Marc Miller

It's a miniature: small in cast, production, and running time (an hour ten). So why do so many peculiarities crop up? First, what era are we in? The chatter sounds current, but current events are never raised, no one carries a phone, and when someone's arranging a future meeting, it's always, "I'll call." (Stephanie Bahniuk's costumes, attractive in themselves, are no help in pinpointing a time period.) Why does nearly every scene begin with someone entering while someone else is waiting, and an exchange of, "Sorry about that," "That's OK"? When the reunited Denise and Anna mention Cora and somberly stop in midthought as though something dreadful happened to her, why is that the last of that? And why is the final scene a replaying of the first, too much of it, with a new beginning–Cora having unaccountably become a famous author–and a new coda? The new dialogue rehashes events in their lives that wouldn't have happened yet, and the looping around suggests that maybe this whole play is happening in Cora's mind, or maybe isn't happening at all, it's just O'Rowe going on about women's friendships, the gossamer ramblings blanketing the strong emotions underneath. It's a jolt of a finish, a trait it shares with Ulster American, its Irish Rep upstairs neighbor.

With a title like Chinese Republicans, you're bound to wonder what the heck you're in for. But Alex Lin's new play at the Roundabout Theatre Company's Laura Pels is, in fact, about Chinese Republicans, a very specific sub-variety of them. And, for the most part, save a couple of regrettable playwrighting missteps, they're an engaging crew–the sort of people you don't normally encounter onstage and probably know little about.

The press rep at Irish Repertory Theatre, always helpful and cheery, seemed even more effusive than usual, as if she were about to hand out tickets to a winner. She wasn't wrong. The Honey Trap, Irish Rep's New York premiere of Leo McGann's drama, is a finely wrought, deeply emotional account of a difficult moment in Irish history (aren't they all?), anchored by a stellar lead performance, and culminating in one of the tensest scenes I've seen on a stage in years.

They're likable characters, they tell beguiling spooky little yarns. But what large truths are being revealed, what is there beyond a pleasant slice-of-life nod to the traditions of Irish storytelling? In those elements, it lacks weirwithal.

Hold Me in the Water is romantic, touching and funny, and as the commitment-level conflicts in the relationship arise, we feel genuine concern. Near the end, Haddad poses to the audience some questions that, in their pointedness and provocativeness, amount to something of a coup de théâtre. Essentially, in many permutations, he asks: Could you love a disabled person? And for many the answer will be, yes, I could, if they were as cute and charming as Ryan J. Haddad. That's admittedly a tall order.