161 (2017-2018): Review: AGAINST THE HILLSIDE (seen February 15, 2018)

“Drone on the Range”

Sylvia Khoury’s Against the Hillside, at the Ensemble Studio Theatre, is a well-meaning but mediocre play on a ragingly topical issue: drone warfare and its effects on both sides of the carnage it inflicts.

It’s well known that, under President George W. Bush, the American government, in 2004, began using drones to attack tribal areas in northern Afghanistan in its fight against the Taliban and other terrorist organizations. And, although the Air Force and CIA have sought to avoid civilian casualties, the resulting loss of life and limb hasn’t discriminated very well between the bad guys and the good, the militias and the citizens.

Jack Mikesell, Caroline Hewitt. Photo: Gerry Goodstein.

Putting the relative statistics—decidedly unfavorable to the good guys—aside, consider the ethical dimensions of this kind of combat: American servicemen and servicewomen are asked to surveil and kill people on the ground from the comfort of a command center 8,000 miles away.

In 2014, playwright George Brant approached the issue in his powerful one-woman, Off-Broadway play, Grounded, starring Hannah Cabell in a first-rate performance as a major who begins to suffer from the stress of liquidating strangers on the other side of the earth from a windowless, air-conditioned room outside Las Vegas. (Ann Hathaway starred in the 2015 revival at the Public Theater.)

A couple of movies also deal with the subject, most notably the Helen Mirren starrer, Eye in the Sky. That melodrama, in part, observes the emotional reactions of an Air Force drone pilot (played by Aaron Paul) to a particular operation he deems highly questionable.

In these cases, the dilemma focuses on the feelings of the Americans who must push those lethal buttons. Khoury’s play does so as well but, unlike the other works, also investigates what it’s like to be on the receiving end of those remote-controlled missiles.

To express this she divides her play into alternating scenes. On the one hand, we see the growing discomfort of the highly regarded American RPA (Remote Piloted Aircraft) pilot Capt. Matt Walker (Jack Mikesell), based near Las Vegas; on the other, we discover the anxieties of a family in Waziristan, Pakistan, representing the hellish existence of those who must live in fear of instant annihilation.

Jack Mikesell. Photo: Gerry Goodstein.

In Nevada, Matt’s issues are tied to his marital situation with his pregnant wife, Erin (Caroline Hewitt). Erin’s concerned with how closely Matt’s become involved with the lives of the presumably innocent people he’s surveilling, especially Reem (Mahira Kakkar), wife of Sayid (Babak Tafti), owner of a store frequented by suspected militants whose mere presence there puts his totally innocent life in peril.

Babak Tafti, Mahira Kakkar. Photo: Gerry Goodstein.

Erin refuses to sleep with Matt under these circumstances, asking her reluctant spouse to seek help from his supervisor, Jared (John Wernke), to redeploy, and to return to flying; she admits she can’t live with him anymore under these conditions. Reem, mother of one child, Abdul, refuses to bring another into their dangerous world unless Sayid gives up his business and flees to the safer environment of a big city, Karachi.

Babak Tafti, Mahira Kakkar. Photo: Gerry Goodstein.

So far, so good. Khoury nicely sets up parallel stories of how two married couples enmeshed in either side of a tragic situation react to a situation threatening to tear them apart. And then the play slowly unravels.

Mahira Kakkar, Babak Tafti. Photo: Gerry Goodstein.

In Pakistan, the death of Sayid’s cousin is followed by Sayid’s determination to hold a funeral despite the danger it involves (gatherings of more than five are red flags). This drives Reem to leave him—with Sayid’s male cousin Ahmed (Mohit Gautam). After that (like the gun that, (in defiance of Chekhov’s gun rule, is displayed but never used), this most vibrant of the characters vanishes from the play.

Mohit Gautam, Rajesh Bosh. Photo: Gerry Goodstein.

Back in Vegas, Jared offers Matt advice on how to separate his job from his private life. He also introduces a new arrival, Second Lt. Anthony (Avery Whitted), to be trained by Matt. Anthony doesn’t understand Matt’s preoccupation with Reem.

Avery Whitted, Jack Micksell. Photo: Gerry Goodstein.

This devolves into a discussion of Matt and Anthony’s differing interpretations of why she left Sayid and just what one can determine about private lives from a drone thousands of feet in the air. They even dispute why Reem habitually pressed herself against a hillside, which at least gives us a reason for the play’s ambiguous title.  

Sammy Pignalosa, Babak Tafti. Photo: Gerry Goodstein.

Midway through, both the American and Pakistani stories waver, and whatever dramatic thrust existed fades. Sayid—to the dismay of his uncle, Farid (Rajesh Bose), who needs money for a niece’s operation—abandons his store to teach a single student (Sammy Pignalosa). Matt disappears and Anthony, himself now frazzled, reaches out for help. Reem and Ahmed’s current situation is explained when Ahmed returns but, oddly, we never learn either Erin or Matt’s fate.

Avery Whitted, John Wernke. Photo: Gerry Goodstein.

Finally, in the last scene, Farid meets Erin in a doctor’s office. Wait, that’s not Farid. It’s Abdul (Bose), Sayid and Reem’s child, now grown up and looking exactly like a well-tailored Farid. And wait again. That’s not Erin, it’s the British-accented Dr. Carter (Hewitt), examining Abdul, now a successful barrister, for the hearing loss he suffered as a child and that threatens to make him totally deaf. Khoury has moved us 40 years into the future to depict the aftereffects of the drone attacks. A reasonable point but, following the initial confusion, neither convincing nor particularly profound.

For all the effort to demonstrate how the drones are damaging to both sides of the equation, the play fails to adequately reveal anything about the Pakistani side that explains their ideological positions or much about their village ways; they’re simply theatrical pawns who don’t want to be destroyed. Apart from Sayid’s insistence on the funeral, little about them seems much different from the Americans.

Only the Indian-born Kakkar has the trace of a South Asian accent, while everybody else sounds—language as well as accents—more like people from Ozone Park than Waziristan (although Ozone Park probably has lots of those as well). Reem could as easily be arguing that she and Sayid should be escaping Trump’s presidency by moving to Canada, rather than from Waziristan to Karachi.

Jason Simms’s simple set, surrounded by the audience on two sides, shows a shiny, black-tiled floor, which seems out-of-place wherever the action goes, with a rear wall depicting, in a narrow, horizontal panel, what resembles an aerial bas-relief of Pakistan’s topography. Given the few pieces needed for tables, chairs, and beds, a more imaginative solution that didn’t need so many scene shift interruptions would have been preferable. 

However, the scene shifts get a bit more drama than the play itself via the work of designer Barbara Samuels, who dims the lights to create slim, horizontal, pulsating, neon-like strips along the walls, and sound designer/composer Shane Rettig, who turns up the volume for his pounding, room-shaking musical effects.

Sydney Maresca's costumes are satisfactory except for Anthony's uniform. According to my plus-one, raised in a military family, a big boo-boo is committed by giving this officer an enlisted man's stripes, especially when none of the other uniforms are designated with emblems of rank.

William Carden’s direction lacks the drive to ignite continued interest during the play’s intermissionless 90 minutes but he does get reasonably realistic acting from his company. Most effective are Wernke, Bose, and Kakkar (gone too soon). Khoury has tackled a worthwhile subject but I do wish she’d done more with it.  

OTHER VIEWPOINTS:

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Against the Hillside

Ensemble Studio Theatre

425 W. 52^nd St., NYC

Through February 25

“Did the Folks Next to Me Like It?” (6)

(With apologies to the "Did He Like It?" website.) Often, I’m very aware of how the stranger (or plus-one) sitting next to me at a show is reacting. I may hear the audience laughing across the way or behind me, while the man or woman beside me is sitting stone-faced. Or I may notice sniffling while I myself am falling asleep. Since I often wonder how they'd grade what we’ve both just experienced I’ve decided to simply ask my neighbor or friend for an on-the-spot number on the scale of 1-100 and record it here.

My plus-one, feeling more positive than I, despite her cavils, settled on a 70 for Against the Hillside.

160 (2017-2018): Review: HANGMEN (seen February 14, 2018)

"No Noose is Good Noose"

For my review of Hangmen please click on THE BROADWAY BLOG.

“Did the Folks Next to Me Like It?” (5)

(With apologies to the "Did He Like It?" website.) Often, I’m very aware of how the strangers sitting next to me at a show are reacting. I may hear the audience laughing across the way or behind me, while the man or woman beside me is sitting stone-faced. Or I may notice sniffling while I myself am falling asleep. Since I often wonder how they feel about what we’ve both just experienced I’ve decided to simply ask them and record their reactions by giving the show an on-the-spot grade on the scale of 1-100. 

The middle-aged couple next to me at Hangmen agreed the show deserved a score of between 85-90.

159 (2017-2018): Review: PETE REX (seen February 12, 2018)

"Games People Play"

For my review of Pete Rex please click on THEATER PIZZAZZ.

“Did the Folks Next to Me Like It?” (4)

(With apologies to the "Did He Like It?" website.) Often, I’m very aware of how the strangers sitting next to me at a show are reacting. I may hear the audience laughing across the way or behind me, while the man or woman beside me is sitting stone-faced. Or I may notice sniffling while I myself am falling asleep. Since I often wonder how they feel about what we’ve both just experienced I’ve decided to simply ask them and record their reactions by giving the show an on-the-spot grade on the scale of 1-100. 

My plus-one, a knowledgeable and experienced theatergoer of around 50, suggested a grade of 65 but felt he was probably being too generous.

158 (2017-2018): Review: PARTY FACE (seen February 12, 2018)

"Girls' Night Out"

For my review of Party Face please click on THE BROADWAY BLOG.

“Did the Folks Next to Me Like It?” (3)

(With apologies to the "Did He Like It?" website.) Often, I’m very aware of how the strangers sitting next to me at a show are reacting. I may hear the audience laughing across the way or behind me, while the man or woman beside me is sitting stone-faced. Or I may notice sniffling while I myself am falling asleep. Since I often wonder how they feel about what we’ve both just experienced I’ve decided to simply ask them and record their reactions by giving the show an on-the-spot grade on the scale of 1-100. 

As I prepared to leave I asked a pretty young woman for her grade but, saying she and her male companion were actors, she declined to answer. A little later, however, I realized that the two young women sitting next to me on the F train had been in my row so I popped the question to them instead. "75," they agreed after some hesitation, and we continued to chat about the play for several minutes afterward.

157 (2017-2018): Review: CARDINAL (seen February 11, 2018)

“Seeing Red”

Most non-profit, subscription-based theatres—Off Broadway or on—can afford to allow their shows to continue until the end of their specified runs, critics be damned. While it’s always important—both financially and psychologically—to put as many fannies in the seats as possible, even poorly received shows can usually survive for their scheduled weeks with low audience turnout. That’s why a weak play like Gregg Pierce’s Cardinal, at the Second Stage’s Tony Kiser Theatre, is still playing; in a commercial venue, especially a Broadway one, its life would have been cut mercifully short. 

Pierce’s (Slowgirl) leaden, politically-tinged dramedy offers Anna Chlumsky a part not altogether different from her signature role as Amy Brookheimer on “Veep,” for which she’s received five Emmy nominations. In Cardinal she does what we already know she can do—comic bitchiness, eye-rolling frustration, ruthless ambition, and potty-in-the-mouth language. Without the support of the TV show’s snarky wit and driving comic edge, however, these qualities become annoyingly monotonous. 

Instead of working in the upper echelons of D.C. politics, carrying on sexually and otherwise with various White House operatives, Chlumsky is now Lydia Lensky, a failed band manager turned amateur urban planner (she took a course). After living in Brooklyn, she’s returned to her hometown, the fictional Brindle, in upstate New York, to realize a project she’s concocted to revive the opioid-addicted, unemployment-afflicted burg. 

Soon, Lydia’s in bed (literally and figuratively) with Jeff Torm (Adam Pally, “Happy Endings”), a geeky former high school acquaintance who’s now Brindle’s awkward, ineffectual mayor; he  once had a love affair with Lydia’s sister, which acts like a faucet—on and off—in his relations with Lydia.

Lydia—still the brunt of ill will for a stupid high school prank she carried out that caused the town to suffer through a lengthy blackout—seeks to revitalize the place (declining since it lost its axle factory) by painting it cardinal red.

Jeff resists at first—he’d like to redevelop the waterfront instead—but soon accepts the notion; as Lydia explains while pitching it to the townspeople in a school’s “gymnatorium,” the red town will attract tourists, like the blue and yellow Moroccan and Mexican cities whose pictures she displays. 

Pierce’s writing and the tone established by director Kate Whoriskey fail to clarify just how much we’re supposed to buy the possibility that Lydia’s dream might actually pay off. Moribund cities in upstate New York wouldn't be vacation bait if you painted them in every color of the rainbow. It's a crackpot idea that only makes the play, devoid of leavening laughter, that much more difficult to sit through. 

Lydia’s ambitions become enmeshed with the aspirations of Li-Wee Chen (Stephen Park), a wealthy Chinese immigrant entrepreneur in New York’s Chinatown, who starts a tour bus operation for Chinese tourists in Brindle, creating a fictional backstory about local ghosts he thinks will draw visitors. 

His handsome son, Jason (Eugene Young), however, whom he’d like to pair up with Lydia, is a romantic with little interest in his father’s operations. These seem little more than a clumsy attempt to satirize nativist fears of being overrun by hordes of racially different foreigners.

 

Opposing Lydia’s plan are Nancy (Becky Ann Baker, “Girls”) and Nat Prenchel (Alex Hurt), her autistic son, a talented pastry maker at their long-established bakery in the abandoned factory. The Prenchels resent Lydia’s I-know-what’s-best-for-you assertions and resist her determination to paint their shop’s beloved sign red, despite her assurances of profits. Nonetheless, no sooner does a Chinese investor offer Nancy a healthy sum to buy her shop than—uncomfortable with the change in her clientele brought by the bus tours—she decides to accept it. 

More oil gets poured on these troubled waters by a plan to turn the factory into a hospital specializing in Chinese medical procedures, which inspires such racial animosity that the place is ridiculed as a “Chink hospital.” When Nat uses that word, we even get a kindly lecture to him by his mom about using such hurtful terms. Personally, I thought “Chinks” went out in the 1960s, when people switched to eating “Chinese” food.

Pierce’s uneasy mash-up of romantic comedy, urban political satire, anti-racist advocacy, and even—out of nowhere—gun violence lacks an organic, truthful feel blending honest acting with vital storytelling. We’re asked to buy barely explained plot developments like Lydia’s becoming the owner of the factory despite being deeply in debt, or the un-foreshadowed appearance of a firearm and the vaguely conciliatory conclusion to which it leads.

Derek McLane’s spacious but dreary unit set, in which all the scenes transpire by having the usual headset-wearing stagehands shove things on and off in the dimness, represents a 19th-century factory’s gray, brick walls. At first, though, I wondered if it were a prison or, perhaps, because of the desk and American flag in the first scene, an old school.

 

Amith Chandrashaker’s lighting only manages to successfully alter the scenery’s dull efficiency when he introduces a red wash during the episodic play’s scene changes. Jennifer Moeller’s costumes are appropriate, Leah Gelpe’s sound is unobtrusive, and J. David Brimmer offers a touch of his distinguished fight direction expertise.

Call it cardinal or call it red, hopefully, it’s your favorite color because you’ll be seeing lots of it during this production.

“Did the Folks Next to Me Like It?” (2)

Often, I’m very aware of how the strangers sitting next to me at a show are reacting. I may hear the audience laughing across the way or behind me, while the man or woman beside me is sitting stone-faced. Or I may notice sniffling while I myself am falling asleep. Since I often wonder how they feel about what we’ve both just experienced I’ve decided to simply ask them and record their reactions by giving the show an on-the-spot grade on the scale of 1-100. Herewith, my apologies to the “Did He Like It” website.

My plus-one and I were the only people in our row at Cardinal so I tapped the shoulder of the nearest person, a silver-haired, cane-assisted, elderly lady—the sole occupant of the row in front of me—and asked her for a grade: “56,” she quickly replied, asking in turn for mine. “Somewhat lower,” I answered, and, smiling, she shook her head in assent.

OTHER VIEWPOINTS:

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Cardinal

Second Stage Theater/Tony Kiser Theater

305 W. 43^rd St., NYC

Through February 25

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 [SL1]

156 (2017-2018): Review: IN THE BODY OF THE WORLD (seen February 9, 2017)

“Yes, Vagina. There is an Eve Ensler”

Eve Ensler, the actress-playwright-activist, whose extraordinarily popular solo piece, 1996’s The Vagina Monologues, may have done as much for female genitalia (and opposition to violence against women) as Martin Luther King, Jr., did for civil rights, has created another one-woman starrer with In the Body of the World. It’s not likely, though, that this new work—produced by the MTC in the City Center’s Stage 1—will enjoy the worldwide audience of her most famous play, which has been published in 48 languages and performed in close to 150 countries.

Eve Ensler. Photo: Joan Marcus.

Not that Ensler’s left the vagina behind. It’s just that In the Body of the World—adapted from Ensler’s 2013 memoir of the same name and originally staged at Harvard’s American Repertory Theatre—is decidedly autobiographical and that particular body part is only one of the too many other things the play wants to discuss.

Eve Ensler. Photo: Joan Marcus.

In the Body also requires the presence of this daring artist’s own body—from her shaved head (don’t let that silken Louise Brooks helmet fool you) to both her surgical and psychological scars—to make its searingly poignant and satirically comic points.

The pixyish, youthful-looking, 64-year-old Ensler has had quite a life, and you’ll find out a lot about it in her rambling, scary, funny, informative, moving, occasionally grisly, but scattershot docudrama—three parts divided into 27 scenes—whose centerpiece is her battle with uterine cancer.

Eve Ensler. Photo: Joan Marcus.

Ensler, disarmingly forthright on several levels—she doesn’t hesitate to expose her breasts when changing into a hospital gown—uses powerfully descriptive words to make us privy to her symptoms and procedures, from chemo to surgery (the Mayo Clinic and Sloan Kettering figure heavily); the difference between caring and careless doctors; the loving support she received from her sister; her experience with her once eye-catching, later cancer-ridden, dementia-plagued mom, and so on. Much is made of the mind-body connection in disease, including a brief lecture on “somatizing”, i.e., “To manifest psychological stress as physical symptoms.”

Eve Ensler. Photo: Joan Marcus.

We also hear about many private parts (not just biological ones) of Eve’s life, like her hippie days (she dons a bandanna for a lengthy period), her freewheeling life style of sex and drugs, her therapist’s advice on dealing with her father’s sexual abuse, her ecological concerns (the Gulf Oil spill becomes metaphorically connected to her illness), her feminist activism, particularly her work in fighting violence against women (some gut-wrenching/retching stuff here), and her commendable contributions toward helping Congolese women build the City of Joy.

Eve Ensler. Photo: Joan Marcus.

The considerable grimness she describes is lessened somewhat by her aggressively spirited tone and the lighter, if you could call them that, elements in her story. There is, for example, her description of the uncompensated, totally dedicated woman whose specialty in treating patients is helping them to fart.

Cancer survivor stories, of course, have become increasingly common, both on the page and stage; there will be few spectators at Ensler’s performance who, if not victims themselves, don’t know someone whose experiences echo much of what they’ll hear. Initiated or not, many will find the cancer-related descriptions painful; things only get harder when hearing about Congolese soldiers’ behavior toward their victims. 

It’s understandable that Ensler would want to introduce some welcome wisecracks into the horrors—like those ripping Kellyanne Conway or our Pussy Grabber-in-Chief—but is it really necessary for us to be asked to rise so we can dance during a hospital room party?

Eve Ensler. Photo: Joan Marcus.

A lot of effort has been put into making In the Body of the World more than just a frequently compelling, intermissionless, 90-minute narrative. While it could conceivably be done on a bare stage, considerable attention has been given to its physical representation, with Broadway superstar director Diane Paulus not only helping to elicit a wide range of emotional and humorous qualities from Ensler but also assembling a first-rate team to create a beautiful visual and auditory environment.

Myung Hee Cho—who designed Ensler’s attractive black ensemble of sleeveless top and tight slacks—has created a deceptively simple set showing only a chaise longue, an elegant Chinese chair, and an oriental chest of drawers topped by a cabinet whose lack of a back panel is revealed when its doors are opened.

Upstage is a neutral rear wall that makes abundant use of Finn Ross’s exquisite video projections of emotional signifiers, from trees, forests, and oceans whose water seems to lap at the stage floor, to images of the Gulf Coast disaster and Ali knocking out Foreman. Jen Schriever's sensitive lighting pulls it all together, while M.L. Dogg and Sam Lerner’s sound design supplies mood-enhancing music in many modes.

The kicker, though, is the coup de théâtre that comes near the end, when—for reasons you’ll have to learn yourself—the stage transforms, as the curtains open wider and wider, into a luscious Asian garden, backed by a large golden idol, which the audience is invited to examine up close and personal. Gorgeous as it is, its decided positivity tends to overwhelm and distract from what’s come before.

  

“Did the Folks Next to Me Like It?”

Often, I’m very aware of how the strangers sitting next to me at a show are reacting. I may hear the audience laughing across the way or behind me, while the man or woman beside me is sitting stone-faced. Or I may notice sniffling while I myself am falling asleep. Since I often wonder how they feel about what we’ve both just experienced I’ve decided to simply ask them and record their reactions by giving the show an on-the-spot grade on the scale of 1-100. I begin this feature, “Did the Folks Next to Me Like It?,” with the reactions of two women, one who looked to be in her 20s, the other in her late 40s, both of them very active theatregoers, to In the Body of the World.

Their mutually agreed-upon grade: “around 70.”

OTHER VIEWPOINTS:

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In the Body of the World

New York City Center Stage 1

131 W. 55^th St., NYC

Through March 25

155 (2017-2018) Review: FILL FILL FILL FILL FILL FILL FILL (seen February 8, 2018)

“Holes Holes Holes . . . ” 

Steph Del Rosso’s Fill Fill Fill Fill Fill Fill Fill—a title guilty of overkill if there ever was one—is an enthusiastically theatrical, downtown counterpart to Kate Benson’s uptown [Porto] at the WP Theater.

Both deal with single women, lonely, adrift, and trying to find not only love but who they are as human beings independent of their relationship with a man. But in order to do so they must first overcome their conditions as victims of the male hegemony. Appropriately, Fill, as we’ll call it, kicks off the Flea’s “Season of Womyn.” 

Sarah Chalfie, Roland Lane. Photo: Hunter Canning.

Presented by the Flea’s resident group of talented young actors, the Bats, in the recently relocated theatre’s intimate downstairs space, the Siggy (named for Sigourney Weaver), Fill follows the journey of self-discovery by 29-year-old, Joni (Sarah Chalfie), a promising photographer whose day job is writing textbooks. 

Joni begins her identity quest following a raucous opening scene in which her rock star boyfriend of five years, Noah (Roland Lane, charismatic), interrupts his concert to call her onstage, not (as she might expect) to propose but so he can break up with her before his adoring fans. Ouch.

Pierced by rejection, Joni goes to a doctor (Joseph Huffman), complaining of the holes she feels in her brain and all over her body. Seeking not only to determine who she is by filling the holes but also hoping to forget Noah and find a “replacement,” she swirls and subways through the urban romantic and sexual landscape, deluged with advice from friends and professionals. What she hears about improving her personal appearance echoes the advice given the heroine in [Porto].

Her adventures are depicted in a series of comically exaggerated scenes, some kaleidoscopically brief, others a little more extended, and all more or less surrealistically heightened and overlaid with Ben Vigus’s insistently rhythmic sound design. The pacing races, the movement is choreographically crisp, and the charmingly executed mugging and double-takes are nonstop.

Director Marina McClure makes clever use of a relatively bare setting by You-Shin Chen, dazzlingly lit by Reza Behjat, with a few movable units, a large, empty frame for one of Joni’s photos, and highly selective hand props. The ensemble moves confidently around the space, showing off their overacting chops, and squeezing Del Rosso’s script for whatever satirical fun it possesses. As my plus-one suggested, the energetic approach is like a throwback to PBS’s 1970’s kids’ show, “The Electric Company.”

Sitting in a restaurant, Joni meets a waiter named Todd (Ben Schrager); following cute chatter about her spicy order, he asks—in one of the play’s best bits—if he can buy her a drink. They then rush through a possible relationship in a series of brief, rapid-fire sentences that end with their inevitable breakup when she discovers he’s not ready to “take care of” her as he’d promised; he'd merely been quoting a line from “the employee’s handbook.”

Joseph Huffman, Sarah Chalfie, Valeria A. Avina. Photo: Hunter Canning.

A far more expansive scene follows when Joni meets a couple, Ray (Joseph Huffman, lots of promise) and Lisa (Valerie A. Avina, totally committed), at another table. Soon, she finds herself on the verge of a threesome with them at her apartment, where things get raunchy, with both Ray and Lisa changing into the kind of erotically charged undies you get at adult boutiques. Kate Fry deserves kudos for these and other terrific costumes.

Ben Schrager, Sarah Chalfie, Monique St. Cyr, Jonathon Ryan, Valeria A. Avina, Joseph Huffman. Photo: Hunter Canning.

When swinging doesn’t prove to be Joni’s thing, she winds up as a contestant on a TV game show, “The Perfect Woman,” produced and hosted by her girlfriend Kate’s (Monique St. Cyr, the whole package) sequin-jacketed fiancé, Doug (Jonathon Ryan, as blonde as they come and funny, too), who claims the show is “feminist” although it’s just the opposite. Standing on a pedestal, lined up with two stereotypical man-pleasers who represent her opponents, Joni struggles to be true to herself in the face of misogynistic questions from the male participants.

Gloria Steinem and Simone de Beauvoir, who appear in [Porto], could as easily show up here to insist to the heroine that a woman’s fulfillment should not depend on making a man happy, that every woman should exist on the same terms as every man. In Fill, Joni finds herself when she reconnects with her younger, innocent, and, it would seem, wiser self (Maggie McCaffery), at the time she acted one of the orphans in Annie. Suddenly she’s lonely no more, an ending that offers closure but leans toward the sentimental and simplistic.

The Bats perform Del Rosso’s hour and 15-minute play as if to the manner born, with Chalfie’s bold, animated, and sharply honed performance, ranging from bewilderment to self-assertion, leading the way. She also displays abilities in the dance and singing departments.

While the hilarity potential in Fill is palpable, the play, despite Del Rosso’s obvious sense of humor, is too self-consciously clever to reach the big-laugh, comic level it requires. And clichés like the game show take-off are too familiar to make an impression, no matter how well performed. Fifty-one years ago, I played a character very much like the game-show host in a play called The Contestants at La Mama; even then this kind of parody was dated.

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Fill, Fill, Fill, Fill, Fill, Fill, Fill

The Flea Theater

20 Thomas St., NYC

Through March 4