The Cherry Orchard Recently Houston's theater scene has been blessed with some very fine Chekhov knockoffs: last season's superlative rendition of Christopher Durang's Vanya and Sonia and Masha and Spike at the Alley; and, recently, a regional premiere, also superlatively produced, of Aaron Posner's stupid f*****g bird from Stages Rep. Currently at Catastrophic Theatre, Mickle Maher's The Hunchback Variations bases its absurdist filigree upon a Chekhov stage direction. Now, thanks to Classical Theatre Company, we have the real thing, Anton Chekhov's last masterpiece, The Cherry Orchard (1904). And I must say, another super production. Orchard could be a primer of all things Chekhov, a comedy of inertia. The provincial estate of brother and sister Gaev and Lubov (Mark Roberts and Celeste Roberts), who recently arrived home after having lived in Paris for five years, is to be sold to pay the family's debts. Businessman Lopakhin (Kregg Dailey), son of the family's former serfs, who's swiftly risen into the middle class, advises them to sell off the large cherry orchard for development to stave off the auction. No one heeds his dire predictions. Sell their beloved orchard, the symbol of youth, frivolous happiness and days gone by? Are you crazy? There must be some other way to get the mortgage money. Their solutions, when they consider any, are impractical or delusional or will take too much time. Lubov can't think of that right now anyway; she's trying, but not too hard, to forget her no-account Parisian lover. Naive daughter Anya (Shunté Lofton) seems smitten with rumpled, perpetual student Trofimov (Matthew Keenan), former tutor, whose ardent spouting of coming change in Russia does nothing to spur him forward; older daughter Varya (Erin Kidwell), staunch housekeeper of the estate, pines for the marriage proposal from work-obsessed Lopahkin; clerk and stumblebum Epikhodov (Jeff McMorrough) loves maid Dunyasha (Lindsay Ehrhardt), who fancies herself a lady, but she's more in love with being in love, and now there's snooty valet Yasha (Ben McLaughlin) to tempt. Old neighbor Pischin (Carl Masterson) is in the same financial straits, always scrambling for money; governess Charlotta (Elizabeth Keel), munching on cucumbers, performs magic tricks to entertain and chills everyone with her "I am alone, all alone" routine. And then there's Firs (Charles Krohn), the family's ancient footman, who treats his employers, especially Gaev, like wayward children, fussing after them about forgetting overcoats and galoshes. Chekhov's ensemble is rich, rich at cross purposes and rich in talking about other things than what's being discussed, or what should be discussed. The fate of the family is sad and inevitable, but it's also deserved. Bathed in a comic irony that warms, there are plenty of laughs at their futile attempts to circumvent what's right in front of them. There are no villains in Orchard, nor heroes. Under Classical's artistic director, John Johnston, the comedy has a lively flow, a real heartbeat. We're enrapt by the ensemble. All are magnificent. Through April 26. 4617 Montrose, 713-963-9665. — DLG
The Hunchback Variations A long table on a raised platform. A pitcher of water and two glasses. Two chairs and two microphones. Looks like an interview setting, or a panel discussion. What's odd is that one of the chairs is significantly lower, as is its mike. Who lumbers down the aisle but Quasimodo (Greg Dean), carrying three heavy suitcases. We know the immortal bell-ringer instantly for he looks a lot like Lon Chaney or Charles Laughton from their movies. Misshapen and grotesquely deformed, breathing heavily, he lugs the suitcases onto the stage and unpacks the contents. A toy piano, a baby violin, a small dinner bell, a jar of coins, silverware, a dog's squeaky toy, a bicycle horn, a can of Reddi-Wip, a file folder. He places each object neatly in front of him. His wayward tongue darts out between his hideous teeth, a frog never to be kissed. He's endearingly earnest and not at all happy to be here, eyeing us suspiciously with his one good eye. As Quasimodo sets up his space, Beethoven (Jeff Miller) saunters in from the opposite side, all preppy professor, giving us a hearty wave hello. He's happy to be here, satisfied even. Unlike Quasimodo in his medieval getup, the great composer is dressed in contemporary mufti, and we'll find out soon enough who he is when he introduces himself, his discussion panel partner and why they're here. They are here to discuss sound, one very specific sound effect, or as Beethoven explains, "an impetuous sound, an impossible sound." This would be Anton Chekhov's unusual stage direction in The Cherry Orchard. "Suddenly a distant sound is heard coming as if out of the sky, like the sound of a string snapping, slowly and sadly dying away." What is this sound? What does it mean? Channeling Monty Python at its best, Mickle Maher sets up his absurd premise with pinprick accuracy: two deaf guys talking about sound. A series of blackout sketches, a set of variations, each skit begins exactly the same. Beethoven welcomes us with the premise at hand, then introduces Quasimodo, who reads his introductory remarks from 3x5 cards, then makes a noise using one of the props — he rattles the coin jar, squeezes the pet toy or toots the New Year's Eve blowout. "That is not the sound," Beethoven patiently qualifies. With either exasperation or futility, Beethoven says goodnight to us, the lights black out then immediately come back on, and the next variation begins. The mood is blackly comic; the laughs come from the silly juxtaposition of the whole affair: Just watching Dean's dour, messy hunchback make inappropriate noises next to Miller's prissy intellectual is funny in itself. The play veers into more cosmic territory when Beethoven confesses that he hasn't even read The Cherry Orchard. His change is perceptible. His optimism from the opening variations swiftly turns sour. Quasimodo keeps the same pessimism he started with: "Our collaboration was doomed no matter what the external circumstances." Dean and Miller are exceptionally good. Dean (director and scenic designer, also) has an easier time of it, since he gets fullness of makeup to assist his character's bleak world view — what actor doesn't relish playing such a timeless iconic creature? Dean has the showier role and he runs with it, but it's Miller who carries the heart of the play. His rumpled Beethoven is not the titanic fury from music history, belching smoke and fire, but a prickly egotist who's hamstrung by his inability to create this one particular sound that Chekhov demands. His ego takes a beating. Along with the two fine actors, what is most impressive is the haunting sound design by John Peeples. It whispers in the background, hovers with snatches of organ music, string quartets and solo instruments, all New Agey and nebulous. Absolutely perfect. It lifts the play to another, higher plain. Unfortunately, we have to fill in a lot of blanks. Maher tantalizes with swirling bits about the nature of creativity, grief, the endless universe, the physical world, the theater. Even Emily Dickinson gets a shoutout. This very short play — no more than 40 minutes — is both crystal and opaque. Images can be concrete and hard, then shattered by hazy contemplation and high-flying concepts. It's certainly unique, a thinking man's vaudeville. You won't soon forget it. But it leaves you wanting more, like maybe a second act to explain this odd, spiky little intro. Through May 2. Catastrophic Theatre, 1119 East Freeway at Naylor. 713-522-2723. — DLG
Over the River and Through the Woods Joe DiPietro's 1998 semiautobiographical show Over the River and Through the Woods attempts to plant its feet firmly in comedic, heartwarming territory. On offer is the grandparent/grandchild relationship, and DiPietro puts it on a chafing plate to be served up warm and gooey to us. Problem is that apart from whatever family baggage we bring to the show, there's nothing in Over the River that is not painfully obvious, overly plotted, emotionally broad, dated in its humor or safe as a childproof lid. This is a show that throws a warm blanket over our sitcom-manufactured tastes and offers up a small buffet of what we're already comfortable with. A little laugh, a little cry, a little chance to project our own familial regrets while taking solace in the fact that everyone's family is a bit nutty. And yet at the heart of it, once you get past some questionable direction, bouts of overly broad acting and a script dripping with cliché, Over the River does have the whiff of a surprisingly compelling and thought-provoking message. Nick (Louis A Crespo Jr.) is a dutiful but resentful grandson who visits his New Jersey Italian grandparents every Sunday for dinner. There's Frank and Aida (Scott Holmes and Jeanette Sebesta), first-generation Americans who started from scratch and made a nicely modest life for themselves. Dinner is in their home (handsomely designed by John Stevens and David Hymel), which Frank, a carpenter, built himself and that Aida fills with food, food and more food. Then there is Nunzio (John Stevens) and Emma (Anne Boyd), described by Nick as the loudest people he's ever met. Tensions rise when Nick announces that he's been promoted to a job in Seattle and will be leaving in a few weeks. Hoping to keep him in town, the grandparents invite a girl, Caitlin (Theresa Hunt), to Sunday dinner in the hope that Nick falls in love with her and decides not to leave. In addition to this preposterous narrative device that feels neither funny nor true, David Hyme's direction for much of the play affords his cast a kind of dialogue deafness that allows them to play either over the top or utterly unengaged. None of the cast seems to be actually talking to each other. Rather, we get the sense that they are all to varying degrees waiting for their lines in order to perform with some kind of pseudo-Italian-American sass. Holmes as Frank breaks through, delivering an unshowy performance worth noting. Holmes accomplishes what the others cannot, true warmth and subtlety that shine beautifully in one of the few quiet scenes in the play. So what of the nugget? It comes in the second act, which thankfully does take it down a few notches. Following a panic attack and a trip to the emergency room, Nick recuperates at Frank and Aida's house, giving him quality time to actually get to know all of them. DiPietro throws in some genuinely funny scenes here. A Trivial Pursuit game gone off the rails is a wonderful generation-gap gag. But once again, it's a quiet moment that grabs our attention. Emma approaches Nick with the idea that maybe they've all given him too much, damning him to a life that is never satisfactory. After all, the grandparents didn't have much, but look how happy they are. "What is a good life?" she asks "Is wanting and getting more better or just different?" The echo of this pithy question lingers for a moment but is then quashed by a hackneyed turn of events that's been alluded to all show. Let's just put it this way: It's a story with aging grandparents, so you just know that not all of them are going to make it to the end of the play. Through May 2. Theatre Southwest, 8944A Clarkcrest, [email protected]. — JG
Vanities, the Musical Hey hey, ho ho, there are cheerleaders in this show! Vanities, the Musical, adapted by Jack Heifner (from his 1976 Off-Broadway play) with music and lyrics by David Kirshenbaum, follows the lives of three best-friend Texas cheerleaders as they go off to college, get married, get liberated, get disappointed, get reflective and get whatever it is that will make them archetypes worth singing about. Vanities is one of those what-happens-after type shows. Specifically what happens to these women once the spotlight of high school popularity dims and real life multiplied by time and circumstance high-kicks into their lives? Yes, the show is full of the expected characters and situations, but that's not to say it isn't a lot of fun in its own fluffy kind of way, thanks to clever direction and engaging performances. Or at least the first half is. It's 1963 when we meet the girls as they plan their first pep rally and school dance. There's über-organized squad leader Kathy (played with controlled warmth by Danica Johnson), Mary the budding rebel (a confidently recalcitrant Mary Johnson) and doltish, prudish Joanne (the superlative scene-stealing Shelby Bray). Life is good for the girls. They're cheerleaders, they're popular and they know it. And what they want out of life is alarmingly simple. Singing about their American Dream, the girls long for husbands, diamond rings and housewife duties. Feminists will cringe even harder when the girls talk of college. They want to attend, not to learn anything, of course, but to continue their popularity in a sorority and get prudishly frisky with their beaus. It's all delivered with delicious political incorrectness that drips with sass and irony. We laugh at the girls' shortsightedness thanks to Jimmy Phillips's whimsical direction, which allows his cast to play ridiculous without being ridiculous. Clever staging puts the actors onstage prior to each era and costume change, placing them dimly lit at their vanity tables, hair netted and clad in nothing but black undergarments. We watch as they fix their make-up, dress in time-appropriate clothing and don the wigs that represent their characters' style at the moment. Kudos here to costume designer Pat Padilla for nailing the looks with playfully iconic fashion sense. The dressing-ritual transformation fascinates, and rendering these one-dimensional characters far more human and exposed than they deserve to be with this script. Dance sequences don't overreach on the small stage, instead highlighting each performer's solo numbers with wit and sensitivity. With strong voices all around, the women lure us in with their charisma if not their complex characters. However, the fun comes to a screeching halt post-intermission when the tone of the play turns mawkishly serious and tumbles biliously from comedy to melodrama. The girls are reunited several years after college only to find that the once best friends have nothing more in common than the fact that each of them has become a standard stock character. Sturm und Drang abounds for all of them, and frankly, it's depressing in its narrative familiarity. The one bright spot in the latter half of the play is Joanne's opening number in Act 2. All show, Bray impresses with her splendid voice and impeccable comedic timing. The rest of the show can be explained in five words — they fight, they make up. As for us, we yawn and wonder what happened to the fun we were having in the first act. Through May 3. By Theater LaB Houston, at Obsidian Art Space, 3522 White Oak, thelabhou.org. — JG