Opening Nights

1984
The Empty Space; ends Sat., Feb. 28

W.C. Fields advised against working with children or animals. Had the old curmudgeon lived long enough to dally in multimedia theater, he might've had something to say about playing second fiddle to televisions, too. The boob tube plays a large and necessary role in this new stage version of George Orwell's prescient classic, but it also upstages the people to whom we need to make a connection. The show seems to take less pleasure in the portrayal of personal emancipation than in depicting the man-made machinery that tramples it.

As craftily adapted by playwright Wayne Rawley, Orwell's not-so-distant future has been transformed into a kind of vigilant, humorless Good Morning America. Winston Smith (Adrian LaTourelle) lives a mostly solitary life in Oceania, his drudgery prodded by omniscient, televised comrades who guide him through morning calisthenics, serve as his lunchmates, and inform him of a faceless, supposedly wildly successful war overseas. Rawley, whose articulate spoofery of kitsch TV propels the local late-night cult hit Money & Run, has a keen, excited ear for the absurd, and he hears in Orwell an opportunity for black humor that leavens the oppressiveness of the proceedings without sacrificing any of the political commentary (Winston is besieged by a constant, piped-in propaganda soundtrack and a steely ersatz DJ who raves, "That was another hit from Machine No. 13!").

Director Allison Narver, who conceived this production, makes good initial use of the conceit; we spend the first third of the show feeling the weight of Winston's world. The live and recorded videography by Web Crowell and Bob Bejan illuminates not only the daily physical parameters that Winston must observe—he keeps a diary of his unlawful thoughts hidden just outside the camera's range—but his fantasies and several key plot points. When Julia (Tess Auberjonois), a seemingly implacable co-worker, stumbles in front of him, Winston holds out a helping hand; on a screen behind them, the moment is slowed down and replayed, acknowledging both its human impact and the note that Julia has slyly slipped into Winston's palm.

That's a nice effect that Narver isn't quite able to achieve elsewhere—the show is often stiff and self-important when it doesn't have technology to kick around. LaTourelle has a halting, contained emotiveness that lends credibility to the proceedings, but Narver isn't paying attention to details in his forbidden, fleeting encounters with Auberjonois' Julia. Their passion feels perfunctory when every touch should be potentially earth-shattering—they're all talk.

Things don't have any resonance until Act II, when David Pichette's chilling O'Brien takes the stage to forever erase the lovers' brief happiness. The scenes between fascist O'Brien and rebel Winston have real tension and drama; Pichette's torture of LaTourelle has all the heat and sweat that the lovemaking with Auberjonois lacked. Debating O'Brien's debilitating politics, Winston argues that a society based only on hate would have no vitality. Ironically, it's only the hate-based world in this 1984 that shows any real signs of life. STEVE WIECKING

THE MINEOLA TWINS
Theater Schmeater; ends Sat., Feb. 21

Myrna and Myra, the titular twins of small-town Mineola, aren't separated at birth, but temperamentally they might as well be, as they each inhabit the opposite ends of the political spectrum in mid-to-late-20th-century America. Myrna is of clean-cut, chaste Republican stock (the "good" girl, natch), while Myra is alternately the town "fast" girl, radical hippie, and lesbian mom. It's an obvious setup for a critique of the social movements in our recent past, each side battling for the country's soul.

Instead, it plays rather like Forrest Gump—a potted cultural history throwing up the appropriate signature moments of each era. Thus the '50s scenes drop in references to Ike and Kerouac; in the '60s, it's Nixon and pot; in the '80s, it's "feminazis" and Planned Parenthood. Music provides cues to which time period comes next (though "Leader of the Pack" is actually from the '60s, not the '50s).

However, playwright Paula Vogel (author of the Pulitzer Prize-winning How I Learned to Drive) has no insights to offer about the eras the sisters live through or, indeed, what lies beyond the surface clichés they spout. There are a few moments indicating a greater depth: Myra's impassioned comments about her desire to break the rules; references to Myrna's mysterious breakdown; and the twins' sporadic telepathic relationship (at its strongest during their dreams or in times of stress). But with no center core driving the story—other than the simple passage of time—the overall effect is like watching a series of vaguely connected sketches.

As Myrna/Myra, Victoria Dicce has an East Coast accent that's a tad too shrill (especially as Myrna), while the chief means of differentiating between the sisters is the size of their bustlines. Rachel Hynes is sweet as Jim (Myrna's boyfriend) and Sarah (Myra's girlfriend), while Zach Lundin also does double duty as Kenny/Ben—Myrna's freethinking and Myra's straight-laced sons, respectively. But the players don't have a lot to work with. There is much that could be said about how the changing times affect the choices people make in their lives, and how even extreme ideological differences don't necessarily destroy familial bonds. GILLIAN G. GAAR

Dreaming in Tibet. photo: CHRIS BENNION