Review - Slava's Snowshow & Dust

While there are many artistically pleasing features to be seen on stage in SLAVA'S SNOWSHOW, the Russian clown piece that returns to New York for a limited Broadway run, you can also have a heck of a good time if you just like having things thrown at you, dropped on you, sprayed at you or bouncing off of you.

It all starts as soon as you enter the theatre, where the floors are already covered with drifts of white paper rectangles, a/k/a snowflakes. (Be careful you don't slip on 'em walking down those steep aisles while getting to your seat.) As soon as any kid in the audience realizes that, even though the stuff doesn't stick together, you can still gather up a handful of it and throw it at a neighbor, the fun has begun. Throughout the show, the white stuff might fall on you gently, be blown at you forcefully or just drop from the ceiling and land on your head in a great clump. Smoke, water, someone's overcoat and the contents of a patron's shopping bag are among the other things that might be propelled in your direction at any time during the evening.

And there's some pretty neat stuff happening on stage, too. Slava Polunin, who created and staged the festivities, alternates performances as Yellow (the guy in the baggy yellow jump suit) with Derek Scott (who I saw) and Robert Saralp, a la Billy Elliot. When I attended, Ivan Polunin was his sidekick, Main Green (named after the color of his trench coat), but that role might be played by any member of the identically dressed ensemble known as the Green Team (Spencer Chandler, Johnson, Tatiana Karamysheva, Dmitry Khamzin, Christopher Lynam, Fyodor Makarov, Elena Ushakova).

Now remember, this is clowning brought to you by the people whose idea of side-splitting comedy is The Seagull, so in manner and make-up the crew leans toward the dark, disheveled and deadpan side. I can't really explain why routines like Slava talking on the phone or the Green Team miming to some old Russian folk sing are funny, but you'll have to trust me. Some of the biggest gales of laughter are provoked by short, sharp, sardonic looks out to the audience.

Art director Gary Cherniakhovskii and lighting designer Alexander Pecherskiy create a beautifully placid arrangement of shapes and tones that might make you feel like you're watching the show through a multi-colored lava light.

Those sitting in the balcony may feel excluded from some of the fun, particularly when the gang starts walking through the house on arm rests and chair backs, performing all sorts of abuse on willing targets. Arachnophobics (and maybe even claustrophobics) sitting in the center orchestra section might get a little freaked out at the bit that closes the first act, but everyone seems to be having a blast after curtain calls, when dozens of large inflated balls, including a few enormous globes, are released into the crowd for everyone to bat about. The official running time for Slava's Snowshow is 90 minutes (including a 20 minute intermission) but when I attended most of the giddy customers stayed a good half-hour more, merrily swatting the floating objects in all directions.

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The best part of seeing Dust, Billy Goda's new Off-Broadway play which is optimistically billed as a thriller, is the chance to see cherub-faced Hunter Foster, known in New York primarily for playing comical romantic leads in musicals, get a chance to show some versatility as high-strung, drug addicted ex-con, out for revenge. It's a good, convincing performance that, in a better play, might have supplied some legitimate thrills, but despite some respectable work by director Scott Zigler and a capable cast, the material just ain't there.

The plot-driven play has very little character development to sustain interest, particularly when its initial, somewhat ridiculous conflict arises before the lights have had a chance to get warm. Corporate big-wig Martin (Richard Masur) notices some dust in an air vent while running a treadmill at the Essex House's gym and tells security guard Zeke (Foster) to clean it up. Zeke, following normal procedure, tries to call housekeeping to take care of the matter but Martin takes his nonchalant attitude as an act of disrespect and insists that he do it himself. When he refuses, Martin gets him fired and Zeke begins his revenge by picking up the exec's daughter, Jenny (Laura E. Campbell), in a bar.

The expected ingredients are there; some gunplay, some fisticuffs, a bit of partial nudity and an obligatory visit with a street-language spewing drug dealer (Curtis McClarin, who doubles as Zeke's parole officer), but Goda's plot moves slowly and his dialogue lacks energy. The supporting cast, which also includes John Schiappa as a menacing body guard, does fine with their one-note roles. The usually reliable Masur underplays to the point where most of his lines are spoken in a dull monotone, with sudden bursts of anger registering as artificial.

Perhaps the most amusing part of the evening is watching how set designer Caleb Wertenbaker uses posters and framed art to tell us what location his three-part unit set is supposed to represent in each scene. Zeke's home has a poster of Yankee star Don Mattingly, his dealer, Digs, has one featuring a big New York Giants logo and Jenny has a framed nude drawing. At least someone is helping to flesh out the characters a bit.