Blind Date With a Terrorist 

About halfway through Rebecca Gilman's Boy Gets Girl, when magazine writer Theresa Bedell begins to realize that she's being stalked by a guy she met on a blind date, fellow staffer Mercer Stevens comes up with a provocative idea for a feature story. Mercer's idea is that the stalker's inability to take no for an answer may be inspired and blessed by innumerable models, from movies and literature, where persistent heroes are rewarded with a lady's love after persevering in the face of that same lady's explicit rejection. The male notion that a guy is entitled to a "fair chance" to prove himself worthy of the woman of his choice is obviously anathema to all true feminists. But Boy Gets Girl, as it turns out, isn't a feminist tract. Theresa balks at having her predicament used as fodder for a magazine spread, so Mercer eventually agrees to abandon his stalking analysis -- even though he feels that Theresa's objections are groundless.

Seen last week in a wonderfully intimate studio production at Davidson College, Boy Gets Girl doesn't spring out of smug theories. It assaults the audience with compelling questions and situations that arise unexpectedly -- but convincingly -- from the interactions of imperfect people.

Those imperfect people certainly include Theresa. She may be wrong in her conclusion that she wasn't ready for a new relationship when she agreed to a blind date with Tony Ross. She's definitely wrong when she attacks Mercer's sympathetic motivations. And her professionalism flies hilariously out the window when she allows her personal problems to interfere with her assignment of interviewing a sleazeball moviemaker.

In Gilman's quirky exploration of sexual terrorism, Theresa actually evidences some personal growth as a result of her harrowing ordeal. She writes her jaundiced account of the smut pusher, her editor reluctantly publishes it, and her subject is grateful. Why? Because in emphasizing Les's photographic fixation on large female breasts, she's simply telling the truth, and because the publicity winds up landing Les an opportunity to fill his lens one last time with pulchritude, enhancing his perverse cult status.

So, the lonely, hospitalized septuagenarian sends flowers and invites Theresa for a visit. In a zany scene that's poignantly comical and quietly disturbing, Theresa accepts Les for the amiably lecherous profiteer he truly is and consents to spend a half hour at his bedside watching an episode of Jeopardy. Significant progress in Theresa's ability to trust.

But the upshot of Tony's terrorist campaign is overwhelmingly negative. Theresa is damaged irrevocably before he ever touches her, and she must make terrible sacrifices to win back even a semblance of her former freedom. When we last see her, she has decided to leave New York and turn from the work she loves to covering a sports beat. Forced to change her name, Theresa doubts she will ever see her estranged brother again.

Meanwhile ,Tony is still at large, presumably in search of a new woman who will reject him and ignite his rage. Gilman leaves Tony lurking on the outskirts of the action throughout Act II, effectively terrorizing us. Pacing flowed briskly as set designer Joe Gardner cleverly divided the stage into three performing spaces: Theresa's desk at the magazine office, the bedroom at her apartment, and the place where she meets her perverted menfolk. Student director Bill Neville worked admirably with his cast to keep the nerve-wracking scenes real. Only the pivotal scene where Theresa receives a threatening letter from Tony -- a violent violation of a criminal court restraining order -- needed guidance from a new set of eyes.

Without ever appearing to labor at the task, Beth Gardner seamlessly joined all the complex facets of Theresa together -- her independence, her crippling self-doubts, her grim determination, her helpless terror, and her winsome pluck. Similarly, Parker Dixon wraps his frail arms around the ignorance and presumption of Tony, though a more intimidating presence might have been welcome.

The relative youthfulness of Chris Walters as Mercer and Thomas Mills as the editor took more of a toll than it did for Gardner, especially for Walters playing Howard, the decisive editor. Cahit Ece was so inappropriate as the 70+ Les that it hardly mattered after a while -- his hugely frank sexist piggishness bridged the gap.

Clopping across the stage in platform heels, Christina Ritchie endowed Theresa's secretary with the requisite earnestness and dopiness. Marshay Hall rounded out the cast as Police Officer Beck, calm and serious with a nice womanly empathy for Theresa's plight -- but only capable of providing paltry relief and security.

"I want my name back!" Theresa cries out in the shocking last scene. But she can't have it. Boy Gets Girl is the most unsettling stage piece I've seen since Extremities, where a woman's response to similar sexual predatory actions is to descend into savagery. Here the response is more natural and thought-provoking. It marks Gilman as a playwright to watch closely in the future.

One of the most interesting aspects of Miracle on 34th Street, now playing at Spirit Square, is how it lovingly wraps the commercialism it critiques in its warm, beefy embrace. Our good Kris Kringle would have been tossed out onto the street by Macy's for directing Christmas-shopping parents to rival Gimbel's if it hadn't been for the unexpected positive PR that Kris's honesty brought to his employer. Not to mention the avalanche of positive customer feedback and the boost in retail sales.

When Kris stands trial, it's the materialistic Christmas wishes of children across the nation, the overblown coverage of the press corps, and the eagerness of US government postal workers to liquidate excess inventory that combine to create Kris's miraculous validation as Santa Claus. You could hardly ask for a heartier affirmation of greed and self-interest.

Children's Theatre does a beautiful job emphasizing the spectacle. Jim Gloster, who has probably mastered the design challenges of McGlohon Theatre better than anyone, provides a superbly upbeat, urban, and versatile set. Director Jill Bloede assembles a high-energy cast, including some welcome new adult and child performers, and gets more comedy out of the script than any Miracle you'll ever rent. Still, the normally resourceful CT doyenne needs to tidy up some of the scene changes to take better advantage of Gloster's smooth-shifting set pieces.

Wonderfully warm and wise, Dennis Delamar has Kris beautifully measured. Even where the script surgery has been too radical, rushing Kris to the Belleview asylum where he fails his psychological exams in a fit of despair, Delamar's despondency meshes well with the powerful scene at Macy's that precedes it.

Charlotte Parrott is adorable as skeptical Susan Walker, the tot who gives Santa his tallest order. She has a terrific rapport with Delamar and with Joanna Gerdy, who plays Susan's faith-challenged mom. Madeline Jurch turns in a smashing debut, entering the courtroom as the DA's daughter and stealing a scene. Three infectiously comical elves -- John Cahill, Katie Goforth, and Janae Moore -- also take their turns upstaging Santa and the adults.

Best comic licks among the adults were delivered by Alan Poindexter as Macy's neurotic vocational guidance counselor, sputtering with spite. Peter Smeal lends his considerable girth to the Drunken Santa in a crowd pleasing cameo, then returns as Mr. Gimble to spread more tainted Christmas cheer opposite Aaron Moore's opportunistic R.H. Macy.

Mark Sutton is Fred Gayley, the intrepid lawyer who strives to prove Kris's Santahood and win Susan's mom over to romance. Carl McIntyre as the DA and Charles LaBorde as the judge deftly play up their presumption that Kris's trial will be an open-and-shut case -- and their astonishment when it isn't.

Want a less sentimental take on a Christmas evergreen? The new CT Miracle is the ticket. Never fear, plenty of the old sap still remains to touch your heart.

Every time I see The Last Night of Ballyhoo, playwright Alfred Uhry's warm, salty humor comes through beautifully. Counting the new Charlotte Rep edition that I saw at Booth Playhouse last Saturday, I've now seen this Southern-fried Jewish comedy three times: once on Broadway in 1997, the year it opened and won the Tony Award, and twice here at the PAC.

The Rep's recipe for bringing out the Southern flavor of Uhry's comedy seems to work better than Broadway's. Under company founder Steve Umberger's direction, Rep first brought Ballyhoo to the Booth in the fall of 1998. Now as part of their 25th anniversary celebration, Rep is bringing back this popular audience fave a bit closer to the Christmas season, where most of the action takes place. Umberger's back at the helm with six of the seven members of his original cast and a subtly improved version of Jim Gloster's award-winning set.

You still don't have to be Jewish to savor the absurdity of Lala Levy, the would-be Scarlett O'Goldberg of Atlanta, and her outrageous beau, the flame-haired Peachy Weil, coming all the way from Lake Charles for the famed Ballyhoo ball. In fact, I'd say Rep's Ballyhoo 2 is funnier than ever. Kacey Camp and Josh Gaffga both turn up their laughably irritating energy by at least a notch, making the red-headed couple an even more outre match.

Mary Lucy Bivins has sharpened her deadly comic delivery as Boo, Lala's long-suffering and insufferable mama. Michael Edwards is no less lethal as Adolph Freitag, the generous soul who somehow endures both nutty Levys in his household.

The unmistakable undercurrent here is the prejudicial contempt of German Jews toward the "other kind" who come to America from further east in Europe. Doubly ironic in 1939 Dixie when Hitler is beginning to implement his Final Solution.

But look deeper and you'll find that Ballyhoo is also about the fleeting chances we have in life to find happiness. Adolph and Boo have botched their opportunities and are now consigned to living under the same roof and making each other miserable. Lala, stupid and vain though she is, has this one last chance at Ballyhoo with Peachy, and it's poignant to see the lengths Boo will go to -- even cruelty -- to make sure her only daughter doesn't miss out.

The little princess we really care about, however, is Lala's more studious cousin, Sunny Freitag. With Elizabeth Diane Wells taking over the role, the chemistry between Sunny and Joe Farkas sparks with a luminous urgency. Joe is a Brooklyn-born Jew who's aware of Hitler, aware of how far the Freitags have strayed from true Judaism, but unaware that he has landed smack in the middle of that prejudice against the "other kind" -- as a target. Tim Ross plays the romantic lead with an ardor for Sunny as intense as his fierce Jewish pride.

Rebecca Koon rounds out the cast as Sunny's mom, a good-hearted simple-minded gem of a role that I only wish Koon would deliver louder. Otherwise, she's perfection.

Rep's 1998 Ballyhoo was on par with the Broadway version, and Ballyhoo 2 is better. Like more conventional Yule classics, it rewards repeated viewing. So whether you've seen the Rep version before or not, don't hesitate.*