Grotesque human representations exercise a curious power, changing in seconds from objects of amusement to a source of menace. On the creepiness scale, puppets generally rank below clowns and ventriloquists' dummies—with the exception of England's own Lord of Misrule, the 374-year-old Mister Punch. Bearing virtually no resemblance to his Italian ancestor, Pulcinello of the Roman Commedia, the glove puppet with the crescent-moon profile and cudgel ever at the ready embodies the anarchy lurking beneath the veneer of civilization, offering—along with his companions—a dangerous role model for impressionable spectators. The protagonist of Kara Davidson's fable is one of these—an orphan preteen street urchin named Charlotte whom a haircut transforms into a boy named Charley so thoroughly as to never again require comment. The barber is Pietro Bologna, a puppeteer who agrees to take on the young vagrant as an apprentice to his traveling Punch-and-Judy show. From that point on, Davidson's play progresses on three levels of consciousness: the early-Victorian world of weary barmaids, crooked constables and blind beggars; the make-believe world of the puppets, whose brutal injuries—usually administered by Mister Punch, who then proclaims his triumph with a defiant "That's the way to do it!"—are dismissed as inconsequential; and the world of Charley's imagination, where these two spheres converge in disturbingly vivid detail. Vivid detail is House Theater's stock-in-trade. From the moment we are greeted by Kevin O'Donnell's cello-heavy musical score—later augmented by John Fournier's original songs, reflecting a mix of period styles and Broadway romanticism—we are immersed in a dramatic universe at once nebulous and pinpoint-specific. As is House custom, characters frequently cross the fourth wall to remind audience members that they are watching a play, reinforcing our orientation within its multiple dimensions—did I mention the sly historical references, scrambled though they may be?—so that nothing interrupts the narrative flow but is instead quickly absorbed in the dazzle of the fantasy conjured by puppet designer Jesse Mooney-Bullock and her associates. Director Shade Murray's nine-actor ensemble gallops apace with the speed and stamina of greyhounds for the two hours of the play's duration, led by former 500 Clown Adrian Danzig, whose portrayal of the volatile Pietro deftly conveys the dual nature of the artist, himself, and as he is revealed through his creations, the latter brought to life by the always-appealing House players. The spotlight, however, goes to newcomer Sarah Cartwright, whose delicately focused performance ensures that we share in every step of Charlotte/Charley's discoveries on the path to "the way to do it."
