Tony Kiser Theater (Manhattan, NY)

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    Second Stage to Leave Its Rem Koolhaas-Designed Off Broadway Theater

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    The company said that it was leaving its space in a former bank in Times Square after 25 years because the rent was too high and the lease had unfavorable terms.Second Stage Theater, a leading nonprofit that presents work by living American writers both on and off Broadway, is giving up its Rem Koolhaas-designed Off Broadway home in a former bank near Times Square, saying its rent was too high and its lease had unfavorable terms.The theater company, which has nurtured multiple Pulitzer Prize- and Tony Award-winning shows over the years, until recently operated three theaters: the Hayes Theater on Broadway, an Off Off Broadway space on the Upper West Side and an Off Broadway theater, the Tony Kiser Theater, in a former bank building at the corner of West 43rd Street and Eighth Avenue.Last year, Second Stage gave up the lease on its Off Off Broadway space. Now it is also relinquishing the Kiser Theater, a 296-seat theater space where it has been presenting plays and musicals since 1999. The Broadway house has been unaffected by the changes. The company said it was committed to continuing to produce work Off Broadway, and was searching for a new place in which to do so.Second Stage is letting go of the Kiser at a time of significant strain on nonprofit theaters everywhere, and at a time of transition for the organization. Carole Rothman, one of the company’s founders and now its president and artistic director, is leaving the organization this summer after a 45-year tenure; the board is conducting a search for her successor.The Second Stage board had agreed to an 8-year lease renewal for the West 43rd Street building in 2021, but decided late last year to exercise a one-time option that allowed it out of the lease at the end of this year.Lisa Lawer Post, the company’s executive director, cited financial concerns in explaining the decision by the organization’s board to terminate the lease for the West 43rd Street building, which is where the company presented early productions of shows including “Dear Evan Hansen,” “Next to Normal” and “Between Riverside and Crazy.”We are having trouble retrieving the article content.Please enable JavaScript in your browser settings.Thank you for your patience while we verify access. If you are in Reader mode please exit and log into your Times account, or subscribe for all of The Times.Thank you for your patience while we verify access.Already a subscriber? Log in.Want all of The Times? Subscribe. More

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      Review: A Shady Documentary Becomes a Weapon of War in ‘Spain’

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      Jen Silverman’s noir play considers the role of artists in the making of propaganda.“Financing is complicated when it comes to the arts,” says a low-budget filmmaker in Jen Silverman’s “Spain.” That’s hardly news, but the clever if murky play, which had its world premiere on Thursday at Second Stage Theater, offers a solution: Let the Soviets foot the bill.In Silverman’s telling, the filmmaker, Joris Ivens, a Dutchman working in the United States, is already an undercover infiltrator for Soviet interests when the Spanish Civil War breaks out in 1936. Over bloody steak in a dim restaurant, his handler “offers” him the chance to make a big-budget pro-Republican documentary whose theme would be “The Noble Peasant Crushed by the Rich Fascist.” The goal: to end American neutrality, overthrow Franco and change the world. The part about communizing the emergent republic by any means necessary is left unsaid.Ivens was a real filmmaker, and his movie “The Spanish Earth,” released in 1937, was a real cause célèbre among leftists and artists. The frenemies Ernest Hemingway and John Dos Passos did write the screenplay, as Silverman relates. The financial role of Soviet intelligence is debatable, but then so is the intelligence of those who failed to perceive the threat of Stalinist terror in what was obviously propaganda.Despite the actual names, “Spain” behaves like a work of fiction. Much honored as an artist in his lifetime, Ivens (Andrew Burnap) could not have been as dim, especially about film, as Silverman makes him. (He imagines shooting part of the documentary from an ant’s point-of-view, or a raindrop’s.) Nor, for all his faults, was Hemingway (Danny Wolohan) so complete a buffoon, given to shouting such hollow nonsense. (“We are all Spain! But how?”) And though turning Dos Passos (Erik Lochtefeld) into a whiny milquetoast is a questionable liberty, it’s less problematic than the way he’s set up as the play’s firm moral center. His later support for right-wing causes suggests that his own moral center was movable.To correct for such blurriness, Silverman throws a largely invented (yet somehow truer) character into the mix. Helen (Marin Ireland) is another infiltrator, given the assignment of assisting Ivens under cover of being his girlfriend. In Ireland’s typically incisive performance, here colored with a touch of period archness, she is fascinating to watch even when seemingly stuck with Burnap in a Möbius strip of suspicion and self-doubt. The scenes in which they wrangle over their goals as artists and as citizens — wondering whether making the movie might be morally acceptable despite the compromises and risks involved — are the best in the play.“Can a false story be so good,” Helen asks, “that it does something true?”Danny Wolohan, left, as Hemingway and Andrew Burnap as the Dutch filmmaker Joris Ivens in the play.Sara Krulwich/The New York TimesRegarding “Spain,” a synthetic yarn with too many twists to follow in 90 minutes, the answer to that same question is no. I soon stopped trying to make sense of it, realizing that the story didn’t matter; ultimately Silverman is less concerned with Russian influence in the Spanish Civil War than with the permanent problem of art in the world. A final underwhelming gesture takes us even further from the facts to consider whether Soviet-style propaganda really died with the Soviet Union or merely moved elsewhere, co-opting more artists in the process.Dramatizing that airy premise by marrying it to a familiar entertainment template does neither spouse any favors. Silverman’s dialogue has the clipped rhythm of screwball comedy but not the wit — strange, because several earlier works, including “Collective Rage: A Play in 5 Betties,” “The Roommate” and “The Moors,” are so pointedly funny. Here, despite the quite palpable efforts of the actors, even the best lines seem unable to escape the dark gravity of Tyne Rafaeli’s staging.To be fair, that staging is faithful to Silverman’s instructions in the script, which emphasize the conventions of noir thrillers. Certainly, the clichés of the genre are reproduced too numerously and obviously not to be purposeful: Brutalist black boxes with sliding panels; shadowy figures in evening dress; slanting shards of chiaroscuro; reverberant amplification and portentous music cues. (Sets by Dane Laffrey, costumes by Alejo Vietti, lighting by Jen Schriever, sound and original music by Daniel Kluger.)The overall effect is heavy, and less clarifying than perplexing. When we finally see a bit of Ivens’s film — not projected on a screen but enacted live onstage — it is for some reason an opera, featuring an aria (“We Pray for Rain”) sung by the big-voiced bass Zachary James, who otherwise plays a Soviet agent.It may be that we are not meant to parse the scene’s meaning, or anything else in this overloaded effort. “Spain” is, after all, a play about propaganda, which is most effective when swallowed whole, if only that were possible.SpainThrough Dec. 17 at Second Stage’s Tony Kiser Theater, Manhattan; 2st.com. Running time: 1 hour 30 minutes. More

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      Review: ‘White Girl in Danger’ Flips the Script on Soap Operas

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      Michael R. Jackson’s wild new musical satire is packed with a thesis’ worth of insight about fate and representation.What comes to mind when you think of soap operas? Amnesia, murders, cliffhangers, catfights?Think bigger.Even judged by the standards of “All My Children” and “Dynasty,” Michael R. Jackson’s satirical soap musical “White Girl in Danger,” which opened on Monday at the Tony Kiser Theater, is a wild, raunchy, overstuffed tale.Sure, it features amnesia and the rest, and mile-a-minute jokes, but the author of the Pulitzer Prize-winning “A Strange Loop” has also packed the nearly three hours of “White Girl” — way too long — with a thesis’ worth of insight and argument. By the time you get to the dildo slapping and the “Hairspray” parody, followed by the anguished yet hopeful finale, you no longer know what hilarious, despairing, muddle of a planet you’re on.Surely that was the plan. “White Girl in Danger,” directed by Lileana Blain-Cruz, is simultaneously set in a fictional soap opera world called Allwhite and a metaphorical one inhabited by ideas. Allwhite is dominated, of course, by its white characters: the high-school mean girls Meagan, Maegan and Megan (abused, bulimic, druggy), their mothers (smothering, manipulative, viperish) and their boyfriends (psychotic, supportive, dissolute). Among the girls especially, privilege is assumed; it allows them to “choose their own adventures.”Their priorities are a little off, though. The most pressing issue they face as the insanely catchy title song kick-starts the action is not so much the discovery, every few minutes, of another white schoolmate’s body in the Allwhite woods. It’s the way the deaths threaten their hopes of winning an upcoming battle of the bands. Who will be left to play autoharp?The Black inhabitants of Allwhite have different problems. The Allwhite Writer (represented at first by thunderbolts and a voice-over) has consigned them to the “Blackground,” there to serve as friends, helpers and (in inexplicable historical flashbacks) enslaved people picking cotton. Mostly they are resigned to their fate; it may not be very fulfilling but, except for “Police Violence Story Time,” it’s relatively safe.Latoya Edwards, center, as Keesha Gibbs, a soap opera “Blackground” player who wants a bigger role.Sara Krulwich/The New York TimesThat’s not good enough for Keesha Erica Kane Gibbs (Latoya Edwards). Her ambition is to transcend the Blackground and get an Allwhite story of her own, even if it means becoming a victim or a villain: “whichever one works.”This puts Keesha in conflict with the other Black characters, especially her mother, Nell Carter Gibbs (Tarra Conner Jones), who takes a more conservative approach as she rises from cafeteria lady to nurse and beyond. Also disapproving is Keesha’s D’Angelo-like ex-boyfriend, Tarik Blackwell (Vincent Jamal Hooper), who says she’s “hooked on that assimilation crack.” More fatefully, her schemes set her on a collision course with the Allwhite Writer himself.In Jackson’s complex and cross-linked encyclopedia of ideas, Nell and Keesha stand for a multitude of distorted representations of Black women in white culture, soap operatic or otherwise. He loves those representations but also loathes them, usually in the same breath; the ambivalence is the motor of the show’s satire, which scathes and kisses.Nell is the more familiar case: She’s the “Mammy” figure from “Gone With the Wind” and the title character from “Caroline, or Change,” even though they are nothing alike. The 11 o’clock number Jackson gives her, a ringer for “I Know Where I’ve Been” from “Hairspray,” provides the same full-throated thrill (in Jones’s titanic performance) as Motormouth Maybelle’s did in the earlier show, even as Jackson punctures its uplift by recasting it as “That’s Why I Kill.”And in Keesha’s quest for “an interblacktional bleminist movement that will liberate all Blackgrounds,” Jackson needles the jargon of trauma and revolution — and the bourgeois appropriation of victimhood he suggests it represents. Yet Keesha, as portrayed by the tireless Edwards, is also the eternal spirit of Black advancement spurred by bright young women from Beneatha Younger onward. It is not, we soon learn, just the Allwhite Writer who can’t make up his mind.If that leaves the characters confusing and hard to follow, well, they can join the club. Everything about “White Girl in Danger” is confusing and hard to follow. In the manner of soap operas, but with an absurdly fast twitch rate, personalities and plots get rewritten without notice. There’s very little for the actors to act except the twitch itself, which quickly grows tiresome through no fault of their own. Since most of them play three or more roles — Liz Lark Brown as all the white mothers, Eric William Morris as all the white boyfriends — they tend to blur into archetypes when they don’t whirl into inconsequence.Yet somehow the show remains compelling. Not because of the staging, which flags and — other than Montana Levi Blanco’s parade of laugh-out-loud costumes — is visually underpowered. (Even the constantly slamming doors wobble.) From Blain-Cruz and her set designer, Adam Rigg, who in last season’s “The Skin of Our Teeth” delivered many astonishments for the eyes, that comes as a surprise. Perhaps “White Girl,” despite being a coproduction of the Vineyard and Second Stage theaters, could not, on an Off Broadway budget, afford all its ambitions.In Jackson’s complex and cross-linked encyclopedia of ideas, Nell and Keesha stand for a multitude of distorted representations of Black women.Sara Krulwich/The New York TimesWhat keeps your attention most of the time as you watch, and certainly when thinking about it later, is the bounty and electricity of Jackson’s ideas, which derive as much from his long history as a soap opera lover as from his complex approach to the underlying conflicts of race and gender.Those conflicts, expressed in “A Strange Loop” through the voice and thoughts of just one character, are distributed more broadly in “White Girl,” a typical sophomore play problem (it’s chaotic and exhausting) but also an opportunity. Whether the opportunity can be exploited without exacerbating the problem, we must leave for future productions to discover. Stay tuned!It was in any case an opportunity worth taking. A glance at some of the “special thanks” in small type in the program gives you a sense of the fascinating breadth of Jackson’s high-low influences: Jackie Collins, Black musicals, “Fine-Ass Oiled Up Mens,” Soap Opera Digest, “PC/un-PC/woke/anti-woke” story lines, cultural neoliberalism and childhood loneliness.You can pretty much feel them all in “White Girl,” especially when a figure whose identity I won’t spoil (but is played beautifully by James Jackson Jr., one of the “thoughts” in “A Strange Loop”) arrives near the end as a kind of deus ex mess to untangle the show’s themes. Though that proves impossible, his attempt reminds us that ambivalence of all kinds, about people and love and stories and theater, is not a failure no matter what world you live in. Nor is it a success. It’s a start.White Girl in DangerAt the Tony Kiser Theater, Manhattan; 2st.com. Running time: 2 hours 50 minutes. More

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      New Musical From ‘Strange Loop’ Writer to Run Off Broadway

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      “White Girl in Danger,” a soap opera satire by Michael R. Jackson, will be staged in New York next spring by Second Stage and Vineyard theaters.As a child, Michael R. Jackson would religiously watch soap operas with his great-aunt. “Days of Our Lives.” “Another World.” “Santa Barbara.” “The Young and the Restless.”He kept watching through high school. He interned at “All My Children” in college. And then he moved to New York, hoping to become a soap opera writer.Instead, he became a dramatist, and an acclaimed one at that: His first musical, “A Strange Loop,” a meta take on a Broadway usher writing his own musical, won both the Pulitzer Prize for drama and the Tony Award for best musical, and it’s now running on Broadway.Next spring, his sophomore musical will arrive Off Broadway. It’s called “White Girl in Danger,” and it’s a race-conscious sendup of the soap opera genre.“White Girl in Danger” imagines a soap opera set in a town called Allwhite, with a group of Black characters, called Blackgrounds, who are featured only in story lines about slavery and policing. One of those characters, Keesha, seeks to break that pattern by seizing a central story line from a trio of white protagonists, Meagan, Maegan and Megan, but in so doing she also risks running afoul of an Allwhite killer.“There’s a lot of genre elements coming from the soap opera, Lifetime movie, melodrama world,” Jackson said. “The idea for the show was going to be a broad satire, but then these conversations around representation, diversity, equity, inclusion started to happen in the theater world, and I started to think about those issues, and suddenly one molecule attached itself to another.”Jackson has been developing the musical since 2017, and last summer the incubator New York Stage and Film presented a two-day, concert-style reading of it in the Hudson Valley.The musical, with a 12-person cast, will be jointly produced by two New York nonprofits, Vineyard Theater and Second Stage Theater, and will be staged next spring at Second Stage’s Tony Kiser Theater. The show, directed by Lileana Blain-Cruz and choreographed by Raja Feather Kelly, is scheduled to start previews on March 15 and open April 10. More

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      Review: In ‘Between the Lines,’ Romance Is Thwarted by Reality

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      A new Off Broadway musical, based on the best-selling young adult novel by Jodi Picoult and Samantha van Leer, is uneven but sweet, our critic writes.What a tricky business adaptations are. A musical based on a novel can never be the same as its source material, and it isn’t meant to be. But throw out too many of the original elements and you leave an audience wondering how you lost your way.Case in point: “Between the Lines,” the new Off Broadway musical based on the best-selling young adult novel of the same name, about a teenage romance thwarted by stubborn reality. The novel’s heroine, Delilah, lives in the same world we do, while Oliver, the boy she loves, is a fairy-tale prince trapped inside a book, forced to perform a princess-rescuing adventure each time a reader opens it.He and the other characters spend their lives on perpetual standby, waiting to be called to speak their lines. They are actors, in other words, and everything that happens in Oliver’s world when the book is shut is essentially a backstage drama. But that theatrical setup, so vital to Jodi Picoult and Samantha van Leer’s 2012 novel, gets hardly a glance in the musical, directed by Jeff Calhoun (“Newsies”) at the Tony Kiser Theater.The musical rebalances the story to center Delilah and her troubles. She’s a little older here — 17, not 15 — so her sudden interest in a children’s book is even more peculiar, but then again, she’s lonely. At school, she’s the friendless new kid; at home, she argues with her overwhelmed mother and misses her father, who left them and has a new family. It’s no wonder that her strongest impulse is to lose herself in fantasy.When Oliver starts speaking to her, she thinks she’s imagining it, but he swiftly becomes the ideal boyfriend — if only she could figure out how to bring him into her world.With a book by Timothy Allen McDonald and an innocuous score by Elyssa Samsel and Kate Anderson, “Between the Lines” has significant assets in Arielle Jacobs, who brings a savvy-sweet appeal to Delilah, and Jake David Smith, who makes Oliver a comically good-hearted naïf.“I had a fight with my mom,” Delilah tells him one night, the fairy tale open to the only page where he’s alone and can speak freely. “She loses it every time I mention my dad.”“Ah!” Oliver says, all sympathy. “Was he taken by a dragon?”These two are adorable, and so is Frump (Will Burton), Oliver’s floppy-haired best friend — a human transformed by a curse into a dog, which does not help his chances with the princess he adores, Seraphima (cleverly played at the performance I saw by an understudy, Aubrey Matalon). Also winning: Wren Rivera as Jules, who in the novel is Delilah’s closest friend but here is a fellow outcast she’s only just met.From left, Vicki Lewis, Wren Rivera and Jerusha Cavazos in “Between the Lines.”Richard Termine for The New York TimesThese characters leave you wanting more of them, while the musical spends time on the fractured relationship between Delilah and her mother, Grace (Julia Murney), who is made to look unaccountably drab when all she needs to look is tired. (Costumes are by Gregg Barnes; wigs, hair and makeup are by J. Jared Janas.) Too much oxygen is also given to the popular kids at Delilah’s school, in what feels like an attempt to lure theater’s “Mean Girls” demographic.Jules, who is nonbinary here, isn’t permitted simply to be a cool person the way they might be in life. Instead, the show uses the character as an occasion for teachable moments about what it means to be nonbinary. It’s well intended but demeaning.The musical makes a big deal of Delilah rejecting the fairy-tale notion of happily ever after in favor of shaping a more deeply fulfilling life. But the script forces antediluvian clichés on some of the grown-up female characters. Ms. Winx (Vicki Lewis), the school librarian, is a tragic spinster, warning Delilah not to end up in the same situation; Mrs. Brown (Lewis), the chemistry teacher, “has more plastic in her than the ocean” and is evidently sleeping with the principal. When Queen Maureen (Murney), Oliver’s fairy-tale mother, and the Lady in Waiting (Lewis) trade insults, they go like this: “Spinster.” “Wench.” “Lush.”The musical does nail its very sweet ending, which is different from the ending of the novel. The show also gives Frump, the dog, a darling tap dance (choreography is by Paul McGill), and has fun with its book-lined set (by Tobin Ost).But one of the show’s most enchanting visual effects — tableaus of Oliver and other fairy-tale characters upstage, as if illustrated on the page — has an unfortunate flaw: Faintly behind the scrim, we can see the actors clambering into and out of position. It doesn’t seem deliberate, just distracting. (Lighting is by Jason Lyons; projections are by Caite Hevner.)For Delilah and Oliver to be together, it seems, they need to change the story he’s in so that they can follow their own narrative. “Between the Lines,” then, is an empowerment musical about using the agency you have to shape the existence you want.This show’s creators certainly have used their own agency to rewrite a story. Alas, for them and the audience, the results are decidedly mixed.Between the LinesThrough Oct. 2 at the Tony Kiser Theater, Manhattan; betweenthelinesmusical.com. Running time: 2 hours 20 minutes. More

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      Review: ‘To My Girls,’ a Toast to Millennial ‘Instagays’

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      Put three gay frenemies in a Palm Springs Airbnb and what happens? In JC Lee’s new comedy, not enough.They don’t seem to like one another very much, these three gay besties weekending together at a tacky Airbnb in Palm Springs.Castor, an Asian American writer scraping by as a shift supervisor at a Starbucks in Sherman Oaks, doesn’t want to room with Leo, a Black “Queen of Queer Theory” with whom, on previous vacations, he’s had fights about marriage equality.He and Leo do agree, though, that Curtis, a hookup hound with cheese-grater abs, is an irredeemable narcissist, unable to curb his buff white privilege for more than 30 seconds no matter how many times he’s called out for it.Curtis just wants everyone to have a good time, as long as it’s on his own terms. He treats Leo as a good-luck charm and Castor as a throw pillow: comforting and disposable. His loyalty is to his Instagram followers.If this round-robin of frenemy fire puts you in mind of “The Boys in the Band,” Mart Crowley’s 1968 play about catty and self-hating gay men a year before Stonewall, you aren’t far off. JC Lee’s muddled new comedy, “To My Girls,” which opened on Tuesday in a Second Stage Theater production, does function, in part, as a millennial update to the earlier and much more pointed work. Call it “The Boys in the Sand,” set not at the dawn of liberation but at its eyes-wide-shut dusk.Like Crowley’s play, “To My Girls” assembles a clutch of 30-somethings — Castor (Maulik Pancholy), Leo (Britton Smith), Curtis (Jay Armstrong Johnson) and a fourth who arrives later — in a safe space where they can be themselves. Here, the space isn’t a mod Greenwich Village apartment but a midcentury bungalow bursting with winky accents that create what one character calls a “Jonathan Adler aesthetic.” (The eyestrain-inducing room and the fake palms outside it are by Arnulfo Maldonado; the desert glare and rippled reflections by Jen Schriever.)“To My Girls” also echoes “The Boys in the Band” in providing contrast to the bickering, self-involved central characters with two outsiders: Bernie (Bryan Batt), the 60-something gay Republican who owns the Airbnb, and Omar (Noah J. Ricketts), a happy 20-something hottie Castor brings back from a bar. To Omar, no less than Bernie, the others look like weird exhibits in a museum of unnatural history.From left, Bryan Batt, Johnson, Smith and Pancholy performing for followers of one of the play’s Instagram-obsessed characters.Jeenah Moon for The New York TimesThat effect is apparently what Lee wants. “Imagine the future archaeologist who has to sort through social media to write their thesis on millennial queens,” Leo says, not thrilled by what he assumes the archaeologist will conclude.If “To My Girls” is a first draft of that thesis, it’s not a convincing one; its arguments, which are little more than quips, point in too many directions. Do “Instagays” posing “topless with Maya Angelou quotes as their caption” signal, as Castor suggests, the death knell of queer fabulousness? Or, as Leo counters, is heteronormativity the poison? Or, as the play itself seems to demonstrate, is everything really just fine?Lee, whose play “Luce,” from 2013, is as tightly wound as this one is aimless, seems to want it all ways. Social media and conformity may be killing gay culture, but everyone participates joyfully in the music video Curtis is making to attract more followers. It’s the jolliest thing in the show: a synchronized dance to the Pussycat Dolls song “When I Grow Up,” performed in heels, wigs and diaphanous floral-print caftans. (The costumes, and lack thereof, are by Sarafina Bush.)“I wanna be famous/I wanna be a star,” they lip-sync with no irony.That the routine must pass as one of the play’s high points is part of the problem, indicating how little is happening otherwise. Yes, one character sleeps with another, upsetting a third, but nothing much comes of it. The political and generational arguments, not exactly fresh in the first place, change no one’s mind, perhaps because, as in “The Boys in the Band,” everyone’s blitzed within minutes of arrival. (The play’s title is a toast.) What the high-octane margaritas do for the characters, the quick-sketch rhythms of the writing do for the drama: delink action from reaction. Expediency is all.Noah J. Ricketts, center, with Batt, left, and Pancholy in JC Lee’s comedy, directed by Stephen Brackett.Jeenah Moon for The New York TimesWhen the jokes are good enough, that’s diverting in small doses. Castor, analogous to Harold, the “ugly, pockmarked Jew fairy” in “The Boys in the Band,” gets the best lines, often at his own expense — and Pancholy sells them well. In the play’s most compelling scene, with Ricketts’s witty Omar, you can see Castor growing out of his old, self-hating self toward something new, even as you wonder whether he has done so before, perhaps many times, and reverted.Though the setup of that scene is not credible, and it lasts only five or six minutes, I could have watched a whole play that built its smart observations into meaningful conflict that alters characters. Unfortunately, the actual play disposes of such moments instantaneously, and thus, under Stephen Brackett’s keep-it-snappy direction, has no cumulative power. At the end, everyone’s basically where they started, except hung over. You don’t doubt that another weekend in another few years would play out just the same.Which is not how life goes — and certainly not how gay life does. Change has been so big and breakneck since “The Boys in the Band” that you can hardly tell the backlashes from the front ones. Even a comedy should acknowledge that, as Drew Droege did in “Bright Colors and Bold Patterns” and “Happy Birthday Doug,” a pair of scalding one-man shows about those left mangled on the tracks as the gay rights locomotive chugs on.No one is mangled, or even much moved, in “To My Girls,” a play that asks gay men to “protect the fire that keeps you flaming” but never shows what the fire is made of. Tequila, perhaps?To My GirlsThrough April 24 at the Tony Kiser Theater, Manhattan; 2st.com. Running time: 1 hour 30 minutes. More