Theatre in Review: Crooked Cross (Mint Theater Company/Theatre Row) In case you're wondering, a crooked cross is a swastika, the red flag signaling a country's descent into hell. It's also the title of a novel, the first in a trilogy, by the British writer Sally Carson, about a German family in the 1930s. Carson adapted Crooked Cross for the theatre, with inconspicuous results; the play surfaced once or twice before vanishing, seemingly forever. To be sure, it's the work of a tyro still feeling her way around a stage, but it uncannily captures the drip-drip-drip of fascism that, almost imperceptibly, stains her characters' lives, spreading division and, ultimately, death. The time is more than ripe for a revival. The action begins at Christmas, with the members of the Kluger family gathering around the newly decorated tree for a lovely, muted rendition of "Stille Nacht." But soon, someone announces, "It's 1933!" and we can feel the coming chill. Lexa, engaged to Moritz Weissmann, an idealistic young doctor, doesn't take any interest when her brothers, Helmy and Erich, join the Nazi Party. Their reasons are simple: Germany is mired in Depression, the pain of the 1918 defeat still stings, and resentment is rampant against the Jewish community. Helmy, who has acquired a paid political sinecure, says, "Somehow, Lexa, I feel real for the first time in two years." His previous employment, he adds, "only felt like filling in time -- a vague hope, a vague interest -- something I had to do while I had nothing." At times, Helmy and Erich eerily echo the disenfranchised young men of 2025 who put their faith in organizations like the Proud Boys or even Turning Point USA. The first real hint of trouble comes when Moritz is dismissed from his job. The ostensible reason is the anodyne lectures on first aid that he gave to an allegedly Communist organization. But the real truth is darker; Weissmann "is a Jewish name," Helmy notes by way of explanation, adding, "It's not much help to a fellow who's out of work to be a Jew." Then there's the moment at a hotel bar, when a stranger bumps into Moritz and denounces him publicly as "a filthy Jew" without any pushback. The last bit brings the theatre to a hush; even with all we've heard, the act's sheer hostility, erupting out of nowhere, stuns. Even so, Lexa refuses to see the writing on the wall, preferring to take a go-along-to-get-along attitude at home while planning clandestine meetings with Moritz, hoping that it will all blow over. But her lover is frustrated with idleness and out of money; stripped of his passport, he can't find work in another country. Moritz is only half-Jewish; his father is in even more peril, a fact that becomes evident when Nazi youth run riot in the streets. In a moment of anger, Lexa snaps, "Oh, why doesn't a Jew throw a bomb and stop all this?" This remark sends a frisson of terror through Moritz, who warns, "If that happened today, there wouldn't be one of us alive tomorrow." Carson, who died young, only a few years after Crooked Cross debuted, was still working out the mechanics of playwriting here. Her supporting characters -- including Lexa's parents and Otto, a young Nazi who covets her -- could stand considerably more fleshing out. Moreover, the play, as constructed, often feels more like chapters in a book than parts of a well-built drama. Still, it notably captures the way evil creeps into day-to-day life, spreading like a slow-acting poison. It's easy for the characters to dismiss the latest outrage, up to and including raids on so-called Communist newspapers, as little more than passing moments in an ongoing political parade. It's not until Lexa and Moritz are fighting for their lives that anyone understands the gravity of the situation, and by then, it's too late. Jonathan Bank's production has its wobbly moments; for example, the set, by Alexander Woodward, depicting the Klugers' home, feels rather rustic, an impression aided by one son's job as a ski instructor; yet they apparently live in or near Munich. (The set depicting Moritz's grimy, under-furnished apartment is a solid achievement.) Also, Ella Stevens, making her New York debut, adapts a jarringly modern cadence and posture when speaking Lexa's lines. This may be intentional, a way of stressing the play's relevance to today; still, it's distracting. Stevens is a strong presence, however, and she has three solid co-stars: Samuel Adams as Moritz, growing increasingly bleak as the walls close in; Jakob Winter as Erich, who explodes with anxiety and rage when his career as a gigolo is brought to light; and Gavin Michaels as the possessive Helmy, shattered at having to choose between his sister and his future with the party. The rest of the production design is good, including Hunter Kaczorowski's period costumes, including a full range of fashions for Lexa; Christian DeAngelis' varied lighting; Sean Hagerty's sound, which makes effective use of German dance music of the early '30s; and Joey Moro's projections, which come into play during the climax, when Lexa and Moritz attempt an escape through the mountains. In his fascinating program note, Bank tells how the original producer of Crooked Cross strove to hide the play's subject matter, passing it off as, of all things, a love story. Perhaps he felt audiences wouldn't listen to Carson's message; they had better listen now, for she tells a story that could become ours if we're not careful. In any case, it ends powerfully with a single despairing gesture from Helmy, an implicit acknowledgement that his family will never be whole again. It can't be said often enough that Bank, the Mint's artistic director, digs up dramatic rarities that speak directly to our time. This one is almost too close to the bone. --David Barbour 
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