Alan Wilder (Ivan), John Mahoney (Richard) and Francis Guinan (Sharky). Photo by Michael Brosilow.

RECOMMENDED

Booze and religion have always made strange bedfellows. In Christianity, you have a founder who goes to a party and changes water into wine, and reportedly not the cheap stuff, either. Even the gospels have Jesus being directly accused of being a glutton and a drunkard by his detractors. And that was in a sunny, warm and dry country. In an Irish winter, where the long, cold dark nights howl and days are gray and short, drinking becomes a national pastime. Add Christmas into the mix, and well, you get the idea.

In Conor McPherson’s “The Seafarer,” five guys are sitting around and drinking on Christmas Eve having the same kind of dull and meaningless conversations that come up when that happens (if this all sounds familiar, much the same scenario—right down to a dilapidated drunk Christmas in Dublin—occurs in McPherson’s “A Dublin Carol,” which Steppenwolf is presenting upstairs concurrently with McPherson’s “The Seafarer”). One of the guys, however, reveals himself as the Devil to one of the characters in a private moment, and lets the guy know that he would be in hell right now if he hadn’t been able to beat the Devil at a card game when they were in jail together years ago. They’ll be playing again tonight, but the results will be different and the two will enter the netherworld through a hole in the wall. Of course, this all seems quite reasonable when you’re drunk, but the problem for an audience that is sober is how literally this all appears to go down, making you think that you’re suddenly spending the holidays with Mel Gibson.

For my taste, McPherson wants to have the sophistication and metaphor of “The Seventh Seal” with the religious sensibility of “The Omen,” but like booze and religion, these make for strange companions. Perhaps when the brain is booze-soaked, people need more radical wake-up calls, and for those of a fundamentalist disposition who like to get drunk, this is your holiday play. For the rest of us, thankfully, there is enough of McPherson’s eloquent writing and a first-class Steppenwolf ensemble who act the shit out of this material—including Steppenwolf founding member John Mahoney back at the company—enough to make this a worthwhile experience, even sober. (Dennis Polkow)

Through February 22, 2009 at Steppenwolf Downstairs Theatre, 1650 N. Halsted, (773)335-1650; $20-$70.

Shelly Gossman, Michael Patrick O'Brien (Photo by Knuth)

The short version of this review: If you’re planning to see one show at Second City, bypass the mainstage.

In fact the two shows currently running at Second City—“America: All Better” on the mainstage and “Brother, Can You Spare Some Change?” on the e.t.c. stage (see my review here)—are a case study in comedy formatics. In other words, the format of each show is the same but the results lie on opposite ends of the spectrum.

Break down most sketch comedy at Second City and what you’ll find is an initial premise repeated over and over. The joke is not really advanced or deconstructed or developed. The trick is to keep the audience engaged anyway, and the folks over at e.t.c. do this with considerable ease. It takes inspired ideas to make such a gambit work.

Alas, the same cannot be said of the 96^th revue on the mainstage. Hell, just look at the title—call your show “America: All Better!” and you’re just advertising a lack of wit and better instincts.

Three new cast members join the ensemble, with Lauren Ash as the standout. She brings to mind the loud sarcastic girl at the pep rally, and she’s a natural fit here. Tellingly, she doesn’t have to fight (i.e. resort to overblown performances) to be noticed. (Veteran Emily Wilson, on the other hand, does an awful lot of screaming with very little payoff.) In a sketch where Ash could easily be the harpy—complaining about her boyfriend’s emotional reticence—she is funny, but she also taps into something authentic: frustration and hurt.

Anthony LeBlanc (also new) needs to create more of a defined presence for himself, though his song about interracial love (sung to a white women in the front row) contains priceless, tasteless lyrics, including: “I want to plow your snow.”  Clever raunch is a delicate thing, and LeBlanc has a knack for it.

Michael Patrick O’Brien is new to the mainstage, as well. Over the summer I went nuts for his Andy Kaufmanesque solo show called “Shatter” (when he was billed merely as “Pat O’Brien”). His strength as a performer is that you’re never sure if he’s fucking with you—this comes to the fore just once in the show, when his “love life” takes center stage.

It’s a good bit, and I wish there were more of them. The best sketch features Shelly Gossman as a Russian gymnast performing a balance beam routine on the rail separating the front of the house from the back. Stepping over drinks (and imbibing them at various points), she is accompanied by her effusively bearded coach (a very funny Brad Morris) and color commentary provided by O’Brien and Joe Canale. It’s the one bit that feels absolutely right. It’s a surprise and it manages to be both lightly transgressive (I’ve never seen any Second City cast member venture this deep into audience territory) and strangely hilarious.

Ultimately, though, there is something missing in the creative drive. (Matt Hovde is the show’s director). If “Impress These Apes” has shown us anything, it’s that funny people—given the right motivation and freedom to play—will generate unique and indelible material. Second City can’t accommodate the freeform structure of “Apes” (nor should it) but I think there’s a lesson in there somewhere. Second City has always had impeccable taste when it comes to hiring talent, but shows like this suggest there has to be a better way to take advantage of what these folks have to offer.

“America: All Better” certainly has enough good actors in it—I’ve come to really appreciate what Brad Morris is doing as a performer—and it’s not quite a colossal failure. Then again, it is so mediocre as to be insignificant. (Nina Metz)

At Second City Mainstage Theatre, 1616 N. Wells St., 312-337-3992 or www.secondcity.com. Tues-Thur 8p, Fri-Sat 8p & 11p, Sun 7p. $20-$25. Open run.

Photo by Dan Rest/Lyric Opera of Chicago

RECOMMENDED

I haven’t done the math, but there have been probably more performances of Puccini’s “Madama Butterfly” at Lyric Opera than any other opera. Most famously, Maria Callas did her only staged performances of the role here at Lyric in the early years of the company. During the Ardis Krainik years, ticket sales of “Butterfly” were so assured that the role became a retreat for haggard divas.

Kudos to Bill Mason for having enough respect for the work to realize that if you are going to do it, at least this time around, do it right. I lost count of how many times we have sat through the Hal Prince production created here in 1982, and even Prince has long ago stopped bothering to stage it, sending Vincent Liotta instead the last three times, all with mediocre singers.

Soprano Patricia Racette has made Butterfly her own in recent years, giving us a preview of what to expect in a concert version at Ravinia two seasons ago where her co-star, tenor Frank Lopardo, was a no-show. Lopardo made it this time around, and the pair managed to bring considerable credibility to the usually far-fetched melodrama. True, Racette’s voice has its problems at this stage of her career, and Butterfly’s entrance was plowed through like a bull in a china shop; as at Ravinia, she wisely chose not to take the high note. But once over the bridge, the opera was all hers and she was able to match every note with drama to spare. And though we have heard more beautiful love duets, what lingers in this production is how much Racette and Lopardo really seem to be feeling for one another as the sliding door slowly ends Act I for their honeymoon.

Once you actually buy that such a deep connection is made between the two, then Pinkerton’s abandonment of Butterfly and her standing by him against her villagers sets up the tragedy of her suicide in a far more profound way. I cannot remember the last Butterfly where I actually shed tears at the end, but things click so well here, it would be a challenge not to do so. Some of the supporting roles are a disappointment (neither Suzuki nor Sharpless could be adequately heard in their duets and both roles were laying too low for the singers) but Sir Andrew Davis does a magnificent job of revealing Puccini’s score in all of its many colors. (Dennis Polkow)

Through January 29, 2009 at Lyric Opera, Wacker Drive at Madison, (312)332-2244.

RECOMMENDED

Interning at the “Late Show with David Letterman” must constitute a pretty memorable three months in and of itself, but Chicago-based stand-up comedian and current “Late Show” monologue writer Kevin McCaffrey was able to one-up most temps by being blasted with a fire extinguisher by Letterman himself, which should perhaps become a rite of passage for aspiring comics. McCaffrey’s set will go beyond monologue one-liners, but expect the same sort of laid-back persona from a late-night talk-show host. McCaffrey doesn’t expend energy on creating some crazy alter-ego, his comedy relies on pure substance, telling stories about find himself in ridiculous situations (like getting stabbed in the neck with a pencil by a mentally challenged kid) or teasing his Catholic background. “You might remember the Pope made some comments tying the Muslim world to violence,” he quips. “How did the Muslim world respond? Mostly by burning shit, so at least now you can definitely tie the Muslim world to irony.” What’s more, a quick YouTube search of McCaffrey reveals a number of videos that, for some reason, virtually no one watches, including his wholly-underrated character “Emo Republican,” whose record consists of authoring a bill that includes a tax cut on eyeliner, booking My Chemical Romance to play an anti-abortion rally, and writing haikus against gay marriage. (Andy Seifert)

December 18-20 at Zanies in Vernon Hills, 230 Hawthorn Village Commons, (847)549-6030

RECOMMENDED

“You guys like bangs humor?” Cameron Esposito asks her audience in the midst of ripping off joke after joke about the joys of her new bangs-centered hairstyle and bangs-centered lifestyle. It’s a bit of a microcosm of Esposito’s entire act, which seems to accomplish two things: fool around with the seemingly trivial tidbits of life (like bangs, or singing the “Chip ‘n Dale Rescue Rangers” theme song in the shower); and use little, chuckle-worthy punch lines to build up to one killer joke that ought to bring the house down (In this case, the openly gay comedian recalls when someone asked what consisted of her workout regiment: “I said, ‘nothing really,’ and then I thought about it. ‘Oh yeah, it’s banging chicks.’”). While it’s not her entire routine, her sexual orientation (and how she’s amused with people’s reaction to it) does come up through her set. “‘I just want you to protect yourself so you don’t get AIDS’” her dad once told her. “Which is super relevant to me as a gay man living in 1985.” (Andy Seifert)

December 18-19 at Lincoln Lodge. 4008 N. Lincoln, (773)248-1820.

RECOMMENDED

One of the novelties of being in a gay comedy rock band is that it immediately makes you one of the founders of gay comedy rock, so it would be apt to call New York City stand-up comedian Ben Lerman (of the now-defunct gay-rockin’ The Isotoners) the “Paul McCartney of homosexual comedy rock.” Three years removed from the Isotoners stint, Lerman’s stand-up routines are ukulele and absurdist-driven, having penned several goofy little folk songs about being attracted to Anderson Cooper (to the tune of Elvis Costello’s “Alison”), wanting an Asian baby for Christmas, and the sexual female encounters that led him to homosexuality (an Ace of Base parody called “(I Saw) Vagine”). At best, he can twist irony and satire around a melodic punch line, and at worst, he’s sort of a cooler, more homosexual-centered version of “Weird Al” Yankovic. Listen to his last record “Ukulear Winter” on his Web site for free to get a better idea of what you’re in for. (Andy Seifert)

December 18-19 at Lincoln Lodge, 4008 N. Lincoln, (773)248-1820.

Tom Flanigan, Laura Grey, Amanda Blake Davis, Christina Anthony, Timothy Edward Mason (photo by Bob Knuth)

RECOMMENDED

We’re all breathing different air these days, what with a disastrous economy and all hopes pinned on a shiny new president who seems awfully close to perfect. The cast of Second City e.t.c.’s thirty-seceond revue is clobbering these sentiments for all they’re worth.

Something about the show’s vibe, though, feels especially fresh and full of momentum. You won’t find one “Hey, Grandma” bit, no cocktail party or barbecue sketches, no dad uncomfortably talking about the facts of life with his kids. Not everything here centers on current events (and a couple sketches miss their mark), but I’d say ninety percent of the material has an original spin to it—either due to its construction or the performances themselves. An image of Cloud Gate makes up the set design—the cast is literally performing on top of the Bean, and the height suits them.

“Brother, Can you Spare Some Change” (directed by Bruce Pirrie) features one new cast member, Christina Anthony, and she is a major talent. It can take newbies a few months to figure out how to be themselves within the parameters of a Second City show—everything is polished and lively and very mainstream—but Anthony is confident right from the start and she is probably the most exciting addition to the e.t.c. stage since the arrival of Keegan-Michael Key so many years back.

She sings a song about bad luck in love, backed up by cast members Amada Blake Davis, amusingly pert and neurotic, and Laura Grey, an imp with huge eyes and an energy that stands out from the pack. But watch as Anthony slinks into the crowd and attempts to pick up an audience member, her seduction red hot and hilarious.

Timothy Edward Mason—who joined the cast last year and was somewhat muted—displays more of his specific comedic personality. The guy has the biggest smile on that stage, and he and Anthony have real chemistry in their scenes together. Mason has a twisted side, seen in full effect as he devolves into a sputtering weirdo, ending the scene with his hand down his pants—looking startled at his bizarre behavior but unable to stop it. Later, Mason turns a bedtime song for his daughter into a very funny bit by virtue of his delivery—earnestly dirty, you might call it.

There’s also a surprisingly funny opera about Mayor Daley sung in Italian (Adam Sandler used to do something similar on “Saturday Night Live,” but the high quality of the show puts you in a forgiving mood). In one of the strongest bits, Andy St. Clair takes the stage all by his lonesome, playing a Southern-fried defense attorney in the William Jennings Bryant mold, dabbing a folded hanky to his upper lip as he improvises with an audience member. It’s a very good showcase of St. Clair’s talents and ability to charm an audience.

Tom Flanigan is perhaps the quietest cast member, but his understated boy-man persona works. He is frequently the perplexed guy—but it’s a layered performance, somewhat dim, but not quite dumb.

This is a factor too important to be dismissed—without good acting, sketch is just a collection of potentially funny ideas. I’d say that potential has been reached this time out. I’ve been critical of Second City’s show in the past; they can feel like regurgitated clichés of themselves. “Brother, Can You Spare Some Change?” is unquestionably a Second City show, but an extremely good one at that. (Nina Metz)

At Second City e.t.c., 1608 N. Wells (second floor of Piper’s Alley), (312)337-3992. Thur 8pm, Fri-Sat 8pm & 11pm, Sun 7pm. $20-$25. Open run.

RECOMMENDED

Workshopped at Northwestern in 1993, premiered at Bailiwick in 1995 and performed as an annual holiday tradition there until 2006, “The Christmas Schooner” has had more than a hundred productions across the country and abroad. Bailiwick had announced 2006 as the work’s final voyage for the company but is presenting the piece as a bittersweet swansong to its Belmont Avenue home with all of the trimmings, including a five-piece orchestra and new direction by Mary Beidler Gearen.

I had never seen a single production of this work at Bailiwick nor anywhere else, nor did the idea of a musical about transporting Christmas trees particularly entice me. “What is at stake?” as a colleague of mine always likes to ask in discussing shows. Well, quite a bit, as it turns out—the traditions and values that make us who we are. The songs do a wonderful job of conveying the emotions that the story needs to communicate and of giving us a sense of what a Chicago Christmas was like more than a century ago.

It’s so ironic that in a year where we are still debating having a smaller tabletop tree vs. the full boat experience, if you’ll forgive the pun, the presence of a nineteenth-century-style tree on stage with fruit and nuts as decorations along with the descriptions of the “magic” of a traditional Christmas tree becomes quite enticing. Long before electric lights, plastic Santas, balloon globes and the myriads of Christmas kitsch that make up the retail-centered holiday season as it exists today that climaxes well before Christmas itself, European immigrants of a century ago had only the Christmas tree as the focal point of their celebrations, mesmerizing all who experienced it. Advent was dark and dreary, but when Christmas Eve arrived and though Epiphany, January 6, or the Twelfth Day of Christmas, the Christmas tree warmed hearts at the darkest and coldest point of the year. Up north, as in Michigan, that is not a problem, but when a Chicago cousin writes to her Michigan relatives who are sailors by trade that “there are so many people, so few evergreens” in the city after sharing her searing memories of childhood Christmas trees back home in Germany, the family decides to make one last late November journey of the season. Three generations of the Stossel family all end up deeply impacted by these annual journeys to Clark Street harbor, where not only Germans but immigrants of varied backgrounds end up lining up to get the best pick of the trees.

Ultimately, this becomes a family love story crisscrossing generations as well as a tale of duty and honor and maintaining sea traditions as well as Christmas traditions, passing on what we have been given and as “Opa” (Jim Sherman) observes, that “If we accept our blessings, we accept our pain as well.” Tying up such a message in a Christmas package filled with music makes it all the more palatable, but no less important. (Dennis Polkow)

“The Christmas Schooner” plays through January 4 at Bailiwick Repertory Theatre, 1229 W. Belmont, (773)883-1090. $20-$35.

RECOMMENDED

Since Sebastian Maniscalco was waiting tables just before appearing in this year’s stand-up documentary “Vince’s Vaughn’s Wild West Comedy Show”—and since he probably prefers Tonight Show appearances to serving hash browns—you have to imagine he’ll stick to the “frat pack” roots that got him there. Maniscalco’s observational humor roams through a wide variety of subjects that peeve him (people who don’t shower, people who still write checks), but his most-explored theme is something that Mr. Vaughn’s blue-collar persona recurrently harps on: the continued decline of tough-guy masculinity. “Go look at what they’re ordering to drink. Apple martinis? You’re 35 years old; you’re walking around with a green drink, a little apple floating on top. You go get a beer or something that tastes like gasoline,” Maniscalco delivers with one of the better-stupefied expressions of comedy. “Soy chai vanilla chip dolce hazelnut frappuccino,” he says, mimicking the losers in line at Starbucks that improvise their order. “What? You get a black coffee and you go to work.” (Andy Seifert)

December 16-21 at Zanies, 1548 North Wells, (312)337-4027.

RECOMMENDED

It was all too easy to identify with a pair of homicidal housemaids but such was the power of Writers’ Theatre’s riveting revival of Jean Genet’s “The Maids” (1947) that when two sister-servants laced their insensitive mistress’ cup of chamomile tea with barbiturates, I was ready to run onstage and serve her the drink myself! I suppose one can blame these tough economic times. After all, in November Crain’s Chicago Business published an article, derided by several readers in the weeks that followed, about how some Kenilworth residents were coping. Sure, you might be laid-off, lose your home and see your retirement savings disappear, but isn’t it reassuring to know that you’re not alone and that in Kenilworth some have had to scale back on the cleaning-lady visits, nix the private French lessons and “downgrade” to $500 winter coats? Tragic, indeed. I hope they’re being nice to their servants when requesting their nightly cup of tea.

Jean Genet, of course, was the poet laureate of the truly poor and oppressed and “The Maids” was his theatrical exploration of the power struggle between the haves and the have-nots—always raging, constantly shifting and all consuming. The play is challenging, to say the least. There is little in the way of action save for some ritualized role-playing such as when the maids try on their lady’s clothes and jewelry and recreate their mistress’ patronizing and humiliating verbal tirades. Emotions and feelings explode but don’t always seem to be motivated. And the psychology of the sisters—stubborn Solange and delicate Claire—demands that a performer vacillate between desperation and liberation.

Given Writers’ recent output, it’s not surprising that this revival has met all these challenges and surpassed them to amass a production of considerable intellect and artistry: director Jimmy McDermott’s staging is the epitome of finesse; Elizabeth Laidlaw’s Solange, Helen Sadler’s Claire and Niki Lindren’s Madame offer performances of psychological precision; and the design team has transformed the intimate, fifty-seat Books on Vernon venue into a gorgeous and claustrophobic French boudoir setting replete with ornate floral prints, black crystal lamps and pink velvet walls.

These qualities would make any production worthy of professional admiration. What makes McDermott’s worthy of excitement is how much passion it ultimately oozes. From the crime passionnel of its story to a passion for subversivness—McDermott admirably doesn’t shy away from Genet’s hints at incestuous lesbianism—I doubt you’ll see a finer or more resonant production of “The Maids” in the Chicago area for some time to come. (Fabrizio O. Almeida)

At Writers’ Theatre, 664 Vernon Avenue, Glencoe, (847)242-6000. Mon 7:30pm/Tue 7:30pm/Wed 2pm & 7:30pm/Thu & Fri 8pm/Sat 4pm & 8pm/Sun 2pm & 6pm (performance schedule varies). $40-$65. Through April 5, 2009.