Vital Signs, Series Two

Superlative acting and strong writing were the hallmarks of Vital Signs, Series Two. Relationships continued to be explored in this second installment of Vital Theatre's New Works Festival, and if the explorations were no less dour or depressing than in the first installment, there was a marked difference in the quality, tone, and sophistication of the works presented.

Ty Adams's Ice Fishing Prostitute was dominated by a bathtub bubbling over with (presumably, and hopefully) warm soapy water and the sensationally moving performance of Helen P. Coxe. A longtime loser ruminating on the awfulness of her life with gritty but plucky determination is the central conceit of Adams's vivid if didactic play. But, ably directed by Andrea "Spook" Testani, Adams's writing supplied a tour de force for Coxe, who did do wonders despite the restricted movement dictated by the script. (Also featuring the wonderfully gravelly Andrew Jarkowsky in a role that might not be needed.)

Sports or Else, by Al Sjoerdsma, is little more than an extended skit that relies on well-worn gags about men addicted to sports and the women who love them. Directed by Greg Thorson with a microphone in each hand, the loudly performed piece relied heavily on the abundant charm of its players, with Michael Brandt a standout. (Also featuring Teegan Ahrens, Kevin Murphy, and the versatile voices of Norm Isaksson.)

In the funniest work of the evening, Eric R. Pfeffinger's juicy Blood, friendship, big business and a fascination with bodily fluids were skewered with a dark but merry glee. Brandi Smith directed as if she were having the time of her life, and the sense of seriously sly fun that infused the text and performers (Beth Bailey, Elise Falanga, and Ehren Conner Christian, all three talents to reckon with) was generously shared with the audience as well.

There were moments of sublime realization in Cory Hinkle's Sex and Cigarettes, in which a young woman's bad dream leads to the thing that most young men fear: the 3:00 a.m. relationship talk. Jeff McDonnell was appealing as the frustrated Jon; Tina Frantz less so, but she was hindered by the less sympathetic role. Michelle Travis directed with a sensitive hand, although the use of four lit cigarettes in the space of 15 minutes was questionable, as an acrid blue haze filled the tiny theatre for the remainder of the evening.

Luckily, Chicken Man, by David Folwell, was short and sweet. A father, working in a chicken suit to pay the bills, is confronted by his truant 12-year-old son about his parent's impending separation. Cynthia Thomas's sure-footed direction avoided the inherent sit-com pathos of Folwell's script, and she got outstanding performances from Rob Sheridan and Joshua Paul Marmer as father and son respectively, Sheridan particularly wonderful given the (fabulous) chicken suit he had to wear.

The one-size-fits-all production design (set by Michael Schloegl and Jane Shepard; technical consultant: Ted Stearns; production coordinator: Rene Ragan) once again served admirably, with special kudos this time out for that bathtub!