Here's something you might be interested in.
When Agatha Christie's whodunit opened at the New Ambassadors Theatre in London - November 25, 1952 - it had already played elsewhere under another name: Three Blind Mice.
A friend told her it would run at least 14 months. Naw, said Christie, "eight months, perhaps. Yes, I think eight months."
The Mousetrap has run consecutively ever since: over 25,000 performances, the all-time record for any play, anywhere, anytime.
Lost in Christie's famous estimate is her settling for only an eight month run, a remark that prompts today's playwrights to pound keyboards to pulp.
Mr. and Mrs. Ralston recently converted Monkswell Manor into a guest house. And the guests - a passel of mild to flat-out eccentrics - arrived just in time, since a snow storm has cut them off from the outside world.
Then someone cuts the phone lines.
And then someone murders Mrs. Boyle in the Great Hall, while the radio blares, and someone plays "Three Blind Mice" with one finger on a piano in the next room.
Suddenly everyone's a suspect. And the weather, outside and in, grows dark and stormy.
Judging from Moonlight at the Avo's faithful and well-performed production, Mousetrap's a mite long-in-the-tooth. The pace, when compared to today's manic narration, is leisurely, the action spare. Christie takes her time painting her herrings red.
Director Jason Heil has done a smart thing: he accepts the script as a period piece and allows it to unfold on its terms. This allows his fine cast to be two people at once: their character and their character as a suspect.
(Christie loved to dim your view of human nature; as long as the play's in progress, you look for the worst in everyone. In effect, the action isn't so much on stage as it is in the eyes of the audience, which dart from one person to the next, frisking their behavior for clues).
When Detective Trotter (Jake Rosko) mentions a triggering term, Mr. Paravicini (Phil Johnson) gazes skyward and taps his hands; Miss Casewell's (Rachael Van Wormer) eyes narrow just a tad; Christopher Wren (Ethan Mikael Tapley) cackles; and Major Metcalfe (Walter Ritter) grows creased-brow pensive.
The actors don't italicize these moves. In fact, the less they do the more suspect they become.
The virus of suspicion even infects the Ralstons' seemingly secure marriage. Jonathan Sachs (who has mild-mannered heroic calm down pat) and Jessica John add genuine drama when their bond gets caught in the cross-hairs.
The design work, from N. Dixon Fish's handsome set, to Roslyn Lehman and Renetta Lloyd's costumes, to Paul A. Canaletti Jr's lighting and Chris Luessman's sounds, is of a piece - and so realistic that, when someone opens the snow-draped glass doors, you can feel the cold rush in.
When Agatha Christie's whodunit opened at the New Ambassadors Theatre in London - November 25, 1952 - it had already played elsewhere under another name: Three Blind Mice.
A friend told her it would run at least 14 months. Naw, said Christie, "eight months, perhaps. Yes, I think eight months."
The Mousetrap has run consecutively ever since: over 25,000 performances, the all-time record for any play, anywhere, anytime.
Lost in Christie's famous estimate is her settling for only an eight month run, a remark that prompts today's playwrights to pound keyboards to pulp.
Mr. and Mrs. Ralston recently converted Monkswell Manor into a guest house. And the guests - a passel of mild to flat-out eccentrics - arrived just in time, since a snow storm has cut them off from the outside world.
Then someone cuts the phone lines.
And then someone murders Mrs. Boyle in the Great Hall, while the radio blares, and someone plays "Three Blind Mice" with one finger on a piano in the next room.
Suddenly everyone's a suspect. And the weather, outside and in, grows dark and stormy.
Judging from Moonlight at the Avo's faithful and well-performed production, Mousetrap's a mite long-in-the-tooth. The pace, when compared to today's manic narration, is leisurely, the action spare. Christie takes her time painting her herrings red.
Director Jason Heil has done a smart thing: he accepts the script as a period piece and allows it to unfold on its terms. This allows his fine cast to be two people at once: their character and their character as a suspect.
(Christie loved to dim your view of human nature; as long as the play's in progress, you look for the worst in everyone. In effect, the action isn't so much on stage as it is in the eyes of the audience, which dart from one person to the next, frisking their behavior for clues).
When Detective Trotter (Jake Rosko) mentions a triggering term, Mr. Paravicini (Phil Johnson) gazes skyward and taps his hands; Miss Casewell's (Rachael Van Wormer) eyes narrow just a tad; Christopher Wren (Ethan Mikael Tapley) cackles; and Major Metcalfe (Walter Ritter) grows creased-brow pensive.
The actors don't italicize these moves. In fact, the less they do the more suspect they become.
The virus of suspicion even infects the Ralstons' seemingly secure marriage. Jonathan Sachs (who has mild-mannered heroic calm down pat) and Jessica John add genuine drama when their bond gets caught in the cross-hairs.
The design work, from N. Dixon Fish's handsome set, to Roslyn Lehman and Renetta Lloyd's costumes, to Paul A. Canaletti Jr's lighting and Chris Luessman's sounds, is of a piece - and so realistic that, when someone opens the snow-draped glass doors, you can feel the cold rush in.