationship?” she asks rhetorically. “’Cos I’m sorry if I was mistaken but I thought you were standing opposite me with a rock in your gut.” In response, he tells her she’s a sociopath.

When Jenny proposes a bizarre plan for how the rest of the date should go, he thinks it’s a bad joke, but he also can’t walk away as they consider future possibilities.

Adam (Michael Zegen) and Jenny (Heléne York) explore possibilities in potent drama (photo by Joan Marcus)

Strategic Love Play quickly rises above its clichéd rom-com subject matter, offering new perspectives on how two adults — their ages are never given in the play, but Yorke is thirty-nine and Zegen forty-five — might be able to find one another, despite personal and societal expectations and long-held biases and desires. It is like they are the only two people in the world; although there is a bar and other tables on Arnulfo Maldonado’s charming set, no one else is ever seen or heard. One of the themes is that two is better than one, in almost any circumstance; it’s evident as well in Battye’s dedication of the play to “the love of my life (tbc).”

Their conversation is a roller coaster of thoughts, feelings, and emotions between one person who arguably shares too much and a second who is bottled-up. Appropriately, she wears a low-cut, revealing top, while he looks constricted in his tight-fitting shirt. (The costumes are by Dede Ayite.) Jen Schriever’s lighting features more than a dozen large globe bulbs hanging from the ceiling, subtly changing colors from white, yellow, and red to orange, purple, and blue, both signalling and creating the many shifts in mood that Battye (Scenes with girls, Find a Partner) and Posner (You Bury Me, Hungry) orchestrate. Strings of holiday lights glitter above and behind them, as if something special is happening.

Both Zegen (Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice, A View from the Bridge), best known for his role as Joel on The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, and Yorke (American Psycho, Bullets over Broadway), one of the stars of The Other Two and a regular on Masters of Sex, find just the right balance in their characters, who can go from likable to disarming in the snap of a finger.

By the end of the play, they both seem to be more mature and more attractive, as if our seventy-minute date with them at the Minetta Lane went very well indeed.

[Mark Rifkin is a Brooklyn-born, Manhattan-based writer and editor; you can follow him on Substack here.]

HANGING ON EVERY WORD: THE GREAT GATSBY FROM START TO FINISH

Elevator Repair Service’s Gatz takes place in a ramshackle office (photo by Joan Marcus)

GATZ
Newman Theater, the Public Theater
425 Lafayette St. at Astor Pl.
Tuesday – Sunday through December 1, $210
publictheater.org
www.elevator.org

Elevator Repair Service’s eight-hour Gatz is no mere gimmick, and it’s much more than just a unique theatrical experience; it’s a way of life and a treatise on the human condition.

In 1980, comedian Andy Kaufman began reading F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby to a university audience that was soon clamoring for him to do almost anything else as it became apparent he was going to read the entire text. ERS founding artistic director John Collins took that to the next level in 2004, creating Gatz, a durational show constructed around every single word of the Great American Novel (other than the chapter numbers). Over twenty years, Gatz has traveled from a Williamsburg garage to locations all over the country and the world, but it didn’t make its official New York City debut until 2010, at the Public, because of rights issues with the Fitzgerald estate. It is now back at the Public’s Newman Theater for a farewell encore presentation through December 1; only a handful of tickets remain.

The play, which consists of four acts, two intermissions, and a ninety-minute dinner break, is set in a somewhat ramshackle, drab office that seems stuck in time, with a long desk cluttered with detritus, a plain brown couch, a glassed-in room in one far corner, high shelves of boxes stuffed with papers, a dusty file cabinet, a booze station, a whiteboard with an employee schedule, a bulletin board with random items pinned to it, a horizontal window revealing a narrow hallway, a fax machine, and a poster of a lion below the declaration: “Stop sharing your income! Start saving taxes with Republic Funds Investment Program.”

An employee (Scott Shepherd) enters, sits at one end of the desk, and turns his DOS computer on and off several times, as it’s not working properly. Another employee (Jim Fletcher) enters, sits down at the other end of the desk, and reads a newspaper before pressing the keys on an old typewriter. Growing bored and frustrated, the first man picks up the 1995 Scribner paperback edition of The Great Gatsby and starts reading it out loud.

“In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since,” he says. “‘Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,’ he told me, ‘just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.’ He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgements, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores.” There is nothing boring about Gatz.

At first, his coworkers are confused by what he is doing, but soon they are delivering lines of dialogue themselves — Jay Gatsby (Jim Fletcher), a mysterious, wealthy man who likes to throw parties but keeps a low profile; Daisy Buchanan (Tory Vazquez), Gatsby’s former flame and Nick’s cousin; Tom Buchanan (Pete Simpson), Daisy’s untrustworthy oaf of a husband; Jordan Baker (Susie Sokol), a professional golfer and Daisy’s best friend; George Wilson (Frank Boyd), who runs a local gas station; Myrtle (Laurena Allan), George’s wife, who is having an affair with Tom; Catherine (Annie McNamara), Myrtle’s sister; photographer Chester McKee (Vin Knight) and his wife, Lucille (Maggie Hoffman), who live in the apartment house where Tom has his trysts with Myrtle; Michaelis (sound designer Ben Jalosa Williams), a neighbor of George and Myrtle’s; Ewing Klipspringer (Mike Iveson), a regular Gatsby party guest; Meyer Wolfsheim (Shepherd), Gatsby’s mobbed-up business partner; and Henry C. Gatz (Ross Fletcher), Gatsby’s father.

Nick Carraway (Scott Shepherd), Tom Buchanan (Pete Simpson), and Jay Gatsby (Jim Fletcher) are played by office mates in Gatz (photo by Joan Marcus)

Director Collins includes numerous moments when the world of the book merges with the world of the office while acknowledging that this is a performance being staged in a theater. Phones ring in the office and in the retelling. Employees murmur and whisper to one another in the background as Shepherd keeps reading the novel. Paper is thrown through the air like pages torn from a book. Workers enter and leave just as their Gatsby doppelgängers do. The green light across the Sound that Gatsby is obsessed with is represented by a tiny light on a smoke alarm. Shepherd reads about a motorcycle and the thunderous sounds of a bike shake through the space. In the book, Nick talks about Klipspringer playing the 1920 song “The Love Nest,” and the tune can be heard, including the lyrics, which are not in the book.

At one point, when Gatsby’s hair is mentioned, both Fletcher, who is bald, and Shepherd do a double take and mug for the audience, a move that emphasizes that even while the production is being faithful to the novel by pronouncing every word, there is still plenty open to interpretation; after all, people read the same book but don’t see the exact same things in their imagination. Thus, when a child in the book says, “Aunt Jordan’s got on a white dress too,” we are not taken aback that the character in fact is not wearing a white dress; however, we are dazzled when Nick says, “I hadn’t gone twenty yards when I heard my name and Gatsby stepped from between two bushes into the path. I must have felt pretty weird by that time, because I could think of nothing except the luminosity of his pink suit under the moon,” and Fletcher appears in a luminous pink suit. As a bonus, Gatsby’s father — a part that is often left out — is played by his real-life dad, Dr. Fletcher, who has performed the role since 2005. (The costumes are by Colleen Werthmann, with original scenic design by Louisa Thompson and soft lighting by Mark Barton.)

The cast is extraordinary in morphing between office drones and Gatsby characters: Simpson is a hulking, primal Tom, tossing around mail like he treats his wife; Vazquez infuses Daisy with a strong sense of conviction; Sokol excels as an efficient employee and Baker, who knows exactly what she wants and how to get it; and Williams ably marks the past and the present, not only portraying Michaelis but also operating the sound from a desk at front stage right, complete with a laptop that is a regular reminder that this is a show we are watching in 2024, even if the book takes place in the 1920s and the office hijinks occur in the 1980s.

Fletcher, one of New York City’s most adventurous and engaging actors, gives us a Gatsby we’ve never seen before, one that is more memorable than Robert Redford’s in Jack Clayton’s static 1974 film and Leonardo DiCaprio’s in Baz Luhrmann’s glitzy 3-D 2013 extravaganza. A veteran of ERS, the Wooster Group, and NYC Players, Fletcher brings his trademark deadpan style to the role; he is tall and sturdy, imbuing Gatsby with a touching vulnerability that is at odds with his steadfast office worker.

Mayhem ensues when a mundane office starts merging with The Great Gatsby (photo by Joan Marcus)

After all, despite his name being in the title of the book, the protagonist of The Great Gatsby is not Jay but Nick, who is telling the story. Shepherd originated the role of Carraway, and his performance is one of remarkable depth and substance. Although the paperback is in his hands for nearly the entire show, he actually knows the book by heart, but it is not basic recitation. He understands every word, every line, every plot twist, bringing an intoxicating nuance to the story while not drastically altering the tone of his voice. In the fourth and final act, I felt a twinge of sadness as I saw the remaining pages dwindle, knowing the end was coming. Gatz is like nothing I’ve ever experienced before; I now understand why so many friends and colleagues have seen it multiple times. It might last the length of an average American work day, but its marvelous pacing makes it fly by — yet in one of the show’s many clever touches, the clock on the desk never advances a second.

Given that the novel is now in the public domain, there are likely more Gatsbys to come, following this year’s disappointing Broadway musical and last year’s immersive, participatory show in addition to Rachel Chavkin’s musical adaptation that ran this summer at the American Repertory Theater at Harvard. It’s a shame that Gatz, which explores the drudgery of everyday life alongside the fictional, fantastical domain Gatsby tries to construct around him, will never be performed again in New York City, that more people will not be able revel in this one-of-a-kind interpretation, an American classic all its own.

The last word, of course, will be Fitzgerald’s:

“Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgiastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter — tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms further. . . . And one fine morning —

“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”

[Mark Rifkin is a Brooklyn-born, Manhattan-based writer and editor; you can follow him on Substack here.]

COEXISTENCE AND THE OUD

Tom Block’s Oud Player on the Tel rehearses in advance of November 8 opening at HERE (photo courtesy Tom Block)

OUD PLAYER ON THE TEL
HERE Arts Center
145 Sixth Ave.
Tuesday – Sunday, November 8-24, $35-$150
www.oudplayeronthetel.com
here.org

Playwright, author, and philosopher Tom Block delves into the Israeli-Palestinian conflict and the concept of coexistence in his new drama, Oud Player on the Tel, running November 8-24 at HERE Arts Center.

Presented by the International Human Rights Art Movement (IHRAM), the seventy-minute show is set in the Middle East in 1947, right before the establishment of the State of Israel. Block details the relationship between two families, Palestinian olive farmers and Jewish refugees, that takes a turn when a member of each clan changes their name to Herb Gordon and, in true Romeo and Juliet style, a young member from each falls in love with each other.

The play is directed by Jesica Garrou and features Mark Quiles as Amir, Mark Peters as Melke, Isaiah Stavchansky as Moritz, Hari Bhaskar as Mahmud, Maya Koshaba as Rashida, Inji El Gammmal as Fatima, and Jennifer Tulchin as Shoshana. The set is designed by Richie Oullette, with lighting by Riva Fairhall, costumes by Cathy Small, and choreography by Hala Shah. The original score is by Rachid Halihal, who appears as the oud player.

Block, the founding executive director and recording secretary of IHRAM, has written such books as Shalom/Salaam: A Story of a Mystical Fraternity and The Fool Returns, which explore connections between Jewish and Islamic mysticism.

“Oud Player on the Tel is a historically based piece that hopes to open a doorway to conversation by using absurdism, humor, and much history to tell an ugly truth,” Block told twi-ny. “We’ve had a couple readings and in both cases, people came in loaded for bear, and they left scratching their heads. It does find nuance in the middle of this geopolitical nightmare.”

SUMP’N LIKE OUR TOWN: AMERICA ONSTAGE

The Mint produciton of Lynn Riggs’s Sump’n Like Wings is worthy of much applause (photo by Maria Baranova)

SUMP’N LIKE WINGS
The Mint Theater at Theatre Row
410 West 42nd St. between Ninth & Tenth Aves.
Tuesday – Sunday through November 2, $39-$99
minttheater.org
www.theatrerow.org

In 1938, Thornton Wilder, who was born in Wisconsin in 1897, wrote what many consider one of the greatest American plays, the Pulitzer Prize–winning Our Town. The drama, a perennial favorite in high schools and community theater and off and on Broadway, is set in the small, fictional town of Grover’s Corners, New Hampshire, in 1901, where ordinary people go about their ordinary lives, including going to church, falling in love, and facing tragedy. It can currently be seen in an all-star version at the Ethel Barrymore through January 19. Wilder, who was gay, also won Pulitzers for his 1927 novel, The Bridge of San Luis Rey, and his 1942 play, The Skin of Our Teeth.

In 1925, Lynn Riggs, who was born in Oklahoma in 1899, wrote Sump’n Like Wings, a little-known play that was published in 1928 and premiered in 1931. The rarely performed drama is set in the small, fictional town of Claremont, Oklahoma, where ordinary people go about their ordinary lives, including going to church, falling in love, and facing tragedy. It concluded its too-short run at Theatre Row on November 2. Riggs, who was gay, also wrote the 1931 play Green Grow the Lilacs, which was the basis for the classic musical Oklahoma!, which won a Pulitzer in 1944 in addition to several Tonys and Oscars over the years.

The New York premiere of Sump’n Like Wings is presented by the Mint, the theater world’s finest purveyor of lost, forgotten plays, but this one is a welcome change of pace for the company, which specializes in British and American working-class tales and drawing-room comedies that often explore sociopolitical issues of their time. The splendid two-hour, two-act play takes place in the Old West of the 1910s, where the characters speak in western drawl and rhythm unusual for the Mint but as exquisitely rendered as ever.

The strict Mrs. Baker (Julia Brothers), a widow, operates the dining room of the St. Francis Hotel for Ladies and Gents in Claremont, where she is raising her sixteen-year-old daughter, the wild child Willie (Mariah Lee), with the help of her brother, Jim Thompson (Richard Lear), who owns the hotel. The town is aghast when shoplifter Elvie Rapp (Lindsey Steinert) lets all the prisoners out of the local jail; to rehabilitate her, Sheriff Beach (Andrew Gombas) is forcing her to work for Mrs. Baker. Instead of going to school, Willie waits tables for her mother, but she is being pursued by the married Boy Huntington (Lukey Klein), who wants to run away with her. Judging them all is Jim’s housekeeper, Hattie (Joy Avigail Sudduth).

Talking about why she let the men go, Elvie tells Willie, “You don’t know whut it is to be locked up, locked up away from the sun and the air. You don’t know whut it means not to be free to go and come whenever you please — with no one to stop you, and no iron bars a-shuttin you in like a animal —.” Willie cuts her off, declaring, “I — do — too.” Elvis responds, “You don’t! You cain’t know! And you don’t know how fin’lly you git sick, sick inside of yer head, so you’d do anything — anything at all to git free, to git away. It ain’t that you wanta go anywheres. It’s the idy of the bars that makes you mad. The bars git in yer mind, and you’d do anything to break em down, to git rid of em —.”

Lynn Riggs’s Sump’n Like Wings explores life in a small Oklahoma town in the 1910s (photo by Maria Baranova)

Therein lies the theme of the play; nearly every character is trying to escape something, searching for freedom from the bars that have surrounded them. They hop railroad cars, go to church, fight over a game of checkers, fall in and out of love, bury themselves in the newspaper, or break the law, challenging societal norms or getting swept up in them. In the first scene, Mr. Clovis (Buzz Roddy), Mrs. Clovis (Traci Hovel), and Osment (Mike Masters) are eating in the dining room and gossiping about Elvie. While the Clovises see the former prisoners as “crimernals, ever one of em!,” cowman Osment insists, “They was men, Mis’ Clovis. They was men.”

They then hear fierce noises coming from behind a closed door; it’s Willie, screaming to be let out, threatening to kick the door down. Mrs. Baker yells right back at her, threatening her. It ultimately turns out that the door is not locked, that Willie could have opened it at any time by herself. But not everyone in Claremont — or anywhere, in the past, present, or future — knows that.

The Mint is justifiably renowned for its fashionably detailed sets, but Junghyun Georgia Lee keeps it relatively simple this time, employing a handful of unadorned wooden chairs and tables that are moved around as the scene shifts from the dining room to a hotel office to a rooming house, with a closed door at one end and an open one at the other. In the back are rows of horizontal slats with enough space between them that the outside world is temptingly visible, filled with both hope and fear. Emilee McVey-Lee’s period costumes maintain the mostly brown color palette. As always with the Mint, the cast is impeccable, transporting the audience to 1910s Oklahoma. Raelle Myrick-Hodges’s (Dirty White Teslas Make Me Sad, Flyin’ West) intricate direction adds contemporary relevancy to the play nearly a century after it was written; who isn’t seeking some form of escape from something these days?

Riggs, who was part Cherokee and served in the US military, died in New York City in 1954 at the age of fifty-four, leaving behind twenty-one full-length plays, about a dozen screenplays (The Plainsman, Sherlock Holmes and the Voice of Terror), and numerous short stories. He was inducted into the Oklahoma Hall of Fame in 1943 and deserves to be better remembered for more than just one play.

Jim Parsons stars as the Stage Manager in Broadway revival of Our Town (photo by Daniel Rader)

OUR TOWN
Ethel Barrymore Theatre
243 West Forty-Seventh St. between Broadway & Eighth Ave.
Through January 19, $74 – $321
www.ourtownbroadway.com

Two-time Tony winner Kenny Leon’s streamlined adaptation of Thornton Wilder’s Our Town suffers from trying too hard to be all things to all people. Like Sump’n Like Wings, it has a spare, rustic set, with various chairs and tables being moved around and a large distressed wood barn wall in the back, with one door and a pair of windows that open up like the Laugh-In joke wall. Fifteen audience members sit in boxes on either side of the stage, more like a jury than part of the neighborhood being celebrated between them. Meanwhile, rows of lanternlike lights extend like stars over the stage and the audience, as if we’re part of this neighborhood too. (The set is by Beowulf Boritt, with costumes by Dede Ayite, lighting by Allen Lee Hughes, and sound by Justin Ellington.)

The first words we hear are “Shema Yisrael,” which begins the Jewish prayer of affirmation, here from the 2019 Abraham Jam song “Braided Prayer,” which features sacred words from multiple religions; the cover of the album features three silhouetted figures in three doorways, holding different phases of the moon, surrounded by religious-tinged quotes in English, Hebrew, Arabic, and other languages. The Stage Manager, played with frantic charm by Jim Parsons as if he’s trying to end services early — Parsons previously played the Supreme Being in 2015’s An Act of G-d at Studio 54 on Broadway — points out, “Religiously, we’re eighty-five per cent Protestants; twelve per cent Catholics; rest, indifferent.” Thus, there appear to be no Jews (or Muslims) in 1901 Grover’s Corners, New Hampshire, although, near the end of the play, a Jewish star is visible on a gravestone in the cemetery.

In addition, the diverse casting is strongly evident, as if making its own case, including deaf milkman Howie Newsome (John McGinty), who communicates with his customers in sign language. And to insist on the play’s relevance in the twenty-first century — the time and setting in noted as “now” — two characters pull out cell phones, only to be chastised by the Stage Manager. It’s less cute than it is annoyingly disconcerting. And when a belligerent woman, portrayed by Bryonha Marie, who is Black, asks, “Is there no one in town aware of social injustice and industrial inequality?,” it takes on a different meaning today than it would have when performed by a white actor seventy-five years ago. (The question might sound like it’s been added for this production, but it’s in the original script, again revealing Wilder’s talent for the universal.)

George Gibbs (Ephraim Sykes) chats with Mr. and Mrs. Webb (Katie Holmes and Richard Thomas) in Kenny Leon’s Our Town (photo by Daniel Rader)

Wilder populates his imaginary world with mostly respectably people doing mostly respectable things. “Nice town, y’know what I mean?” the Stage Manager says. “Nobody very remarkable ever come out of it, s’far as we know.”

Dr. Gibbs (Billy Eugene Jones), the town MD, chats with the paper deliverer, Joe Junior, while Mrs. Gibbs (Michelle Wilson) tends to her garden and their son, George (Ephraim Sykes), dreams of being a baseball player and is falling for his next-door neighbor, Emily Webb (Zoey Deutch), who lives with her brother, Wallee (Hagan Oliveras), and their parents, Mrs. Webb (Katie Holmes), who also has a garden, and the knowledgeable Mr. Webb (a standout Richard Thomas, yet again), editor of the Grover’s Corners Sentinel. Shorty Hawkins flags the 5:45 train to Boston. The town drunk, Simon Stimson (Donald Webber Jr.), conducts the church choir. State university professor Willard (Shyla Lefner) encapsulates the town’s history.

Constable Warren (Bill Timoney) walks the beat, engaging in small talk with the citizenry. Mrs. Soames (Julie Halston) raves on and on about a wedding. Undertaker Joe Stoddard (Anthony Michael Lopez) hates to supervise when they’re burying a young person.

In Grover’s Corners, people live and people die. There are no spoiler alerts when the Stage Manager tells us what is going to become of some of the characters. Leon has eliminated the two intermissions; the three acts — “Daily Life,” “Love and Marriage,” and “Death and Eternity” — are identified by the Stage Manager, who hustles things along, getting the audience out in a mere hundred minutes. This Our Town is a pleasant experience; there are plenty of untidy edges and few lofty moments. But it doesn’t quite feel like real life either; the manipulation is evident, including at the end, where tears flow.

Wilder, who was Protestant and served in the military, died in Hamden, Connecticut, in 1975 at the age of seventy-eight, leaving behind dozens of full-length and short plays, seven novels, and one screenplay (Shadow of a Doubt), but he will forever be remembered first for Our Town.

[Mark Rifkin is a Brooklyn-born, Manhattan-based writer and editor; you can follow him on Substack here.]