The “Crackdown” of The Crackdown Cabaret refers to a vague and dystopic police action that takes place in the near future in the good old United States of America. It’s 2021–this is the fifth Crackdown–and people seem to use them to mark time, as in “I think that store closed after the Second Crackdown.” Nothing unfamiliar here—particularly if you spend any time watching summer blockbuster movies: sirens, offstage explosions, crumbling walls with ominous graffiti.
As imagined by Doug Jarecki in the new musical cabaret that opened at Next Act Theatre, this Crackdown is a backdrop for a nightclub show that’s a little Mad Max, a little Cabaret (the Kander and Ebb variety), with a sloppy dollop of Mel Brooks on top. Jarecki is the emcee, composer Brian Myers is at the piano, and a dark, mysterious figure plays saxophone in the shadows (that’s Next Act Artistic Director David Cecsarini).
Joe (Michael Pocaro) and Mary (Mary Kababik) have stumbled in to the club to seek refuge from the police sirens and the looters, and the well-cleavaged waitresses (Alexandra Bonesho and Carrie Hitchcock) keep their drinks a-comin’. The only other patron is a doo-ragged, leather-jacketed loner who keeps company with Jack Daniels (Drew Brhel).
Jarecki is simply “Big Guy,” a title that perfectly captures his damn-the-torpedoes optimism and joke-heavy patter (not to mention his California surfer attire). The patrons and employees here are seeking shelter, sure, but they are also waiting for a miracle of sorts. However hopeless the scene, Big Guy has learned that the show must go on.
And it’s quite a show. There’s more than a little Mother Courage in Big Guy, who spends much of his act hawking gadgets designed for the present and future apocalypse. There’s a credit-card-activated gas mask—one swipe gives you 10 minutes of fresh air. And a slow cooker specially designed for road kill. Big Guy even fits in several quick jingles for the pizza joint down the street, and when he’s told it’s being looted, he doesn’t miss a beat: “Sure! They do take out!”
Eventually, the café folks get what they are waiting for, but we’ll say no more about that. What needs to be said, however, is that this is first-rate satire—with free-wheeling, but well detailed performances. Keep a close eye on Hitchcock, who is making a welcome return to local stages after a long hiatus. She plays the shopworn showgirl with a delicious sneer that speaks volumes about enduring the relentless Pollyanna optimism that seemingly doesn’t let up at the cafe–from sun-up to crackdown.
Hitchcock is also the highlight of the first half of the evening, A.R. Gurney’s one-act comedy, Heresy. Now 84, Gurney is one of the grand old men of American playwriting, with a career that includes such restrained and incisive comedies like Sylvia, The Dining Room, Love Letters, and The Cocktail Hour. Occasionally tiring of this restraint, he also occasionally pens broadly satirical, political bombshells, most of which are produced at the small but highly respected Off-Off-Broadway Flea Theater.
Heresy, produced at The Flea in 2012, is the latest of these plays. The synopsis sounds promising. In the year 2020, a fellow named Chris, son of Mary and Joseph, gets arrested after some of his college speeches go viral on YouTube. Homeland Security arrests him because their message rankles an awful lot of people, given their general anti-consumer, share-the-wealth bent. His parents show up in a government office to find out what’s going on, and some of Chris’s friends stop by to explain the situation.
Gently rather than darkly satirical, Heresy is nonetheless a 10-minute comedy sketch stretched far beyond its welcome. Gurney repeats the same comedy bits, and eventually can’t resist his desire to lecture the audience, even having a character summarize Chris’s message on a white board, as if we’re a PTA group planning a pot luck rather recapping the spiritual teachings of a messiah setting an agenda for the survival of the human race.
The seven actors—and director Cecsarini–do their best with this material, with Hitchcock leading the way as the boozey WASPish wife of the Ponty Pilate (Brhel). But there are times when they seem none too excited by Gurney’s quick-sketch humor and dull didacticism, and are simply marking time and lines until they get to have some fun at the Crackdown Cabaret. We feel ya.
Photos by Timothy Moder.
