"The 39 Steps," at the Huntington Theater -- Why?

If you are steeped in PBS dramas, comedies, and mega-series from Britain, you might like this play.

If you love Alfred Hitchcock's films, have seen them all three or four times, and are waiting for the next biography about him, one of his friends, or someone writing about him, to come out, you might like this play.

If you love funny exaggerations about the Scots, you definitely will like this play.

If you like the three stooges, you probably will like this play.

If you like everything British, and think you should have been born British, or think that perhaps you actually have a British soul even though you're not sure what that means, you might like this play.

If you like Sid Caeser's comedy show from the 50s (I've seen footage of it), you could like this play.

If you like all of the above, or resemble all of the above, you will surely like this play.

If you keep asking yourself the question, "Why was this play written? I mean, like, if it was written in 1949, I might say, sure, it's cute and funny. But why was it written now?" -- if you keep asking that question, you won't like this play.

Here's Marilyn on the play: "Well, if I finish a play, and I'm not totally bummed out and grossed out by it, then, yeah, I think it was a good play."

Great performances, especially the two clowns, who are exemplars of vaudevillian showmanship. The scenery and stage were a little too spare and dark (I know the idea was to spoof the Hitchcock noir ambience, but I was getting confused by the slapstick comedy fighting with the brooding darkness).

I basically fall into the category of the first few paragraphs above, and so I can agree with Marilyn...but I don't know why this play exists.

Ken Burns's "The War": not the same emotional experience as "The Civil War"

After two episodes of "The War" on PBS, we're absorbed by it, and are learning new things about that huge war and our involvement in it -- yet, I think it doesn't move with the same emotional weight that the Civil War series had. There's a storytelling element that isn't quite here. The Civil War had layers and layers of detail about people, much of it from their letters, or from historians, or from the wonderful commentators that Burns had (think of Shelby Foote). We got to live more of that series in our own imaginations.

Here, we're relying on the massive documentary footage. Of course. Yet, it's mute. The stories of the men and women who lived through the scenes are powerful, but somehow filtered by distance and time. The narration doesn't quite color the scenes.

You could say that Burns's more literary approach for the Civil War better fit the era, but I think it has more to do with the power of the literary word when telling history, when telling stories, whether from fifty years ago or a hundred fifty years ago.

A side note: the music for this series doesn't thread its way through as elegantly as the Civil War's music did. The music was identifiable, rich, and evocative. It was immediately recognizable and was repeated as codas and themes. With this series, we have big band music, alternated with occasional piano dirges and what sounds like a Japanese stringed instrument. It's not quite connecting the scenes and narrative.

It's a huge achievement, and I want to see the rest of it. But it's a different experience from the Civil War.

Theatre de la Jeune Lune's "Figaro"

Last Sunday, we saw "Figaro" the companion piece to the opera-play-circus "Don Juan Giovanni". But Figaro was a more cohesive production and had a trimmer narrative. We understood who the people were, and mostly what they were doing. Almost all the wonderful things we felt about Don Juan were here as well, the great singing, the great stagecraft, and the surprising acting performances (especially Momoko Tanno as Susanna, who doesn't get the mention and praise she deserves, at least not from Louise Kennedy at the Globe in her review of Figaro).

Why does Figaro -- Fig, to the count -- stay with the Count and continue serving him? The French Revolution is upending everything. Riots in the streets. The guillotines working. And yet, Fig stays with that tiresome, demanding, demented old fool. It can't be for the money -- the Count doesn't appear to have any left. His estate is about to be taken over by the mobs. Fig complains and rails at the count, sure, but there he is, preparing the Count's dinner, taking a beating outside the front gates of their house in order to get food for him, rushing -- yes, rushing -- to get a chair for the old man as he motions to sit down, waiting for trusty Fig to place the chair under him.

This is the man who attempted to humiliate Fig on his wedding day, attempted to invoke his sexual seignorial rights with Fig's bride, Susanna, and this is the man who boasts of it and taunts Fig even now.

And there is Fig, still getting that chair. I feel overwhelmed. It's so true. Of course Fig gets the chair for the Count. I don't know why, but I know it has to happen.

Once again, as in DJG, a ridiculous bit of simulated sex, utterly untrue to the spirit of the scene, the characters, or the play.

I would say that DJG evoked our emotions on a bigger, more chaotic scale than did Figaro.

There was that scene from Don Juan Giovanni -- the beautiful soprano bicycling around the stage, singing. Her foolish boyfriend tries to catch her, make her stop. She pedals faster and faster, singing and taunting the clueless fellow. Finally, the poor guy can't stand it any more and he collapses on his face while she pedals offstage -- cheerfully singing. We laughed and laughed.

"Don Juan Giovanni" at the American Repertory Theater

Last night at the ART, there were moments of this Theatre de la Jeune Lune opera-play-gymnastic production that made my heart race. It had some of the best theater I've seen in my life. The climax to Act One is the ensemble singing "Viva le Libertate!" as the huge battered black car lurches across the stage, the singers hugging the exterior and raising their fists in the air as they sang. I wanted to jump out of my seat, join them and help push the car out into the street to march around Harvard Square singing. And who knows and who cares why you're singing "Long Live Freedom!" at that point?

This is the second Theatre de la Jeune Lune production we've seen (saw Carmen last year). I loved the choreography and singing. It was nicely paced and the music and tempo worked the audience toward the various climactic moments. The physical agility of the actors was astounding and circus-like: they skipped and danced on the moving car, bicycled and ran around the enormous stage, kissed and caressed -- and all of it while singing Mozart! Then tension and sense of danger on stage was like watching trapeze artists.

The exhilaration I felt made me forget that what was actually happening on stage was...kind of scatterbrained. Why are we seeing that young Don Giovanni on the stage? He's not part of any narrative I could figure out, although he's a great singer, and his sidekick Leporello was terrific (the performer Bradley Greenwald played him as an Italian thug with a real sense of menace mixed with comedy). And how does Don Juan finally get thrown to Hell in the end? I couldn't figure it out (although it is a deus ex machina, in any case).

But I'm willing to live with the flaws.

Is the production saying that morality and God really don't matter? That morality is all hypocrisy in any event? The play/opera's heart seems to be with the cynical Don Juan (we loved Dominique Serrand in the role -- but Don Juan is still a bastard) and the confused rants from the frenetic Sganarelle. It can only be evil and self destructive to repeatedly lie and cheat Donna Anna (played and sung by Momoko Tanno, who sang so gorgeously). In this production, there's no satisfaction in the comeuppance that Don Juan suffers.

Other things we could have lived without: the brief instances of mock urination, simulated sex, and the juvenile jokes about George Bush and Republicans. These seemed awkward, almost grotesque attempts to establish street cred with the well-off Cambridge audience. These instances diminished the play, but they were fortunately overwhelmed by the rest of it -- the river of music and visual fantasy.

As we filed out, the out of breath actors stood in a receiving line in the lobby. What a wonderful idea. We shook each of their hands, and gushed to them about how much we loved their work and the production. It was inspiring.