Here’s the press release from Lyric Opera:

Lyric Opera of Chicago’s 55th season
begins Saturday, September 26, 2009, at 6:00 p.m.
with Sir Andrew Davis conducting Giacomo Puccini’s immortal
TOSCA
starring Deborah Voigt, Vladimir Galouzine, and James Morris

Faust, Ernani, Katya Kabanova, The Merry Widow, The Elixir of Love,
The Damnation of Faust, and The Marriage of Figaro
also to be presented this season, including three new Lyric productions
– one a Lyric Opera premiere – and one new-to-Chicago production Read the rest of this entry »

By Fabrizio O. Almeida

Recently, I found myself defending foreign-language theater to a colleague who loves opera. We were discussing curator Robert Falls and The Goodman Theatre’s ambitious stage event “Global Exploration: Eugene O’Neill in the 21^st Century,” and while he could share my enthusiasm for its controversial (Wooster Group’s “Emperor Jones”), community-boosting (Hypocrites’ “The Hairy Ape” and Neo-Futurists’ “Strange Interlude”) and classic programming (“Desire Under the Elms”), he could simply not understand why anyone would want to see O’Neill performed in Portuguese or Dutch. (The festival, now midway through its run, features theater companies from Brazil and the Netherlands performing the notoriously obscure “Sea Plays” and the rarely staged “Mourning Becomes Electra,” respectively). I can see his point. After all, experiencing some foreign-language theater—the kind staged in the playwright’s native tongue, for example—makes sense. It’s the operatic equivalent of hearing Puccini in Italian, or Wagner in German: the authentic cultural-aural experience. So why do I still think, having now sat through two of Brazilian Companhia Triptal’s three productions of “Homens Ao Mar” or “Sea Plays” (the final installment, “Cardiff,” completes the triptych this weekend) without understanding one peep of Portuguese, that it would be an absolute shame if any viewer missed out on this rare and once-in-a-lifetime experience afforded by the good folks at the Goodman?

I think for me it’s quite simply all about the language. It helps, of course, being a linguaphile and having under my belt a history of international theatergoing that includes not just plays rendered in their original spoken-languages (Chekhov in Russian by the Moscow Art Theatre; Strindberg in Swedish courtesy of The Royal Dramatic Theatre of Stockholm), but also straight plays and musicals originally performed in English but enjoyed in a half dozen other foreign languages. Nevertheless, even without this primer, any curious individual wishing to be provoked by a piece of exotic theater but wary of the potential for pomposity, can rest assured that there is nothing pretentious about or posed by Companhia Triptal that the average theatergoer can’t handle.

So you’re afraid you may not “get it” in another language? All you need to know about “Sea Plays” is that they are informed by a playwright whose early life experiences were spent at sea, and who must have had a love-hate relationship with this siren that tore individuals from—and reunited them with—their families. As well, O’Neill’s early plays were exercises—not always successful—in lacing realistic situations with symbolism and heightened theatricality. Even in English, these plays can come across as ambiguous. Companhia Triptal’s aggressively atmospheric and mood-enhancing staging puts you there and offers a visceral experience not dependent on narrative details.

So you hate the idea of supertitles? After all, why shell out $20 to “read” a play? Well then, don’t. The first installment of “Sea Plays,” whose original English-language text was projected back to the audience via supertitles, was a cumbersome experience if you sat too close to the stage: halfway through the performance I felt like a nodding dog with my head tilting up and down between the words across the sky and the action down on stage. It also seemed at times like the supertitle projector could either not keep up with the actors or vice versa, making for some ponderous pauses (I wondered if this is what it would be like to see Pinter in Portuguese). So for the second installment, armed with a quick scan of the synopsis only, I ignored the supertitles, took in the experience as if I were watching the show in its hometown of São Paulo and learned to appreciate a company of actors whose robust physicality, brandy-soaked vocal instruments and Latin temperament were the perfect interpreters of O’Neill’s motley crew of sailors and whores, as well as of the playwright’s famously demanding and persnickety stage directions. In fact, my relationship as audience member with these Brazilian actors was probably heightened precisely because we could not depend solely on words for communication.

So you know nothing about Brazilian culture? Well, maybe you’ll learn something. In my case, the “global” insights were unsurprising but nuanced and pronounced: a patriarchal culture whose dichotomous existence between beauty and violence—as might be experienced every day on the dangerous streets of Rio or São Paulo—echoed through the ebb and flow of O’Neill’s symbolic sea.

All good stuff, but for me secondary to the unique thrill of letting go, letting the experience wash over me and allowing a foreign language to caress my ear. Inherently disorienting at first, but that’s the way O’Neill’s rough-hewn dialogue—especially at this point in his early writing career—affects some in English. And in the case of the Portuguese, with its emphasis on elongated open vowels, a curious case of unintelligible aural beauty reminding me of this playwright’s later gift for the poetic vernacular. (Dutch’s guttural-heavy pronouncements for the upcoming “Mourning Becomes Electra” will most likely re-emphasize the jagged aspects of O’Neill’s language.)

You’ll be hard-pressed to see, let alone hear, something like this again for a long time to come. And what do you mean you think an Afghan “Anna Christie” sounds like fun?

“Global Exploration: Eugene O’Neill in the 21^st Century” runs through March at the Goodman Theatre, 170 N. Dearborn, goodmantheatre.org

Thirteen ain’t easy. I don’t know a soul who would choose to return to the age when our identities are ruthlessly scrutinized under the microscope of insecure peers and our bodies seem bent on humiliating us, lingering in the wretched stage between unformed innocence and sexual maturity. Yet thirteen is the subject of The Dance COLEctive’s performance this weekend—inspired in part by the company’s thirteenth anniversary this year. Artistic Director Margi Cole feels similar pressures on her company to step outside its comfort zone and mature under challenging circumstances (and states as much at the close of the program). “13” is a highly theatrical piece for TDC; each dancer created a character which is revealed through a series of vignettes, interspersed between duets and ensemble movements, all revolving around the world-wrenching personal dramas between friends, enemies and classmates. Some text is drawn from the audience, who will be asked to write down things they liked (start thinking now) and disliked about being thirteen.

It’s apparent that this is Cole’s first foray into spoken original text—the expository sections run a bit long and literal—but the ungainly, heartfelt moments are apropos: this is a show about the discomfort of growth and the inevitable mixed results of exiting one’s comfort zone. The company as a whole does a remarkable job of internalizing the deportment and attitude of 13-year-olds—from agonizing introverts to cool mean girls—without falling into cliché or, even more incredibly, compromising their strength and grace.

Also on the program is Cole’s comical solo “Superhero,” created, with the help of Liz Burritt, during her recovery from a torn ACL. “A week before my surgery, I said to a friend that, until recently, I felt I was superhuman and was just fine with that,” Cole says. “The injury was a challenge to deal with. ‘Superhero’ came from thinking about my physical limitations and where I want to be.” To describe the piece would undermine its humor, but it complements “13”; the two pieces were developed in tandem and probe those often embarrassing corners of the psyche that so desperately desire to do more, be more. (Sharon Hoyer)

At the Ruth Page Center for the Arts, 1016 N. Dearborn, (773)604-8452. Jan 29-31, 8pm. $20.

You don’t easily forget a persona like Brian Posehn’s, a nerdy, balding, unabashed metal lover who occasionally sports the beard of a reclusive woodsman and lovingly accepts the “creepy janitor” roles in films. Putting the face to a name, however, was another story. Despite twenty-two years of doing stand-up and a lengthy movie career, it’s only been recently that Posehn has emerged from anonymity. “For a long time it was ‘Hey, that guy is that guy,’” he says.

Not anymore. Now, only half of the gawkers vaguely recognize him. Posehn’s starting to get some name recognition, and for good reason—the guy works his ass off. His roles as the mail clerk on “Just Shoot Me” and as the homosexual-in-name-only Brian on “The Sarah Silverman Program” are just the beginning. Posehn’s resume includes a just-finished stint with the popular “Comedians of Comedy” tour; a 2006 stand-up record, “Live In: Nerd Rage,” featuring the satirical metal anthem, “Metal By Numbers,” and an upcoming just-recorded stand-up album (that could include a metal version of Kenny Rogers’ “The Gambler”); a post-apocalyptic comic book, “The Last Christmas”; a music video director credit for glam-metal parody band Steel Panther; and an upcoming, uh, unique role in Rob Zombie’s animated feature, “The Haunted World of El Superbeasto.”

“I’ve known Rob for a couple of years now,” he explains. “I did ‘Devil’s Rejects,’ one of his live-action movies, and he just mentioned, ‘Hey, I’m doing an animated thing. Do you want to play a horny robot?’ Uh, pretty sure I was born to play a horny robot.”

“Horny robot” may be his role of a lifetime, but stand-up is still his most comfortable act, and—aside from his early Sam Kinison-inspired comedic style (which was “a lot of fake energy… yelling my punchlines and yelling my setups”)—Posehn has mostly made a career just by analyzing the loves of his life: metal, marijuana, horror movies and his wife.

“It’s changing and it’s going to change even more,” he says. “My wife just got pregnant, so already the act is transforming, I’m becoming one of those guys. I always said I wouldn’t. But I’ll try to still be funny when I become that guy.” (Andy Seifert)

January 29 at Zanies, 548 N. Wells, (312)337-4027.

Carla Gugino (Abbie Putnam) and Brian Dennehy (Ephraim Cabot)

RECOMMENDED

Let’s get right to the point. Robert Falls’ production of Eugene O’Neill’s “Desire under the Elms” exceeds all expectations. And although I cannot quite declare it “the theatrical event of the year”—there are, after all, eleven months remaining—I will concede that this exceptional revival, showcasing a director and design team working at the top of their game, and boasting three mesmerizing performances at its core, is currently the best thing on a Chicago stage and deserves a place on every critic’s “Best Of” list twelve months from now.

“Desire under the Elms,” one of the playwright’s earlier works, is set on a rural New England farm in the mid-nineteenth century. O’Neill stage vet and Chicago adopted son Brian Dennehy plays septuagenarian Ephraim Cabot, a proud paterfamilias whose third marriage, to a wife thirty years his junior (Carla Gugino), threatens to deprive his embittered son Eben (Pablo Schreiber) of what he believes is his rightful inheritance: the family farm that bore witness to Cabot’s tyrannical younger years and the subsequent deaths of his first two wives (one of them Eben’s mother). From there on, “Desire” charts the greed, ambition and murderous passions that drive this father-son-stepmother saga through its Greek-tragedy-inspired twists and Freudian turns.

With this play there exists the danger that a modern audience’s seen-it-all sensibilities could spot these plot developments coming from a mile away, blunting their impact and potentially stripping the play of its original shock value. Falls’ choice to jettison the play’s intermission and present it as one continuous sequence, right through to its depressing denouement, is therefore a smart one. But it’s his overall pitch-perfect and restrained directorial hand that’s responsible for this production’s grab-you-by-the-throat intensity and the fact that not one mundane minute registers during the play’s one-hour-and-forty-minute intermission-less running time. (And given this playwright’s penchant for prolixity, that’s certainly saying a lot.) Indeed, whether navigating three excellent performers safely through O’Neill’s melodramatic meltdowns, using Bob Dylan’s haunting song “Not Dark Yet” for a six-minute musical montage that conveys the longing and loneliness of rural existence, or creating stunning stage tableaus, Falls proves why he is the foremost directorial interpreter of O’Neill working in the American theater today. To this end, he’s aided by Walt Spangler’s stunning set design, Michael Philippi’s exquisite lighting plot and Richard Woodbury’s original music and sound design. Their work each merits more praise and attention than I have room to give it here, but overall its combined effect is one that adds and sustains—in some cases quite literally—the play’s dramatic tension.

Finally, there are the three leads. Schreiber expertly modulates his character’s internal journey from hatred to love, and his rugged handsomeness and bursts of virility make for some searing sensuality. Gugino, a beautiful and sexy actress who resembles a young Barbara Hershey yet sounds like Judy Davis—thanks to a husky vocal instrument that makes full use of its earthy chest tones—plays her role like it’s a warm-up to take on Maggie the Cat. (Her feral ferocity is evident from the moment she first rubs the palm of her hand—and eventually herself—upon the floors and furniture of the farmhouse.) Last but not least, there is Mr. Dennehy, an actor who could have plowed through his part and made this “Desire” about one man’s tragedy. Instead, through an understated performance that ultimately uncovers more sympathy for his character than O’Neill affords him in the script, Dennehy unselfishly shares the spotlight and allows this tragedy to belong to three individuals. Classy and admirable. Just like everything else in this perfect-storm of a production. (Fabrizio O. Almeida)

At Goodman Theatre, 170 North Dearborn, (312)443-3800. Tue-Thu 7:30pm/Fri 8 pm/Sat 2pm & 8pm/Sun 2pm. $25-$82. Through March 1. Note that Carla Gugino leaves the cast February 17 and will be replaced by her understudy, Amy J. Carle.

Laura Scheinbaum (Hedvig Ekdal)

There is a lot to like about the aesthetic impulses that drive Court Theatre’s artistic director Charles Newell. The guy is unafraid to tinker with the classics; everything “proper” is given the heave-ho and suddenly a play you thought you had all figured out seems uncommonly new and unexpectedly urgent.

I had high hopes for Newell’s take on Henrik Ibsen, and yet behold his current production of “The Wild Duck” (at the MCA). To say this staging left me cold is an understatement.

Ibsen’s drama of secrets and lies has always been tricky, with its insistently self-centered men and the women yoked to them. Ibsen himself anticipated “plenty to quarrel about, plenty to misinterpret.” The personal losses pile up like so many felled logs, that much is certain.

But if anything, the Court production exposes the play for what it really is: the proto family sitcom, easy on the com. Dad as infantile idiot; Mom as Practical Patty; Grandpa as eccentric; plus the requisite Preteen Kid and a Neighbor who drops in for a bon mot or two. It’s “The King of Everybody Loves Yes, Dear,” nineteenth-century Norway version. It’s not that Ibsen’s script isn’t funny (in its own way), but you’ll find little of that here.

Something about Newell’s approach has a pile-driving affect. Jay Whittaker is Gregers—the pot-stirrer who inadvertently destroys an entire family in a deranged sense of honesty and morality—and Whittaker is perhaps too obvious in his physical manifestation of the character. The hair is greasy, the body language full of tics. Everything about this man suggests trouble and I wonder if Newell had pushed for something more internal and composed, it might have created a much-needed elusive quality. Gregers’ motives should tap uncomfortable nerves—who among us hasn’t been blinded by principle?—but as it is, you just hate the guy on sight.

So what of the family he splinters like so much wood in the chopper? Kevin Gudahl’s Hailmar is appropriately childlike; Mary Beth Fisher, as his doting spouse, gives the role that frozen stare seen in the wives of stunted men.

But their cozy life is anything but. Leigh Breslau’s set design is gorgeous—a gaping warehouse loft straight out of “Rent”—and yet it exposes an emptiness in the production.  The family sits on the sofa clasped together in a Norman Rockwell embrace and it’s all you can do to not to roll your eyes. The artifice is stultifying, which may be the point. The fantasy must give way.

Ignorance is bliss, but what of the unexamined life? I’m not sure Ibsen was entirely convinced one way or another about the question of honesty versus delusions. Both have to exist to propel you out bed every morning—I’ll pretend my life isn’t as bad as it is in the hopes of making room for things that are genuinely pleasurable. Isn’t that what we call growing up?

It is only Timothy Edward Kane as the doctor—a dangerous man in his own right, with little patience for the artificially induced tragedy before him—who offers something to grab onto. Kane’s performance commands your attention, his voice low and pissed off and full of brine. Fuck you, he all but tells this group. Fuck you and figure out a way to live your lives. The alternative is to sink irretrievably to the bottom of the sea like so many ducks shot from the sky. (Nina Metz)

At The MCA Stage, Museum of Contemporary Art,220 East Chicago,(773)753-4472 or courttheatre.org. Wed-Thu/7:30p, Fri 6p, Sat 3p & 8p, Sun 2:30p & 7:30p. $32-$60. Through Feb 15.

RECOMMENDED

Ruth Snyder’s 1928 trial for the murder of her husband was the Simpson trial of its day; the same brutal violence, the same media sensationalism. Journalist Sophie Treadwell covered the trial and, in her pioneering play “Machinal,” explored the societal restrictions that might force a woman to snap. Timeline Theatre Company’s “Not Enough Air” is a fascinating look at Treadwell’s creative process and her struggle to shine a light on women’s issues.

The crackerjack ensemble masters the fast-paced staging and rapid-fire language. Each performance is strong and well-defined; standouts include Terry Hamilton and Danica Ivancevic in their many roles. The second act drags slightly as Treadwell (Janet Ulrich Brooks) confronts the figurative (and literal) ghosts that haunt her; she and her husband, sportswriter William O. McGeehan(the charming David Parkes), must avoid the pitfalls of their unconventional marriage. But Brooks never lets Treadwell’s fire extinguish; we see how Treadwell’s passion comes close to consuming her. (Lisa Buscani)

At Timeline Theatre Company, 615 W. Wellington, (773)281-8463, through March 22.

Richard Chamberlain

RECOMMENDED

It goes without saying that writing and performing comedy are two different things, but perhaps not often enough. Carl Reiner, for instance, wrote and starred in a 1960s television comedy called “Head of the Family” that was a total bust until producer Sheldon Leonard was gently able to convince Reiner that the problem wasn’t the brilliant material, but his own overripe performing. The revamped result, “The Dick Van Dyke Show,” redefined the situation comedy.

When it comes to anything “Monty Python”-related, the writers and the performers were one and the same and more often than not, the writing was better than the execution because it would so often be done with a nod and a wink to the cleverness of the material itself. In the case of “Monty Python and the Holy Grail,” both were below usual “Python” standards; the ensemble had broken up years before and came back together for this hurriedly produced, shoestring budget, almost “Blair Witch Project” film which is the basis for “Monty Python’s Spamalot,” Eric Idle’s shameless but clever attempt to cash in on Mel Brook’s cash cow of resurrecting a low-budget satirical film with Broadway flash. (Curiously, both “The Producers” and “Spamalot” premiered in Chicago before hitting the Great White Way.)

“Spamalot” began with considerable comedic star power (Tim Curry, David Hyde Pierce) and by the time of its return here three years ago minus the stars, that same tongue-in- cheek factor had performers telegraphing the comedy so widely that you could hear diehard Pythonhead audience members mouthing routines word for word along with the lines. What Richard Chamberlain’s King Arthur brings to the proceedings is a reminder that the best “Python” routines never came across as routines at all, but as silly people who haven’t the slightest clue that they are being funny. In that, with all due respect to the late Graham Chapman, who played Arthur in the film, Chamberlain is able to even out-“Python” the Pythons. With his classical training as an actor and Broadway singing chops he acts as if this material were straight as an arrow, which refreshes the show considerably as its absurdities are experienced as bizarre surprises via Arthur’s eyes. Happily, the production itself is tighter yet has sacrificed none of its elaborate production values. (Dennis Polkow)

Through February 1, Auditorium Theatre, 50 E. Congress Parkway, (312)902-1400, $25-$90.

Unadulterated farce that spirals downward in tone from running gag to cheap trick. A dweeby educational-film-strip editor attempts to enact a self-help book’s rules in order to seem more interesting and instead becomes entangled in a Harold-and-Maude relationship with his eccentric landlady and in the mystery of her late husband’s death. Unfortunately, despite director Russ Tutterow’s shrewd impulse to make the play as much of a spectacle as possible, complete with strobe lights and a male stripper performing in a g-string apropos of nothing, he can’t overrule the show’s tired parade of cliché. While some blame can be shared with the actors, who undeniably ham it up, hitting the same situation-comedy note for more than two hours straight, the problem lies in the writing itself, which consists of never-ending sexual innuendo, stereotyped characters and tropes overworn to the point of numbness (joke about a gun-collecting postal worker, anyone?). There are some effective comedic moments—the geek attempting to set the mood for seduction with Gregorian chant, for example, and a well-timed description of a character who looks like “a young Oliver Laurel with a mustache or an obese Adolf Hitler” (this is also one of the least-offensive lines in the play)—but more often than not the jokes feel spelled out for the audience, and long after we’ve anticipated them. (Monica Westin)

At Chicago Dramatists, 1105 W Chicago, (312)633-0840. Through February 22.

RECOMMENDED

With change all around us lately, we have all been asked to think globally. Our new administrations has issued the charge for us to step outside of the American ego and consider the rest of the world. Consider this. When the State Ballet Theatre of Russia presents “Cinderella” at the Harris Theater this weekend, we all have the opportunity to see a great artistic tradition from one of the mightiest countries in the world. Those of you rolling your eyes at the suggestions that a production of “Cinderella” has anything to do with geopolitics, I get that. However, art is the way for us to reach out to one another over political and racial divides. Russian ballet is at the zenith of dance tradition. Choreographed by Vladimir Vasiliev, the great twentieth-century Russian dancer who held the positions of principal dancer and general director of the famed Bolshoi Theater, this staging promises to be exemplary. So while Russia’s PR has been less than stellar recently, this is a chance to see something beautiful from a place we will be hearing much more from in the months and years to come. (William Scott)

At the Harris Theater for Music and Dance, 205 East Randolph, (312)334-7777.  Jan 30 & 31.