Review Preview times 2: Frankie and Johnny; Tartuffe

Another busy weekend, no wonder my golf game suffered. And it doesn't help to come home to serious computer issues (no time or patience to explain, but Internet access takes some improvisation).

But the information must flow, so here's a draft of my combined review of Frankie and Johnny at the Clare De Lune and Tartuffe. To Tartuffe or not to Tartuffe? That is the question answered ahead.
If you want to go:
What: “Frankie and Johnny in the Clare De Lune”
When: through Nov. 4
Where: Parsippany Community Center, 1130 Knoll Road, Lake Hiawatha section
How much: $15, $13 seniors
Info: (973) 316-3033

If you want to go:
What: “Tartuffe”
When: through Oct. 28
Where: Matthews Theatre, McCarter Theatre Center, 91 University Place, Princeton
How much: $12 to $55
Info: (973) 316-3033

By WILLIAM WESTHOVEN
Staff Writer
A bountiful harvest awaits theater fans this autumn in New Jersey. Two current productions reflect the wide variety of choices—one is a straightforward approach to a contemporary work, and the other an abstract, contemporary take on an old classic.
The former may be the easier pill to swallow, at least for adult patrons. “Frankie and Johnny at the Clare De Lune” is one of the more provocative dramas staged in recent years by the Women’s Theatre Company. Now in its third year at the Parsippany Community Center, Barbara Krajkowski’s little professional company is hoping to make a big noise this year with a fresh approach that includes plays written by men as well as women. The choice of Terrence McNally’s two-character drama should attract younger audiences eager to experience a daring, edgy and intimate story in an equally intimate space.
So close to the stage, the audience becomes voyeurs, almost uncomfortably close to a pair of lonely, middle-aged coworkers who one night become lovers. We arrive before the first deed is done, greeted by grunts, groans and moans in the dark. The light gradually reveals Frankie and Johnny, a waitress and cook, respectively, at the Clare De Lune diner in Manhattan.
We soon realize Frankie (Susan Barrett) also is uncomfortably close to Johnny, whom she liked enough to have sex with, but would rather he didn’t spend the night.
On the other side of the bed, Johnny (Lenny Bart) is convinced he’s found his true love and won’t leave until she realizes it as well. She spends the next 90 minutes pointing to their differences. He admits to more faults than even she sees, but is hardly discouraged. He also has a knack for discovering their common ground (both are originally from Allentown, both have mothers who left them at age 7, both refer to the refrigerator as the ice box).
Both are desperately lonely, not getting any younger and well aware that the years have not been kind to them. Barrett and Bart both turn in fearless performances, revealing warts and more in various stages of undress (neither quite makes it to completely naked). Barrett takes a little longer, however, to connect with her character’s profound sadness. It takes an impassioned monologue by Johnny, phoning a song request to a radio host, to bring genuine tears to her eyes. From that point, late in the first act, she’s terrific.
Bart lets it all hang out from the opening curtain. Johnny may be a bit of a creep, bordering on stalker, but Bart warms the character with a relentless, cheerful sincerity that is nearly irresistible.
Director Lauren Moran Mills gets the credit for assisting the chemistry of the players, while the narrow, New York-style apartment flat from set designers Gerg Moran and Kathrynne Forsbrey is both functional and realistic.
In Princeton, the set is neither functional nor realistic for “Tartuffe,” the familiar 17th century Moliere comedy about a Rasputin-like grafter who dupes a wealthy man into signing away his daughter and, eventually, his entire net worth. The partially obscured bedroom at stage left looks like a typical “Tartuffe” set, but the rest of the large Matthews Theatre stage is nearly bare. Two large, grey walls, in back and stage right, contain large video screens, airing a live feed from the bedroom. It’s a jittery digital broadcast from a young woman, video designer Alexandra Eaton, wearing a casual test-pattern t-shirt and operating a hand-held camera.
The cast is fine and Richard Wilbur’s English verse translation of Moliere’s original French is always a pleasure. But the odd staging, in and out of the room, seems blocked merely to provide interesting camera angles. You may get the uneasy feeling that this approach could have been applied to any revival with equal impact, or lack of the same. “Tartuffe” seems a random choice — or victim — for director Daniel Fish’s uncertain vision.
Perhaps it’s the You Tube influence on our culture, which apparently has made it all the way to the Ivy League. But if I wanted to watch videos, I could have stayed home. And with “Frankie and Johnny” in the neighborhood, Princeton suddenly seems far away.