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Longshoreman Eddie Carbone (Chris Pinto) and his wife Bea (Mindy Nirenstein) have raised their 17-year-old niece, Catherine (Willow Norton), as a daughter. Eddie is a simple man who provides for his family. Their working class lives are defined by their Sicilian occupied waterfront milieu, "the slum that faces the bay on the seaward side of Brooklyn Bridge ... the gullet of New York." Bea's illegal-immigrant cousins, Marco (Ben Newman) and Rodolpho (Jesse D. Lally) are brought into the household. Rodolpho and Catherine fall in love, which angers Eddie, who still doesn't understand his own, incestuous passion for Catherine. Lawyer Alfieri (Gene Stillman), a more educated part of the community, tries to forestall the inevitable tragic ending even though he knows that he is powerless to stop it. He can only sound the alarm. Eddie rats to Immigration, which leads to a showdown with Marco. Director Joe Zingo easily maximizes emotional crispness from his actors. Pinto does a good job of making Eddie a compassionate character, given the shortened script, which does not allow him to fully convey his love for Catherine. He nailed frustration and anxiety in his dialogues with Alfieri and his rage and vengeance were out-of-Prozac perfect. Lally was well cast as the handsome, effervescent Rodolpho and Ben Newman as the quiet, strong Marco. Willow Norton delivered a broad spectrum of believable emotions. Mindy Nirenstein, as Bea, seemed to carry the entire burden of the ongoing tragedy. Gene Stillman, as Chorus, offered clarity and a sense of reality with a well-developed, reflective characterization. View continues through Feb. 17. Willamette Repertory Theatre rains mirth and confusion in its first-ever William Shakespeare production, The Comedy of Errors, at the Hult Center. It is a first-class production suitable for everyone, including children. The language is easily understood. The action is exaggerated and continuous. The comedy is Three Stooges, Marx Brothers, Abbott and Costello, George S. Kaufmann and Dr. Seuss ("Sam I am" couplets) rolled into one. Warning: The words "ass" and "butt" are used frequently. The kids will love it. Confusion reigns when two sets of separated twins with the same names unknowingly spend a day in a small town doing business and having fun. Merchants deliver goods to one twin and demand payment from another. One's wife calls the other twin home where he falls in love with her sister. The conflict comes to its resolution as each twin confronts his mirror image of himself; thus creating the first quadruple take in theatre history. Comedy sparkles with the staging vision of guest director Dan Kremer, who has been an outstanding performer in Ashland for years. Extra touches are everywhere. A wily street beggar, the symbolic use of fruits and breads to describe the shipwreck that separated the twins, a disappointed executioner, and a sub-machine rooster fight all advance the clarity of the dialogue. Norm Spencer (scenic designer), Doug Clark (sound designer) and Alexandra B. Bonds (costume designer) deserve rave recognition for their talents. I found the women's roles were overshadowed by the more exaggerated and energetic performances of the men. Achilles Massahos and Patrick Torelle steal the show as the twin servants, Dromio and his other brother Dromio. Stephen Massott and Jeff Pierce were the master twins. Pierce was over-the-top funny on opening night. Dan Pegoda (Angelo, the goldsmith), Richard Leebrick (Balthasar) and Nick Levine (Dr. Pinch/ Headsman) all turn in well crafted, comedic characterizations. Comedy continues through Feb. 11.
I wheeled the old Toyota down Main Street in Springfield, pointing toward the McKenzie Highway, up the river, to Mole's house for a special dinner hosted by the Mole himself and his wife, whom I had never met. The sun was beginning to set, turning horsetail cirrus into pink feathers against a purpling sky, painting the river a color like pewter bordered by dark belts of fir and winter-bare oaks. I didn't know what to expect. Some kind of underground burrow where Mole and Mrs. Mole -- a matched pair, tiny creatures with vaguely rodent features -- had dug into the hillside? Or maybe some rocky bunker in sun-starved shadows where only night creatures find their way? I'd had a red-faced instant when he'd tendered the invitation: I hadn't even thought about where or how he lived and couldn't imagine him married. He'd watched my face, and when I stammered acceptance, he'd just given a characteristic cackle, "Heunh-heunh-heunh." Mole is my main snitch. While I try to snoop the wicked ways of the wine world, Mole has uncanny abilities that back my play. For one, his snout detects at a whiff the essential element of wine -- flavor complexity. For another, he's able to sidle almost invisibly through any crowd of serious winepros, picking up vineyard reports, problems in the winery, endless tidbits of insider dope. The sleuthing jobs come to me, but Mole is my edge. Following Mole's tiny map, I wound along the river, finally arriving at a simple log cabin with a thick shake roof, dark green trim around windows and doors. I glimpsed a corner of a high deck perched on thick beams above the river, now almost black with glints of silver and gold. A trickle of smoke rose from the river-rock chimney. An aura of warmth surrounded the place. The door swung open almost immediately, revealing Mole's smiling mug and twinkling eyes behind prism-thick glasses. He wore a smoking jacket of deep red satin over a brilliant white shirt. "Hey, Sleuth, ya found us. Heunh-heunh," he cracked, swinging the door wide. "Hiya, Mole. Nice digs. Thanks f' the invite," I came back. He took my fedora while I scoped the interior, amazed: Big open space, living area and dining room facing huge windows on the river. Walls paneled in varnished pine, hung with paintings, Indian masks, Navajo rugs, one area floor to ceiling bookcase spilling over with cookbooks and wine classics. Comfortable leather couches, color of melted butter. Huge Persian carpet, complex patterns of burgundy and gold. Cracking flames in the fireplace. Tall red tapers cast soft light over a round table set with white cloth, sparkling crystal and silver, red napkins. "Molly," Mole called, "Sleuth's here." I braced myself, put on a smile. She came from behind a partition that hid the kitchen. She was beautiful, maybe couple inches over five feet, age early 40s, curly auburn hair with wisps of gray at the temples, wide smile and dancing green eyes. She rushed me into an embrace, "So glad you could come." She kissed my cheeks and I touched skin soft as pastry flour but with steel beneath. She trailed a scent of sugar and white flowers as she guided me to the table. "Everything's ready, a simple dinner really, but Anthony found some lovely wines. We'll have time to tour with the brandy." Mole served, grinning hugely. We began with montrachet cheese, soft and white, rolled in fresh garden herbs, served with lightly buttered toast rounds and tall flutes of Korbel Extra Dry Sparkling Wine ($9). I gave Mole the bent eye: "Extra dry" is usually slightly sweeter than brut, and Korbel is a mass producer. The goof just giggled. The wine and the cheese made music, the touch of sweet a melody of citrus and apple. Lovely. Next came a composed salad of tropical fruits on a bed of baby greens dressed with a guava-based vinaigrette and sprinkled with sunflower seeds. Mole poured LaVelle 1999 Riesling ($8); its pear/peach flavors, mineral notes and crisp acidity just chimed with the salad. I was nearly speechless. For entree, we supped on slow-smoked pork loin with a spicy pepper rub. The meat was tender and Mole (Anthony!) filled glasses with dark red A Mano 1999 Primitivo ($10) from the Puglia region of Italy. The grape is probably a distant relative of zinfandel; it yielded soft cherry-like fruit, a hint of chocolate, slight herbal notes, jumpy spice to match the pork and black bean and corn side. Perfect. Dessert was simple, a light flan, creamy and airy. The wine was Eola Hills 1997 Vin d'Epice ($18/.375 ml), gewurztraminer grape, spicy unctuous, rich with notes of honey and apricot. After dinner, we warmed by hand snifters of Don Pedro Brandy ($20) while the charming, laughing Molly led a tour through the house, ending on the deck. Too stunned to drive, I let them put me under a down comforter on a big brass bed. I dreamt of wandering in a magical forest, lost, too dumb to know real from false, except for the food and the wine, and a sound like heunh-heunh.
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