A Chorus Line, PlayhouseSquare

(Nikki Snelson as Cassie and Michael Gruber as fashion victim Zach)


For any group of performers, there are few more surefire ways to guarantee receiving audience applause than breaking into a high-kick dance line. Audiences always clap and scream, like Pavlov’s mutts, whenever three or more humans lift their legs at roughly the same time in a linear formation. Indeed, if in the middle of Death of a Salesman, Willy, Linda, Biff and Happy suddenly linked arms and executed a kick line, the audience would probably ignore the rather curious plot turn and applaud wildly.

The reason for this odd reaction is probably buried somewhere in the warp and weft of our lizard brain, but its power has been used to great effect for the past three decades in A Chorus Line. This play, a musical excursion into the psyches and hamstrings of a group of twenty-some dancers auditioning for eight places in a chorus line, has always benefited from the raw emotions of the individuals involved. But in this production at PlayhouseSquare’s Palace Theatre, the emotions feel soft-boiled, yielding a mushy interpretation of what should be a galvanizing, goose-bumpy show.

Created by Michael Bennett, who choreographed and directed the original production, the book and songs were based on interviews with real dancers who endured the punishing ritual of dance auditions. As the tension develops between captivating personal stories off stage and the need for mindless synchronicity on stage, the show can often soar beyond some of the pop-predictable music by Marvin Hamlisch and lyrics by Edward Kleban.

However in this touring presentation, directed by Bob Avian, there is little immediacy in the acting or the dancing. Even though the director Zach (a fairly robotic Michael Gruber who is costumed in a tragic football field hash-mark sweater) pokes and prods the dancers to reveal truths about themselves, these actors respond with the detached air of people discussing the life situation of a close friend rather than themselves.

This difficulty is encapsulated in Paul, who tells a gut-wrenching story about growing up gay and then being observed dancing in a drag show by his parents. Kevin Santos never digs believably into his character, ticking off Paul’s sad history like someone checking off items on a shopping list, and then dissolving into plastic tears at the conclusion.

And in the signature role of Cassie, the former lover of Zach and a woman who had achieved individual stardom before falling on hard times, Nikki Snelson is mostly forgettable. Telegraphing her emotions instead of experiencing them, she never captures the complicated motivations of this dancer who sees her career coming full circle. And her supposedly show-stopping solo dance, “The Music and the Mirror,” feels only like a promising recital performance.

The comical song “Sing!” is burdened by a Kristine (Jessica Latshaw) and Al (Colt Prattes) who try a bit too hard to exude the vibe of lovers and who don’t quite master the fast-paced snap required by their duet. Even the sure-fire tits & ass song, “Dance: Ten; Looks: Three” seems surprisingly boring in the hands of this Val (Natalie Elise Hall).

There are a few glimmering bright spots. Clyde Alves is an energetic Mike in “I Can Do That.” And as coldly sardonic Shiela, Emily Fletcher breaks off some brittle comebacks, even though the more vulnerable subtext of the character is largely missing.

In a show that pays tribute to the hardworking people who submerge their personalities and individual dreams to operate in perfect unison, there is precious little personality in this Chorus Line. And that ain’t much of a kick for the audience.

A Chorus Line
Through October 26 at the
Palace Theatre, PlayhoouseSquare,
1518 Euclid Avenue, Cleveland,
216-241-6000

Into the Woods, Great Lakes Theater Festival

The wolf (Derrick Cobey) makes his move on Little Red Riding Hood (Erin Childs)


“If you want your children to be intelligent, read them fairy tales. If you want them to be more intelligent, read them more fairy tales.”
-- Albert Einstein

It wouldn’t seem to make sense, on the face of it, that reading and knowing stories of pure fantasy, populated with one-dimensional characters, could lead to increased brain power. But these tales have resonated over centuries, indicating that something is going on that we really don’t fully understand or appreciate.

This is the world that is expanded and explored in the endlessly fascinating musical Into the Woods, now being given an often magical production by the Great Lakes Theater Festival. In this play, Stephen Sondheim (music and lyrics) and James Lapine (book) mash up different fairy tales—Little Red Riding Hood, Rapunzel, Cinderella, Jack and the Beanstalk—adding a couple new characters to boot.

But their real mission is to turn fairy tales inside out, challenging the audience to see those well-worn stories from a fresh perspective. For instance, the giant’s wife comes down to Earth, mourning her dead hubby who crashed after Jack chopped down the beanstalk, but she’s understandably pissed and looking for revenge. And the handsome prince skips out on his, um, fairy tale marriage with Cinderella and has a fling with a baker’s wife (as he helpfully explains, “I was raised to be charming, not sincere.”)

There’s also a witch who is transformed into a beauty (but she loses her magical powers in the process) and a Little Red (Erin Childs) who is as bloodthirsty for wolf carcasses as Sarah Palin, but not nearly as dim. Replete with the requisite number of devourings, spells, tragic accidents and magic beans, the intersecting stories are tied together by a narrator (a smoothly avuncular Marc Moritz) and a volley of songs that benefit from the witty Sondheim touch. When the wolf is chatting up Lil’ Red, he croons deliciously to himself, “There’s no way to describe how you feel/When you’re talking to your meal.”

The intimate new GLTF digs help make Into the Woods a special experience, as the audience is cozied up to the thrust stage like kids listening to an enthralling storyteller. The set designed by Jeff Herrmann is appropriately make-believe, with gnarly trees that rotate to reveal secondary playing areas. And the cast under the finely-tuned direction of Victoria Bussert largely succeeds in finding fresh ways to make these characters burst vividly to life.

As the wicked witch, Jessica L. Cope has a powerful voice that is put to superb use in the “Witch’s Lament” in which she reflects on her (stolen) daughter Rapunzel’s wayward ways: “Children can only grow/From something you love/To something you lose.” Tom Ford is an endearing presence as the baker, who is on a scavenger hunt in the woods so that the childless spell he and his wife are under can be lifted.

Derek Cobey is excellent both as Cinderella’s vain Prince and as the wolf—in the latter role his hairstyle and demeanor recall a young Rod Stewart on the prowl. And he has a delectable, preening duet with Phil Carroll, as Rapunzel’s Prince, when they sing of their “Agony” in connecting with the objects of their affection. Plus, Emily Krieger sings like a lark as Cinderella and manages some dandy pratfalls.

Although she works hard, Maryann Nagel never quite discovers a comedic hook as Jack’s mother, her rants about his stupidity (“You sold a cow for some beans?!”) never coalescing into a clear portrait. And as the baker’s wife, Jodi Dominick seems a bit under-whelmed when she is swept off her feet by Cindy’s Prince.

Sure, this script is a bit overwritten, and there are too many instances of overt didacticism “(Now I’ve learned something I’ve never known before!”). But it’s all worth it for the many moments when the music and the inspired idea of Into the Woods merge, reviving the awe and wonder we first felt when we heard these weird and wonderful stories. And adding a whole new set of moral issues to ponder.

Into the Woods
Through November 8 at the
Great Lakes Theater Festival,
Hanna Theatre, 2067 E. 14th Street,
Cleveland, 216-241-6000

Noises Off, The Cleveland Play House

(The cactus attack. From left: Christopher Kelly, Timothy Gregory and Linda Kimbrough)

At first glance, it would seem that a pants-dropping sex farce, such as Noises Off by Michael Frayn, would be a lark to stage. The actors just have to run around dropping trou and doing silly things and people will laugh, right? Well, yes, but they may not laugh as loudly and helplessly as they might.

In fact, farce is one of the most demanding theatrical forms to master, requiring actors who have the stamina and agility of athletes. This is necessary so they can execute the many and varied pratfalls, near misses and door-slamming chases that are required. And while the Cleveland Play House cast exerts all the effort one could expect, a lack of sharp characterization and pinpoint timing turns what should be a non-stop laugh-fest into just a mildly amusing diversion.

In this play-within-a-play, an English touring theatrical company is rehearsing a doleful sex romp called Nothing On, with a troupe of actors beset by serious memorization problems, convoluted romantic entanglements, alcoholism and the occasional nosebleed.

Since there is double the exposition to accomplish, the first act is a real challenge for the players and director David H. Bell. And they only partly succeed. One difficulty is that the play being rehearsed, dreadful though it is, must be allowed to proceed so that the audience can recall that plot line in the second and third acts. Thus, it is up to the actors to carry the comedy with their individual (and mostly dual) characterizations before the real fireworks are ignited.

After the rather desultory first act, things pick up when the set is turned around and we see the same section of Nothing On during a “real” performance, from a backstage perspective. The timing of much of the slapstick--involving misdirected flowers, booze and a fire axe-- feels a bit too measured and choreographed (to be great, slapstick has to feel exuberantly and even riskily spontaneous). But the cast performs on James Leonard Joy’s impressively massive set with unstinting energy.

And the third act, which presents the final touring performance of Nothing On from the audience point of view, sees the fictitious actors collapse into a stew of their own personal peccadillos.

The most important character in Frayn’s very funny script is Dotty Otley, an aging actress who plays the housekeeper Mrs. Clackett. This was the Carol Burnett role in the Americanized movie version and it demands a refined level of talent since Otley, although forgetful and a bit of a lush, is also supposed to be somewhat enticing sexually (she is having affairs with two of the younger actors, Garry and Frederick).

That’s a tricky package and Linda Kimbrough only masters part of it. As Mrs. Clackett, she gets her share of laughs padding around the large set in search of plates of sardines, a snack that is continually being misplaced. But she lacks the regal mien of Dotty, a fading actress who still has enough game to play grab-ass with younger studs. As a result, Garry’s jealous passion in act two simply doesn’t track.

As the almost equally memory-challenged Garry, Christopher Kelly has am adorably dense manner that encourages others to finish his sentences for him. And Donald Carrier plays nervous and nosebleed-y Frederick with a style vaguely reminiscent of Charles Nelson Reilly (that’s a good thing).

Even though Summer Naomi Smart as Brooke has a figure (clad in only her underwear) that would slow Carnegie traffic to a crawl, she doesn’t have enough fun with her ditzy character. The same is true with Timothy Gregory, who plays director Lloyd with a vague sense of exasperation rather than a more intense, and more comical, approach. In addition, his romantic attraction to Brooke seems rote rather than randy. Frank Kopyc gives soused actor Selsdon a dash of inebriated nobility, even when he reliably misses his cues to come on as the burglar.

It all amounts to an evening of frequent chuckles, but not the rib-snapping, screaming guffaws that this play can generate when performed to farcical perfection.

Noises Off
Through October 26 at the
Cleveland Play House,
8500 Euclid Avenue, 216-795-7000

Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf, Ensemble Theatre

(From left: Robert Hawkes, Ursula Cataan, Sebastian Hawkes Orr, Carla Petroski)

“Whoa, the games people play now,
Every night and every day now,
Never meanin’ what they say now,
Never sayin’ what they mean.”

That catchy tune written by Joe South was popular in the 1960s, and it would serve as an excellent theme song for the Edward Albee play from that time, Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf.

After the play was made into a stunning movie starring Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor as the venal and combative George and Martha, it became a challenge for any theater company to approach the material. Who can match the inspired, boozy perfection of that casting, including the hapless young couple who wander into the party from hell?

Well, Ensemble Theatre, for one. Even though one actor begins in an extremely rocky and overblown way, she gets it under control and joins a simply wonderful presentation of a play that never seems to age a day.

Associate history prof George, a middle-aged intellectual non-entity, is locked in a marriage of desperation to Martha, a woman with a big mouth, a braying style, and a taste for blood when it comes to interpersonal relations. And since her pop is the head of the university, she is more than a little ambitious for her husband, who apparently couldn’t care less.

After a faculty get-together, George and Martha invite a young couple, Nick and Honey, over to their house for a drink. And once that door closes behind the four, the sparks start to fly for an engrossing three hours. Playing vicious, non-Parker Brothers games such as “Humiliate the Host,” “Hump the Hostess,” “Get the Guests,” and the biggest one of all (let's call it “Where Is Sonny?”), the four are engaged in a psychological dance to the death.

The Ensemble cast under the agile and nuanced direction of Licia Colombi, is, eventually, simply superb. But it doesn’t start too well, with Carla Petroski as Martha substituting broad acting for acting like a broad. As the party gets rolling, Petroski’s beat changes are wooden and obvious, and her initial scene with Robert Hawkes as George don’t convey the right amount of tension.

In addition, Petroski gets too drunk too soon, even given the fact the characters were swilling booze earlier. These are professional lushes; they don’t start slurring their words until they start tipping the second fifth. And then, magically, she seems to sober up later in the act.

Happily, the first act is largely saved once Nick and Honey arrive. Ursula Cataan is worth double the price of admission in the role of Honey. As the fragile, giggly, totally naïve Honey, Cataan is spot on from the moment she steps on stage, without ever condescending to her character and making her a stereotype.

And once the second act starts, everyone seems to be on the same page and the rollercoaster ride is officially in progress. So strap yourself in. Hawkes convincingly etches a portrait of George, the softly wrinkled and abused man who still harbors the strength to lash back at his tormentors. And lash he does, with a quiet ferocity that is terrifying in its methodical ruthlessness.

Sebastian Hawkes Orr (Nick) lays low until Nick and George get into their own slow motion duel. This sequence is highlighted by Orr’s spectacular, tipsy discussion of his wife’s minister father and Honey’s hysterical pregnancy. As he slaloms through the curves and moguls of Albee’s entrancing language, he builds a portrait of a man trapped in a marriage he can’t escape, just like George.

Once Petroski starts to follow the Zen Rule of Acting (To own a line, you must throw it away), her Martha galvanizes as a figure of profound complexity. Loving George and yet compelled to lacerate him, she locks onto Hawkes with her eyes and the pair of combatants keep stinging like two scorpions trapped in a velvet bag, until exhaustion finally ends the match.

It’s a damn shame this show closes after just its second week on Sunday, October 5 (opening week was cancelled due to a cast member injury). But if you can get there, for chrissakes get there.

Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf
Produced by Ensemble Theatre at the
Cleveland Play House, 8500 Euclid Avenue,
216-321-2930

Macbeth, Great Lakes Theater Festival

(Laura Perrotta as Lady Macbeth and Dougfred Miller as mad Mac himself)

It takes a certain amount of chutzpah to open a new, completely redesigned theater with a play suspected of bringing bad luck to the people involved. This old wives’ tale started in 1606, during the play’s premiere, when the boy playing Lady Macbeth died off stage. And over the years, there have been documented cases of tragic event befalling other productions of the “M” play.

As a result, superstitious theater folk refer to Macbeth as “the Scottish Play,” to avoid saying the dread name of a script that intently explores the attraction of evil. However, in the absence of any supernatural curses, this maiden effort by the Great Lakes Theater Festival in their new Hanna Theatre is destined to be a triumph, as it is quite a stunning visual and aural experience. And although there are some wrinkles, both the new space and this interpretation of Macbeth come off as winners.

For years, Hanna has been the dowdy stepsister among the elegant theaters situated at Playhouse Square (or “PlayhouseSquare” as the entity now prefers to be known, for cunningly clever marketing reasons that are beyond our pay grade to explain). The renovation has made Hanna young again, or at least youngish, with a thrust stage equipped with a hydraulic lift and new seating options being the boldest changes. (For instance, you can now park your Shakespeare-hating hubby at a bar stool where he can gaze dolefully at the stage while soaking his pout in a double Beefeater.)

Wisely, the powers that be have kept and refurbished the original architectural elements and have installed comfortable, traditional theater seating with no one parked farther than 12 rows from the stage. This makes for a much more intimate experience, with improved acoustics, over the Ohio Theatre (which will still be home to the annual GLTF production of A Christmas Carol).

As for Macbeth, director Charles Fee and his production team have pulled out all the stops to make this Shakespearean drama a signature event, and they succeed in many ways. The set, designed by Gage Williams, is arrestingly dominated by a backdrop unit consisting of slashing black lines intersecting at all angles—a morbid web spun by an angry spider.

And the spider in this case is none other than the title character, a courageous warrior who turns ever more ambitious and homicidal as he grasps for and then attempts to hold onto power. It is a rich role and Dougfred Miller has some resonant moments, particularly when he’s plotting with his wife, played with sly passion by Laura Perrotta, and during the bloody happenings in the second act. But for much of the first act, Miller merely rides the riptide current of his speeches instead of shaping, and thereby owning, them.

Other actors in the company also fall too easily into the oratorical Shakespeare trap, delivering their lines as if they were isolated thought bubbles instead of words intended to manipulate their immediate reality. Part of this may be an involuntary reaction to one of the most startling, and often most startlingly effective, staging decisions: the addition of live drummers.

On each side of the stage there are two guys pounding on large drums, interspersed with their banging on suspended sheets of metal that serve as the world’s largest cymbals. Inspired by Japanese drumming styles, the propulsive percussion evokes a feeling of war and conflict. It’s a visceral and often captivating effect.

But there is too much of this good thing, and at times it sounds like a drum-version of a laugh track on a cheesy sitcom—rim shots thrown in to heighten the dramatic effect. Also, there are times when the actors seem constrained in their timing, afraid they will be drowned out by the next volley of drum riffs.

But no matter how much you like extravagant drumming exhibitions (and who doesn’t?), there’s more to this “Stomp” Macbeth than that. The Japanese theme also spills over into Star Moxley’s costumes, flowing kimonos and flared shoulder pad armor that add grace and exuberant precision to the visual impact of the production. And the inventive lighting design by Rick Martin nicely delivers specific moods, such as within the “Is that a dagger I see before me?” scene, when spots turn the central red circular platform alive with shifting shafts of light like gleaming knife blades.

Turning in solid performances are Lynn Robert Berg as Banquo and David Anthony Smith as Macduff, whose speech of grief after his entire family is slain by mean Mac is an affecting moment in a blood-drenched evening.

But perhaps the most dazzling part of this production is the trio of alert, white-faced witches, outfitted with raven-black fabric “wings” that extend out a yard beyond their hands. Manipulating their flaps with sticks held in their hands, the three actors (Sara M. Bruner, Laura Welsh Berg and Cathy Price) create thrilling images whether they fold up like trees, hobble like some large insects, or sweep across the stage in almost-flight.

Director Fee is to be saluted for creating a magical telling of this play that lingers somewhere between reality and illusion. It is a fitting inaugural production for this old dowager of a theater that has suddenly woken up, frisky and ready to play.

Macbeth
Through November 7 (in rep
with In the Woods), Hanna
Theatre, 2067 E. 14th Street,
Cleveland, 216-241-6000

The Lieutenant of Inishmore, Bang and Clatter/Cleveland

(The felines have it rough in Inishmore, although on balance they wind up looking better than our all-time favorite kitty, above.)

It’s a damn shame the term “black comedy” has been taken, signifying stories that draw humor out of often grisly or horrific scenes (ie. the wood chipper scene in Fargo). The term just doesn’t seem to do justice to some works.

For sure, there ought to be another description for the even blacker level of comedy found in the theatrical works of playwright Martin McDonagh, a man whose penchant for blood and guts is only topped by his mordant wit and drop-dead (you should pardon the term) hilarious dialogue that turns banalities into punch lines.

Like his play The Pillowman, which was given an extraordinary production by Dobama some time ago, McDonagh’s The Lieutenant of Inishmore goes clomping into places most plays would tiptoe around. In this staging at the Bang and Clatter Theatre in Cleveland, the subject is a gaggle of Irish misfits who have been raised on the code of blood and violence, and exhibit virtually no compunctions about torturing or snuffing each other for the most modest of sins.

Central to the action here is Padraic, a member of a wacko IRA splinter faction, the INLA, whose membership may be just one. Padraic, it is said, was too demented to be a member of the mother group, so he has given himself the rank mentioned in the play’s title as he goes about his psychotic business.

But trouble is brewing back home, where Padraig’s father Donny has been taking care of Wee Thomas, Padraig’s beloved black cat. Or ex-cat, since Davey, a young dude with extravagantly luxuriant red hair, carries in the feline corpse (a prop that looks a good bit better than our favorite cat) and claims he found it bashed on the road. Donny firmly believes Davey crushed the pussy’s skull intentionally, but their immediate concern is to make sure Pardraig doesn’t blame them for the pet’s death.

So they nab an orange cat from Mairead, a boyish-looking local girl who amuses herself by shooting the eyes out of cows from long distance with her pellet rifle. The two lunkheads try to color the new cat with boot black to look like the dearly departed tabby, with predictably unfortunate results. Meanwhile, a threesome of IRA-related hotheads is plotting to take out Padraig, with Mairead lurking in the shadows, hearing the plot and eager to find a way to ingratiate herself with Padraig.

This 90-minute one act exerts comical tension from the first scene, under the tight direction of Sean McConaha. Unless you are too squeamish at the sight of blood and the occasional dismemberment-by-handsaw, you will find yourself laughing in spite of yourself. And the final confrontation, although not as drenched in as much plasma as one might expect, is a stumbling ballet of pointless revenge and free-floating idiocy.

But humor is the primary driving force in this script. Take the scene where Padraig (a sterling, sulky Sean Derry) has strung up a young fellow named James who’s been selling drugs to school kids. Having already removed two of the trussed chap’s toenails, he is about to perform a nipple-ectomy on him when Padraig gets a phone call from his dad. In a trice, Padraig is almost in tears as he learns that Wee Thomas “is feeling poorly,” part of Donny’s plan to let his son down easy. The ensuing interplay is priceless as the torture victim (Michael Danner) tries to console his torturer (“It’s probably just ringworm.”) between James’ own screams of pain.

As Davey, Ryan McMullen tosses “fick” and “feck” (the equivalent in this nasty little corner of Ireland for “fuck”) around with practiced ease. And D. Michael Franks exudes a stolid and fatalistic presence that makes Donny more amusing than he has any right to be. The three thugs are played by Daniel Taylor, Stuart Hoffman and Rick Heldenfels with brash confidence fed by a paucity of IQ points.

Bethany Taylor does a sufficient job of fashioning Mairead as an intriguing mystery, but she isn’t strong enough in her scenes to make her role in the surprising denouement entirely believable. Also, her pinned up hair doesn’t cut it, preventing her from capturing the look of an androgynous outsider who might harbor more stealthy motivations.

Aside from being at times side-splittingly (again, pardon) funny, Inishmore is actually a brilliant commentary on the violence that pervades societies around the world. Any culture that can kill easily and with little moral disgust is the true obscenity, and this play points the finger of responsibility while cackling into the echoing darkness.

The Lieutenant of Inishmore Through October 19 at the Bang and Clatter Theatre, 224 Euclid Avenue, Cleveland, 330-606-5317

The Importance of Being Earnest, Lakeland Theatre

(Teresa McDonough as Gwendolyn and Timothy Allen as Jack)

No matter how many times you see it, it’s hard not to be entranced by the language Oscar Wilde employs in The Importance of Being Earnest. His combination of slicing satire and silliness, using a meat cleaver one time and a scalpel the next, always leads to laughs.

Of course, the number and strength of those chuckles are also dependent on the performers who assay these oh, so familiar roles. And while there are some soft spots in this production, the Lakeland Theatre company acquits itself competently—with a couple standout performances.

Built on the most ridiculous premise, and involving people so superficial they make Paris Hilton look like a cross between Hannah Arendt and Noam Chomsky, Importance is fluff of the first order.

Set in the fading years of Victorian England, Algernon Moncrieff and Jack Worthing are each enamored of young women (Cecily and Gwendolyn respectively) who both have a serious jones for the name Earnest. Accordingly, each young man pretends to wear that moniker and then proposes marriage, until Gwen’s battleaxe mom Lady Bracknell and Jack’s rather unusual personal history catch up with them all.

In the role of Lady Bracknell, which is often cast cross-gendered, Mitchell Fields wields his powerful voice like a velvet truncheon to intimidate the young men and keep Gwen in her place. Even when his red wig inadvertently slipped off twice, Fields never broke character and agilely ad-libbed his way out of it, making Jack promise to never reveal what he had just seen.

The four young lovers are played with serviceable British accents by Justin Brenis (Algernon), Timothy Allen (Jack), Teresa McDonough (Gwendolyn) and Caitlin Sandham (Cecily). And they succeed in conveying the shallowness of these folks who luxuriate in their cosseted world of afternoon teas, cakes and sly backstabbing.

But these four actors, to varying degrees, end up being hostages to accent and attitude. Having captured the lilt and cadence of their character’s speech, each performer tends to glide past small moments and telling beats that could make Wilde’s humor even more delightful—and their characters more involving.

In this regard, Douglas Collier as Rev. Chasuble and Mary Ann Elder as Miss Prism actually do catch the magic, turning their short scene of repressed eroticism into a hilarious encapsulation of Victorian priggishness.

Overall, director Martin Friedman keeps the pacing lively so that the three acts go down as smoothly as petite, crust-less cucumber sandwiches. And the elegant-looking production, designed by Keith Nagy, is refined down to small details such as delicate period parasols and handbags.

But above all, the language of Wilde is always a treasure. How can you not love lines such as Lady Bracknell’s when she responds positively to Jack’s admitted lack of intellect: “I do not approve of anything that tampers with natural ignorance. Ignorance is like a delicate, exotic fruit; touch it and the bloom is gone.” Perhaps the Republican Party can use that as a rationale for Sarah Palin’s refusal to do more interviews.

The Importance of Being Earnest
Through October 5 at Lakeland Community College,
Rts. 90 and 306, Kirtland, 440-525-7034