Opening
Nights

PDoubt

Stone Soup Theatre, 4035 Stone Way N.E., stonesouptheatre.com. $14–$25. 8 p.m. Thurs.–Sat., 4 p.m. Sun. Ends March 1.

John Patrick Shanley’s Doubt looks back to 1964, when pedophilia allegations were simply swept under the rug by the Catholic church and football programs. In this 2004 masterpiece, Sister Aloysius (Maureen Miko) becomes convinced that Father Flynn (Jaryl Draper) “interfered with” an altar boy. She encourages conflicted Sister James (Reagan Dickey) to align with her fight for his removal, a battle that culminates in a tearful meeting with the student’s mom (Eva Abram).

While the play creates questions about faith and transgression, one can be sure that Stone Soup’s show serves some stupendous performances. Draper’s fourth-wall-smashing sermonizing felt like mass. Miko’s nuanced and wry delivery induced snickers. That said, in such an intimate space, actors must be aware that their cries can be construed as contrived keening; director Maureen Hawkins might’ve turned down the volume a bit.

The only negative here is the limited set “design.” On a larger proscenium stage, the three locations called for in the script can be accomplished seamlessly. Yet this small, three-quarter arena forces sloppy scene changes more chaotic than careening carts at Fred Meyer. Kyle Handziak’s fussy yet unfinished-looking scenery further compounds this problem. Why is the pulpit—complete with wood splinters—made of untreated lauan and plywood? There’s a table adorned with flowers, a candy dish—or communion plate?—and a candelabra; it looks less like an altar than a dining-room table (though sans menorah, it must be noted). Luckily, lighting designer Chris Scofield’s stained-glass window effects informed me this was a sanctuary, not some TEDx thrift store.

Wailing and waste aside, every time I see this play, thoughts fire at a rapid pace. In this thrifty production, Shanley’s script is the star. Alyssa Dyksterhouse

Marisol

Satori Lab at Inscape, 815 Seattle Blvd. S., 
collisiontheater.org. $20–$25 ($10 Mon.). 
8 p.m. Thurs.–Sat. & Mon. Ends Feb. 22.

It takes one hell of a production to pull off a scene in which a man gives birth. Unfortunately, this is not one of those productions. By the time The Collision Project’s staging of Jose Rivera’s 1993 Obie award winner arrives at that natal moment, the air has gone out of Marisol. As our eponymous heroine (Carolyn Marie Monroe) reaches beneath the birthing gown worn by her pregnant, lunatic stalker, any magic that might enlighten the scene has left the building.

To be fair, this is a tough script for a brand-new company to pull off, an absurdist allegory that is intentionally difficult to digest. But before it gets too weird, Rivera’s play—directed by Ryan Higgins—does begin in a recognizable world, though one that is quickly warping. It’s the turn of the millennium, and the apocalypse appears nigh: Apples have become extinct; a war on children rages; milk is polluted with salt; and the moon has gone missing.

Despite this, as the world goes to shit around her, the devoutly Catholic copy editor Marisol is trying to keep it together. It helps that she’s protected by a guardian angel (black-clad badass Shermona Mitchell) with magical powers. When the angel appears in the middle of the night, Marisol believes it’ll be a moment of holy conception. Monroe is at her best in this scene, and the play shows real promise. There’s a genuine connection, even love, between the naive Marisol and her woeful protector. But the relationship ends abruptly when the angel abandons her to join a war against the “senile” God who’s causing all the chaos.

As Act 2 begins, it’s clear that war in heaven isn’t going well. Down on the forsaken Earth, Marisol moves further into the fantastic. In a bizarre sort of Wizard of Oz scenario, the now-homeless and wandering Marisol meets a fur-clad aristocrat who’s been beaten for going over her credit limit; a wheelchair-bound burn victim in search of his skin; the neo-Nazi responsible for setting him on fire; and the pregnant Lenny (Ben D. McFadden). She’s actually searching for her friend June (Libby Barnard), but it’s difficult to understand why. The script calls for a tight, even romantic, bond between the two, but in the hands of these performers it doesn’t take. Their reunion, like Lenny’s delivery, has no life to it. Maybe that was the point of this particular staging, but it makes for disappointing theater. As Rivera’s script argues, life is cruel and meaningless, but it would be nice to care a bit more about his characters. Mark Baumgarten

PVenus in Fur

Seattle Repertory Theatre, 155 Mercer St. (Seattle Center), 443-2222, seattlerep.org. $12–$80. 7:30 p.m. Wed.–Sun. plus matinees. Ends March 9.

Playwright Thomas, one of two characters in David Ives’ ingeniously twisty 2011 comedy, is nostalgic for the old days when theater (and life) was about outsized, “operatic” passions—to which end he has adapted Leopold von Sacher-Masoch’s 1870 novel Venus in Fur about the dominance/submission dynamic in relationships. (From Sacher-Masoch’s own proclivities comes the term masochism.) But alas, after a full day’s cattle call, director Thomas can find no actress woman-y enough to play the reluctant dominatrix Vanda. Enter the scampish bimbo caricature Vanda (yes, the same name as the role she is reading for), with a leather S&M suit, one boot, and yuks like “You don’t have to tell me about sadomasochism, I’m in the theater.”

In the spellbinding 100 minutes that follow, Thomas (Michael Tisdale) and his unexpectedly promising leading lady (Gillian Williams) tread through the minefields of Thomas’ earnest adaptation, exploding cultural gender bombs left and right. Much humor and tension comes from the constant shifting from elevated text discussion to small talk to the deeply personal. Indeed, it becomes part of Vanda’s crazy-making mystique that she eludes capture within any of those realms; she refuses to be cornered on Sibyl Wickersheimer’s gritty, bare-bones loft set. Who’s really in control here: the dominator or the subjugated? Chaser or chased? Hammer or anvil?

The actors, both from New York, are wonderful to look at and listen to. Williams pivots readily from Lucille Ball shtick to haute thespian mode, and her lithe, dancer-esque poses are just as controlled. Tisdale’s emphatic straight man is a slightly harder read behind his lunettes, yet his corrugated neck muscles and torso speak as articulately as his impressive chops about his state of agitation. Because the Rep has booked this proven property—an intimate two-hander—on its largest stage, it can be hard to observe fine facial expressions; the shifts between Thomas’ text and Ives’ aren’t always clear. Visiting director Shana Cooper seems to favor a high quotient of ambiguity here—a reasonable choice, given the play’s suspenseful withholding and subsequent revelations. Still, in the idea-rich fracas of Ives’ clever script, I found myself hungering for clearer directorial valences.

Ives offers us a rich ambrosia of power dynamics, politics, and paraphilia. This worthy production, replete with smart performances, sadistic lighting by Geoff Korf, and sexy costuming by Harmony Arnold, compels us to kiss its stiletto heel. Margaret Friedman

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